…
It’s dark in here.
…
“Where am I?”
…
You felt the coldness on your cheek.
You realised you are lying down on the stone floor
…
“What happened?”
…
As you tried to sit up, you felt a small patch of your face pulled by the solidified matter.

Sounds of cracking joints echoed throughout the room, looking forward, a row of iron bars defined by a small hint of light. As you focus a bit more, the pain across your shoulders rushes back. Every inch of your body is left with a prickling sensation, just like when wearing the wool jumper you got last Christmas from Mrs Weasley, except a lot less pleasant. You tried to stand up, leaning against the wall, only to stumble as a force pulled your right hand with a loud clash.

The dampness in your hand and the smell of metal awakens your memory
…
“Oh.”
…
Dudley, dementors, magic…
…
A white doe
…
Hooded figures, masks…
…
Cruciatus, Voldemort.

Adrenaline rushes back like a crashing wave, You need to get out, You are in danger, You are going to die. Mustering all your energy, you stood up once more, ignoring the protests of your shoulder. At least the glasses are still intact, obscurity of vision is the last thing you want right now. Whipping your head around, what little light shone through the window above across the floor, towards the long desolate hallway outside your cell. “I’m alright.” you muttered to yourself, wishing to hear any form of sound other than your own thrumming heart bead and metal, yet attempts to do so would certainly lead to meeting him.

Surely you’re used to this kind of situation? Every year in Hogwarts there just has to be one near death experience right? First year there’s you burning Quirrell’s face off, then seeing Ginny’s still form as the memory of him taunts you, being held back while witnessing the transformation of a werewolf, then before summer there's Cedric…
…
You don’t want to think about it anymore.
…
You felt some morbid comfort for your past self, that at least you had someone, or something next to you during the turmoils.
…
Now there’s only you.
…
You wanted to scream for help, you hated being alone, You wanted to feel the freedom of being on the broom, being looked at with pride by Mcgonagall as you caught the snitch, the feeling of being missed and wanted by Sirius, you wanted the smell of warm tea at the burrow, the friendly smiles of the Weasleys. Just like what you saw in mirror of Erised.

“Help…” a whisper came out of your dried throat.

you hope that aunt Petunia would just suddenly appear and demand you out to weed the garden, you want Hermoine to bug you about the overdue 2 feet long transfiguration essay. You wished to hear Malfoy bragging about his father’s position in the ministry. You wanted to be called a dunderhead by…
…
Snape…
…
Snape.
…
Rage coursed through your veins.

“Traitor.”

You remembered the ominous mark of skull and serpent of that porcelain arm, black tunnels constantly aware of everything, the hooked nose, clumps of hair that curtains his facial features that seemed to only express his discontent. You imagine him making some sort of potent poison the tortures the drinker endlessly while laughing in the dungeons, you imagine his satisfaction when receiving the news of your demise, you imagine him controlling other people under the commands of Voldemort.

Tears of anger and fear slowly flow, melting away the dried blood on your chin, you wonder how Snape would react if he sees it, the iconic sneer, spewing “Pathetic, like your father” in the tone of disgust exclusive to you from day 1. For once you really wanted to kill someone, you chuckled, knowing that day would never come. Resting your head on the metal bars, it’s coldly familiar, like what you have been feeling in potions class. Thinking of your parents’ smiles, whatever survival instincts seemed to have left your mind.
…

Until light shone through the door at the end of the hallway.

“Itty-Bitty Potter is awake from his little nap”

From the ebony door walks in a woman with wild hair and a dangling dress in black, playfully twirling her arched wand between her skeletal fingers. Bellatrix Lestrange’s iconic hooded gaze sweeps across the boy’s features, letting out a loud snort, setting her claws into his hair and him towards herself like a master’s collared dog. Her piercing laughs harmonized with the shudder of iron bars.

“My, my… you should have fixed your awful bed hair.” Her teeth flash dangerously as she pulls Harry’s hair harder, he can feel his head screaming from both the headache and scalp almost getting torn off.

“So undignified, yet not surprising. Impurities like you have yet to learn proper manners, the dark lord shall be so disappointed in your bad behavior.” Harry flinches as the dark witch taps her wand on his cheek lightly, holding back a yelp of pain that he moved the shoulder a little too hard. Just like looking at a goldfish frightened by a tap on the glass, her wand divided further into the flesh. “Ooo, what a fierce little boy, just like your disgusting mudblood of a mother. Don’t follow her footsteps like a little puppy just like a muggle lover you call Potions professor.”

Yanking off the touch, he spits the blood that has been slowly pooling in his mouth onto her face.

The short-lived moment of triumph ended as the face in front of him twists into one of a rabid predator, eyes wide open like the jaw of a serpent.

Oh no.

With a growl, Bellatrix chugs Harry’s head against the iron repeatedly. He can feel his consciousness slowly leaving, he can feel droplets flung off his hair each time it leaves the bars, small spots of white gathering across the edge of his vision. Lestrange roughly shoves the teen back onto the cell floor, with a flick of her wand like an invisible knife, blood spurts out from the thin lines across his arm.

“FILTHY LITTLE SHIT!” The madwoman screeches, stray strands of black lift, and falls with her heavy breathing.

With her sleeve, Bellatrix roughly wipes off the spit across her cheekbone. More cuts slash open as Harry continues to twitch on the floor, biting any scream back into his throat, he could feel bile forcing up as his inners constrict with tension.

As Harry staggers back to the corner of the cell, Bellatrix grins as she lifts her wand once more, “ CRUCIO!” Immediately, an agonizing sensation washed over his body, the very same during his time in the graveyard, his body convulsed in protest, limbs twitching uncontrollably, letting out a blood-curdling scream as he couldn’t take it any longer, yet it sounds unfamiliar, mixed with someone’s deeper, hoarse voice. After what seems like an eternity, the unforgivable is lifted. Bellatrix's lips curled with satisfaction as she sees the prisoner retching and heaving against the corner.

Harry lets out a frustrated grunt as he attempts to send the death eater a glare with all the hostility he could come up with, only to be replied with a mocking chuckle.

“Potty Potter is still not asleep? Well, I guess I could have some more fun with our baby.” Bellatrix crouches back down, gazing at the captive with morbid fascination, sliding her wand back and forth across the metal bars as if she is playing the xylophone. The taunting melody synchronizes with whoever’s scream beyond the black door, Harry flinched as the loud cry starts anew along with a commanding “crucio”, yet the woman clad in black seems unfazed by the commotion outside, instead of looking a little annoyed. He hears her muttering about useless info and herself being the most loyal. Hooded gaze turns back to him when the cry goes silent.

“Our Lord doesn't tolerate failure, such obstacles shall be removed for him to reach the noble goal.” Harry could see Bellatrix swooning over her master by just referring to him, he audibly gulped as a sickeningly sweet smile started to appear on her face.

“So how about you be a good boy and scream louder for mommy to make my lord proud.”

Facing the eyes of deranged Harry curls up, even more, trying to make himself as small as possible, while bracing for the next wave of agony as the dark witch raises her wand once more, he doesn’t dare to look away from her.

“CRUCI—”

“Bella.”

A familiar cold, velvetine voice announced his presence.

Bellatrix turns her head with lightning speed, quickly pointing the wand towards the hooded figure at the door.

“What are you doing here.” She barked, not lowering the wand. The man walks closer until the tip of the stick almost touches his chest.

“The dark lord requires your presence.” He replied nonchalantly.

Harry tries to breathe as quietly as he can, trying not to draw any attention back to himself. From his blurred vision, he sees the deathly pale skin under specks of moonlight, porcelain uncovered by the black garment, the body still like a statue despite being at wand hold.

Bellatrix eyes the figure cautiously, hesitates, then slowly lowers her wand. Knocks the man’s shoulder as she stomps towards the half-closed door, she suddenly turns around and casts a red streak, aiming at the cell. As Harry tries to dodge it, the spell was deflected back towards the caster wordlessly, hitting the door frame.

“Watch it, Snape. Don’t have too much fun” the witch spits each syllable out as if it left a foul taste in her mouth. With that, she flings the door shut.

Silence fills the air, their ragged breathing is the only thing left to be heard.

“Traitor, you sodding trai—”

Before Harry could finish, Snape’s wand is pointed at his throat.

And a screech breaks out of his throat.

Except, he isn’t feeling any sort of stabbing pain similar to a couple of minutes ago, only his mouth going dry as the involuntary screaming goes on. He looks at the still hooded professor, half of his facial features shadowed by both his lumps of hair and fabric. Perhaps the man saw his questioning eyes, he simply shakes his head and continues the spell. He raises his left hand and pounds the bars next to the one Harry is leaning onto, he could feel the metal vibrating violently across his cheek.

The clanging lingers for a moment.

After a moment, he lowered his wand and gestured a finger in front of his lips. the sound of clicking boots goes away from the door, fading into nothing. Harry hears Snape let out a long breath.

“Muffliato.” The man mutters and sweeps across the air above them, then kneels in front of him.

He levitates out a glass vial with red liquid from the cloak's inner pocket “Drink it.” he whispered. Harry thinks Snape’s statement about him being an open book might be somewhat accurate, as the potions master scoffs after a brief look at him, “Blood-replenisher.” he states. Harry downs it hesitantly, feeling better as the potion works throughout his body, as well as providing some moisture for the mouth, then hands back the vial between the two poles to the man.

“Cruciatus?”

Harry nods, still feeling some after-effects coursing under his skin like growing vines.

Snape reaches his left hand deeper into his wand holster, holding up a flask with half-filled lime liquid, using his thumb as the stopper.

Under the pale moonlight, Harry sees the professor’s hands shaking profusely and jolting when he touches the hand. The pain dulls gradually as a light thrumming spreads across the muscles. Once again he returns the empty container.

“Lie down, for now, I’ll be back later,” he murmured, as he stood back up, trembling, with a hand against the wall for support.

“Sir are you alright?” Harry looks up, still focusing on the man’s pale, bony fingers still shaking as he sheathes the wand back into the holster.

The professor waves it off, before stiffly sliding out a thin rod from his sleeve, passing it to Harry. The long, thin stick of silver glimmers in his hands.

“I can't find your wand,” the man said, hands clasping one another “it’s my secondary, hide it in your trousers, you'd need that when we leave.”

Snape turns and heads towards the door, before feeling a tug at his cloak.

“Be silent and or I’ll leave you here forever you insolent boy.” he tries to sound intimidating, but it comes out the opposite.

Harry stares at the professor’s back as it gets further away, finally disappearing as he barges out the door.

He slumps back down onto the stone floor, twisting the silver between his fingers. A soft hum could be heard as he felt the “wand” resonate with his magical core, foreign, yet familiar.

He closes his eyes for a moment, imagining his friends surrounding him, Ron and the twins engaging in a playful fight, Sirius holding up two brooms while beaming at him. As they soar across the pains surrounding the burrow, euphoric tears threaten to fall, heart craving for the sweet freedom. As they flew further to the horizon, the plains switched to a sea of violets, flowers shimmering under the sun.

There stands a girl with auburn hair, waving wildly at them with an infectious smile. She opened her mouth, then came the voice of a mother.

“Harry.”

His heart sinks into the warm embrace.

Lime green liquid bubbles violently in the cauldron.

The fire under the iron crackles.

At this rate, the anti-cruciatus potion should be bottled-up immediately, or else it's another batch of ingredients to waste. Anyone who has achieved mastery in the arts of potions would know timing and temperature is the heart and soul of their creation, however, that's currently the least of Severus's concerns.

“…Tsk.” The man grimaces as another spasm rises from his spine while trying to shift and bury himself deeper into the sofa, curling up to his knees and bracing the pain, he didn't bother to take off the leather boots when he stumbled back into his lab from Potter’s cell. Looking at the now moss green liquid which is about to spill onto the table, he sits up, tightening his jaw as splitting pain shoots through his sides.

With a swift wave of his hand, the boiling ceases, silvery smoke slowly rises, glimmering like the milky way under the moonlight.

“Accio.” a metal cane floats across the room and stops right where Severus’s arm could reach. Its cool surface is like a stream of water across his burning body. His legs are noodles, threatening to give out as he wobbles towards the steaming cauldron, cringing at the signals his feet keep sending, begging him to stop. He hardens his grip as he pushes open the windows for a breath of fresh midnight air.
“One… two…” He counts the rare ingredients the dark lord bestows upon him, encouraging him to be creative, along with honeyed reminders of consequences if he fails. This has become a routine since he restarted the spying activity, to distract the pain, to remember his purpose. His chest continues to sear no matter how many fortresses lined up in his mind, the dark lord made sure he’d remember to gain the headmaster’s full trust.

“Three… four… five…” moving his sight towards the yet-to-be cleaned distillers, dried residue lining up around the rim. Images of Pettigrew writhing on the floor, as small flames of purple wrapped across old scars flashes across his mind. He was tasked to create “liquid Dolohov '', as Antonin Dolohov would quote it with his nose up in the air. Two drops and half of his back is still marred after their Lord decided to test it on the engineer, violet flames danced merrily across the slashes, showing no signs of pain while surrounded by the others. His master caressed his face after their testing session, words of praise like icicles piercing his ears, pushing his knees hard onto the marble to keep his walls up.

“Six…seven…” landing back in his lab, Severus continues to add up the flasks of Nagini’s venom at the corner of the glass cupboard, charmed to store the most volatile potion ingredients. The dark lord came in to inspect his lab, according to Lucius, “He was gracious to see if your domain is lacking any supplies.” He poured the glistening champagne into stem glasses, swirling and taking in the fragrance of the rose garden. The aristocrat came down to his place at the musty streets of Spinner’s end, “Just catching up with an old friend.” By the time he left, the cramped living room reeked of his father’s violence, Severus spent the rest of his evening between taking emetics and throwing up then pathetically leaning at the porcelain toilet seat like a wounded dog.

“Eight…” The burn at the mark is slowly fading into a dull throb, web-like sable veins slowly retracting back into the empty sockets of the skull, signifying the end to his master’s turbulent temper, or tend to someone else for his sadistic entertainment. The dark lord has been quite animated, a little more unstable ever since Potter’s capture. Announcing his plans to have a grander spectacle to his victory straight after his rebirth. The spy no longer balances on a tight rope, but a shredding thread, one mistake shall earn himself death, albeit a slow and painful one. Floor plans of the current hideout replace the erratic pain that overwhelmed his mind, steady breathing accompanied with phantom lines that could guide them to their freedom.

“Nine…” Severus raises his head, a twisting tower of books on the desk opposite to his work table, merciless curses filled those pages to the brim, brought to him in an acacia box. If he happened upon these dark arts as the imprudent boy he once had the luxury to be, he would have risen above cloud nine in an instant, stacks upon stacks of ammunition to fight off his tormentors. With a thorough exhale, he levitates the books back to its containment, the cramps on his shoulder have considerably subdued. Relying his body weight on the quivering metal cane, he takes small steps towards the cauldron, bottling up the less than potent solution into the conjured vials. He takes a mental note to ask Poppy to brew more of the potion just in case, doubting his hands would listen to his commands when he goes back.

A knock at the door disrupts his drill, he presses the corks back into the vials and stuffs them back into the inner pockets of his cloak. He dare not to take off his hood, thinking and inwardly cursing that the Dark Lord might be trying to “check up on his favorites”. Severus rests the cane next to the table with a “clink”, filling his chest with air, he straightens his regalia and with a bowed head, steadily moves towards the door.

The man, slouching against the wooden frame, strands of bleached gold standing out in the night, shaking and hugging the branded arm close to his chest. His shuddering breath echoes between the two.

“Greetings, Severus,” says Lucius Malfoy. Pained, yet ever so aristocratic.
Severus lets the hood fall back to his shoulders “Am I allowed?” He reaches for the man, halts, and grips the door instead.

Lucius looks away and lets out a snort “Why should I be here then?”

The younger man leads him to the sofa he was in a couple of minutes ago, piling up the heap of cushions and allowing him to rest his head on it. Lucius grunts as his pounding head make contact with the soft fabric. “Here.” Severus hands the freshly brewed concoction to his friend. The struggling man sits up, flicks off the cork with his thumb, leans his head backward, and downs the potion. There is a momentary pause before Lucius grimaces as he licks the acidic aftertaste off his recolored lips, he then proceeds to give the standing man a questioning look.

“What?” Severus snaps.

The Malfoy patriarch chuckles, “ Over boiled.” Settling his hand on the armrest as the brewer snatches the empty vial away. “One would assume after gaining a potion’s mastery you would be able to make them more pleasant to consume?”

Severus once again summons the metal cane, before giving his friend a death glare as he shakily sits down next to him. “I see Draco does not fall far from the tree.”, he taps his fingers between the crossed arms “Is whining hereditary within the Malfoys?”.

“Perfection does,” Lucius replies with his chin up, the air lightens just a little at the mention of their shared ward.

“How is dragon?” The father asks, his words laced with concern and pride.

“The usual,” Severus focuses on the wrinkles on his sleeve, then to the crescent hanging on the upper left corner of the window, finally back to his friend’s arm. “He’s worried.”

Silence engulfs the lab.

Lucius opens his mouth, then snaps it shut, lips pressed into a thin line.

“Don’t even think about it,” onyx pupils piercing through the silver’s, “you know I won’t let it happen.”

The blonde scoffs, crossing his arms to match his son’s godfather, “I’d rather not have too much faith in you, potions master.” Remarking the last word with sarcasm. “Don’t tell me you are going to miss me?”.

“Tempus.” Severus cuts off Lucius glee like a polished knife, a blue mist rises from the tip of his wand, “You shall be hiding under your bed centuries before death befalls you.” he says as he leaves the comfort of the sofa, frowning at the numbness at his feet. “It’s half past one in the morning and I would rather sleep on needles than have you continue gloating. Do you require anything else?”

“Hmph, killjoy.” Lucius buries his head back into the cushions, eyes closed. “Just go back to that old coot, no lemon drops for your tardiness, professor.” he flicks his hand in a shushing motion.

Severus eyed his now silent friend, then twirls head around.

The knowledge that was once out of his arms’ reach, ingredients he can never afford, a quiet place with top-tier equipment, all gifted upon by the dark lord, Severus Snape is truly blessed.

He looked back at his friend’s wrinkled forehead, brows brought tightly together as he continues the restless sleep, his thoughts going back to the boy he swore to protect till death. He casts a silent “Nox”, darkness floods the lab, leaving out the strands of moonlight.

Blessed hell is where he now stands.

“Ten”, too soft to be heard by the sound of apparition, the spy goes to his other master, untrusting members await his arrival, another inferno to tread through.

A bone-chilling breeze sweeps through the dim-lit street. A figure swiftly swims across the elongated shadows of houses at the edge of the road. The mockingbird’s song rings and fades into the dark along with quick beats of clanking boots. Gray grass piercing through the stone bricks on the floor like lances, slicing mercilessly at the leather as Severus steps through them. He makes a sudden halt, a clink as he stables himself with the metal cane, cloak billowing behind him like flapping wings. 11 and 13 Grimmauld places stood over him, layers of ash brown bricks stuck with years of grime, white window frames with moss at the corners, not spared a glance by the fog-devoured moon.

“The Order of The Pheonix’s headquarters is located at 12 Grimmauld place.”

A new building slowly creeps into view, its walls darker than the others, as if it got fished out of a pot of writing ink, fallen leaves roll as the front steps force forward, lining up with next door’s. A ring infiltrates Severus’s ears, burying the mocking bird’s song, as the entrance to the meeting continues to pan out, he clamps down his urge to lean on the steel rails, refusing to show vulnerability even when alone, he banished his cane with a swish of his hand and straightens his posture, hanging the usual impassiveness on his face.

Chin up, no slouching, show nothing, fear no one.

When the doorknob finally decides to show up, he walks up to twist the bronze, only to harshly take in a breath of lung-piercing cold air as a booming “Croak” announces its presence above him. Without a second thought, Severus whips his wand out from his sleeve, a stupefy ready to be out of his lips. Despite his spinning sight, the spy’s mind stays alert, adding to his constant paranoia. He squints as he begs his eyes to focus on the floating outline above him, wand still pointing above, ignoring the strain on his shoulder.

There, on the white-lined roof, stands a bird, a raven. Black beak preening each feather on its broad wings with meticulous care, like how the dark lord would brush the cremated remains of his subjects off his gown. The sharp figure cuts through the fog, unbothered by the sweeps of wind, its small chest puffed up, eyes glistening without the moonlight’s grace. The raven stationed for a moment, seemingly peering down at the desolate street without moving its head.

Until it meets Severus’s eyes.

The raven’s unrelenting gaze, observing him, judging him, its beak is like a dagger, points at him accusingly, as if one wrong move shall have it land on his heart. Severus feels like his pupils are being locked in place, his body petrified by a basilisk.

He resists the urge to summon his cane back.

“An animagus?” Severus ponders, the creature is still holding his gaze, standing like a monarch high on a pedestal, he’s quite certain that none of the death eaters takes the animal form of a raven, perhaps a new informant for the order? Albus would probably have told him, if not the others. Perhaps he’s just thinking too much? Severus snorts at the irony, he could already hear Alastor Moody’s “CONSTANT VIGILANCE” from the meeting, who could have thought he, the spy, would chastise himself for being paranoid. He slowly loosens the wand at his fingers, then lowers it completely.

The raven faces towards the midnight sky, flaps its wings with a loud crack, gloating. It straightens its fan-like tail and lets out one last mocking croak before disappearing into the dense fog above. Severus’s eyes follow its large wings until it’s too blurry to decipher. “Free.” he thought bitterly, and sheaths the wand back in. With a deep breath, he soldiers his way into the building.

“...does it usually take?” Kingsley speaks in a baritone voice as Severus makes his way down to the dining room. The ministry has been fumbling over the breakout of several followers, namely the Lestranges, Dolohov, and Mulciber II, while trying to have the dementors and the daily posts in control, it is obvious that the minister is in denial that the Dark Lord has returned despite Potter’s testament, out of fear, or cowardice. Kingsley, suffice to say, is a lot more competent compared to the rest of the government, earning Albus, and somehow Severus’s trust as they both have similar roles in the order.

“Consider the circumstances, a full day at least.” Severus recognizes the Deputy Headmistress’s tremor as she speaks, the very same when he was about to apparate and grovel in front of his master. Everyone was called and informed about the disappearance of “the boy who lived”, amidst the chaos of Black hurling profanities at him and Molly Weasley crying “poor dear!” over Arthur’s shoulder, his mark burnt in triumph, the overwhelming sensation almost made him fall off the chair. As he donned on his hood, she held onto his sleeve, eyes pleading for the boy’s saftey, strands of hair slipping from her normally tidy bun.

He squeezed her hand in reply.

“I don’t care how long he takes!” The chair fell onto the kitchen floor with a bang. “That slimy git better get my godson back!” Severus can hear a tiny “Padfoot calm down” in the background, typical Lupin that is. “OR I’LL-”

“Barking like a dog as you are, Black. Or you will?” Severus drawls with as much disdain he could fill it in, though it came out pained instead. All eyes are on him as he steps into the room, careful not to tumble over his still throbbing legs from just walking down the stairs while ignoring Sirius Black’s glare. He makes his way to the chair next to the empty one at the end of the long table — Albus Dumbledore has yet to arrive.

“Where’s my godson, snivellus.” Sirius looks seconds away from frothing at the mouth, arm trying to fling off Lupin’s hands. His dark eye bags hang from lack of sleep or lingering effects from “the kiss”.

“Only been kissing your lord’s arse for the whole day? Have you even bothered to try looking for him? I’ve always said you can’t be trusted, look what he has done to Harry!”

“Sirius stop it!” Remus admonishes, the rest of the order simply looks away, the antics between the dog animagus and the spy isn’t news to them, Kingsley stares at the roaring fireplace, waiting for the flames to flash green. Mad-eye knocking his cane at the wooden floor in a steady rhythm, his magical eye scanning frantically across the room, often landing back to Severus. Arthur stands up and walks towards his wife near the sink, she’s been preparing the newcomer’s tea for too long, along with the soft sniffing since he walked into the kitchen.

“Mr. Black calm yourself down and stop acting like a Hooligan.” Minerva uses her “apologize and 20 points from Gryffindor” tone. Severus didn’t notice he seated himself next to his colleague, looking like her professional self, not a trace from the prior agitation, not a single wrinkle on her emerald robes.

“NO!” Sirius abruptly stands up, whips his wand out, and points it between the spy’s eyes, “I don’t care if Dumbledore thinks you’re one of us, you weren’t, you aren’t and you’ll never be.” He slams his fist down, sending waves down the long table. As he continues to rant, A high-pitched ring echoes in Severus’s ears, the faces, and chairs slowly muddle into a mess.

“It was a mistake.”

Empty your mind

The living room went dark as she shut the front door.

Occlude

A bony arm reaches out.

“...Oi, OI! Don’t ignore me, you bastard!” Sirius pulls a fist full of the cloak, pulling Severus’s face closer.

“Sirius Orion Black! Release him at once!” A shrill breaks through the chaos, Mcgonagall clutches the man’s wrist, while putting a hand onto the spy’s shoulder, holding him down, gripping just a little tighter. “Severus, your eyes are getting hazy, maybe you should head back.”

“I’ll head back when I finish my report to the Headmaster and this mutt in front of me decides to shut up.” He pinches the bridge of his nose to ease his throbbing head, trying to focus on the comforting heat at the rim of the teacup Molly gently pushed into his trembling hand. “If you use your dog senses, Black, you should be competent enough to smell the irony in your contradictory words.” Severus takes a sip of the tea, ignoring the rune inscribed wand that is millimeters from touching his forehead.

Willow bark, lavender, and a slightly bitter aftertaste.

Ashwagandha.

“Excuse my tardiness everyone, I was having a rather long conversation with Corlineus, Mr. Young sends you his regards, Minerva.” The leader of the light flashed into the kitchen, eyes twinkling behind the half-moon glasses as he walked to his throne, brushing the dust off his gray-blue robes, embroidered with silver Celtic knots at the sleeves, an unending stream of intertwined patterns. “Severus?”

Every sound died down immediately as Dumbledore starts the operation, Sirius lets Severus’s collar go and slunks back down to his chair under Mcgonagall’s disapproving glare, his fingers still wrapping the wand tightly, tip slightly hovering above the table.

“Potter is being locked in the basement of the quarters, Bellatrix and Rabastan are appointed to guard the cell. The dark lord plans to display his victory at the same cemetery where the goblet portkey-ed the champions during the tournament.”

Gasps and murmurs refilled the kitchen once more, and tears of a mother reflood the eyes of Molly Weasley.

The Headmaster nods, hand smoothing his long silver beard, fingers slowly moving towards the end. The twinkling in his eyes is not smothered, as he looks at the reflective surface of his cup of tea.

“Riddle Manor? Any wards?”

Severus nods, “The Dark Lord warded the place himself along with a few others, just before I went to him yesterday. I deduce only the ones with the mark and himself can access in, the warding’s perimeter is unknown.” he recalls as he flew close to the proximity of the place, a prickling sense went across his whole body head to toe, like seeping through a metallic mesh. Only when he is faced with the Dark Lord’s serpentine face, do the needles on his mark vanish.

“What about portkeys?” Mad-eye stomps his cane down onto the wooden floorboard, the electric blue magic eye eerily still, staring straight at Severus’s onyx pupils, the very same that caught and filled half of Azkaban’s cells with the lord’s followers.

“When I saw Potter in the dungeon, there’s an alert charm on him, since The dark lord warded the place personally, triggering the alert would most likely trigger a lockdown. No—”

“Sodding traitor”

Emerald green, just like her.

“Sir are you alright?”

He takes out the silver wand.

“No one… can know…”

“...s…everus…Severus!” Dumbledore shakes the younger man’s shoulder gently, “Are you well, my boy?”

Severus blinks his eyes open, and notices they are hidden behind his cold, sweating palm. The transfiguration professor is squeezing his arm, looking up and down the shivering man, checking if there are any shimmering stains on his black attire under the kitchen lights.

Damn Cruciatus.

“My apologies Albus, I’m fine.” He demands himself to push the pain to the very corner of his mind. “As I’ve said, if the alert is triggered, anyone would be locked within the grounds, unfortunately, portkey’s might not be of use in this situation.”

There is a pregnant silence after the spy’s announcement.

“Anyone, you say? Severus?” Dumbledore says softly, with a serene smile, fingers tapping the table.

“If you have a plan, old man,” Severus bites out, trying to cover his concern over the boy, of all people with feigned annoyance, “do give me a straight answer.” He stares back at those damned twinkling blue eyes.

The people instantly turn their heads towards their commander, waiting for a new direction towards a new hope with bated breath.

“Fawkes?” Dumbledore called.

Suddenly, a bright light bursts right behind the man, the fiery wings of a phoenix rise like a halo, the bright crown to the leader of the light, adorned with feathers of red, gold, and eternal loyalty. It lets out a delightful shrill before gracefully landing onto Dumbledore’s shoulder, nudging its head against the bearded chin reverently.

“Do me a favor, old friend.” Dumbledore lifts his familiar onto the table as he ruffles its soft feathers. The Pheonix regally walks towards Severus, its tail of flames elegantly dragging across the wood like the cape of a king. “Other than healing properties, they have a couple more abilities, Fawkes’s singing is ever so comforting, it certainly helps after a day’s work in the office.”

“Don’t tell me you’re planning to have your bird sing to the Dark Lord until he’s touched enough to let Potter walk his way out.”

Dumbledore chuckled at that, the glistening orbs of the phoenix look at Severus calmly, as if trying to ease his frustration.

“Fawkes has the strength to carry humans, I’m sure you’d recall during Harry’s second year with Mr. and Ms. Weasley plus Professor Lockhart’s landing in the chamber? Thanks to my old friend, he is able to bring the four back to us safely.” Dumbledore brings the teacup up to his lips. “Other than that, phoenixes stay and go as they please, such a free spirit is undetained by wards, if they wish to return to their companions, as a matter of fact, my friend here does a quick job sending messages to our dear minister, the wards in his office are rather complicated.”

The order members around the table let out an audible sigh of relief, Sirius drags his palm down his face, shoulder slouching as he takes a deep breath, his wand no longer pointing towards the man sitting opposite to him.

“Allow me, Severus, and excuse me, Fawkes.” Minerva rises from her seat, holding her wand.

With a flick, a small spark of light shoots out of her wand and lands on Fawkes’s head. In an instant, the bird twists and shrinks, like a leaf circling into the eye of a whirlpool. Its uncomfortable cries slowly fade into nothing, as it transfigured into a small silver plate with a thin metal chain sitting comfortably on Severus’s palm. On the plate is a phoenix, etched with minor details on the silvery surface, its body bright red, and glowing as if the center of the necklace is molten hot, yet it does not burn the flesh of the palm. It reminds Severus of the illustrations on the healing segments in ancient runes books — the symbol of rebirth and pure light.

“Ever the transfiguration professor, Minerva, with artistic touches too,” says Dumbledore, gazing fondly at the accessory. “I’m certain this shall help you two out of Tom’s captivity. I shall count on you, Severus.”

Everyone turns to look at the man clad in black, whose eyes are still on the necklace, pupils with tunnels that stretches on for miles unblinking, his expression unreadable, silently waiting for his answer to order.

“...Albus.”

“Yes?”

“If I leave with Potter, the Dark lord will know.” And my cover will be blown.

“He shall.”

Severus pulls his lips into a thin line.

“As much as I hope to keep you in Tom’s service for the order.” The headmaster brought his hands together. “We need Harry back.”

Severus can feel everyone eyes pressuring him, Black’s is certainly impaling his skull.

“And should I fail?”

“IF YOU DON’T BRING HARRY BACK I’LL MAKE SURE TO KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS MOTHERFUCKER-”

“You will not fail, Severus.”

“Because failure is not an option, my boy.”
“Failure is not an option, my trusted servant.”

The silver in his hand may have gone a little cold

Failure shall receive a fate worse than death.

Failure shall doom us all.

Failure, would mean breaking her vow.

“Sev! Over here!”

“I have faith in you Severus, bring Harry back with you.”

The silver plate in his palm seems so small it’s going to slip, So Severus grips it tightly.

“Yes sir.”

Poppy Pomfrey has been “the” Hogwarts’s matron for decades, long enough to see dozens of anxious first years who needs calming draughts after falling into the lake, gradually turning into young enthusiastic students turning to her after a sprained leg during quidditch or an accident in class, to formidable wizards bravely fighting off evil, but still too stubborn to ask for a bandage or pain reliever. Amongst all patients she has treated, two remain the biggest pain in the neck, but also aches to the heart, the certain “boy-who-lived-to-be-a-danger magnet” Harry Potter, and a certain “I can handle it myself” Severus Snape.

“Very unlucky” would be an understatement when describing Mr. Potter’s circumstances. Despite studying in arguably one of the safest places, trouble always seems to find its way into the young boy’s life from his first day here. From his encounter with Quirrel…and that thing at the back of his head, a healed basilisk fang puncture in the arm, dreaded dementors…

The last few months, however, are even more petrifying. She was there to standby for first aid at the finishing spot, checking and rechecking the foldable medicine rack, waiting and wishing for the two boys’ return.

Only Mr. Potter came back alive, terribly injured and frightened, but alive, she can never get the boy’s distraught wails out of his head. The tragedy vividly imprinted into her mind as Harry Potter clung onto Cedric Diggory’s already cold body, the dead eyes wide open like jaws to a bottomless pit, the usual warmth of the Hufflepuff long lost. Poppy Pomfrey felt like her heart split into two, she remembers Cedric as one of her frequent visitors after either tumbling down with his broom after quidditch or somehow falling from a tree for retrieving a lower class men's toy snitch.

Despite all the scratches and bruises, he came with into the infirmary, he always smiles brightly, thanking her for the trouble, and claiming to not be a big deal whenever she fusses over him. “Please Madam, it's just a small cut.” He once smiled awkwardly as Poppy scolded him for being careless for trying to demonstrate a certain hex to a younger Hufflepuff. As he paused once a while to wince at the applied dittany, he didn’t stop comforting the bawling boy who came with him.

A small smile tugs at her lips to that memory, against the lingering hollowness of a promising student’s death.

This summer changes everything, with Albus and Severus’s evidence of You-know-who’s return, the whole faculty is on high alert. Most of the professors stayed during holidays to enhance the warding around the school grounds, preparing safety measures to ensure nothing out of plan occurs when the students come back when the new school year starts. Herself, however, has only been focusing on replenishing the infirmary’s medic supplies, and maybe occasionally helping with Filius’s arthritis after weekly rounds of warding. Right after the headmaster announced Mr. Potter’s predicament, she has been checking her stock of emergency used potions more often, to make sure everything is well prepared to handle whatever state the boy is rescued back in.

Severus himself has been using up half of the blood replenisher in stock within mere weeks returning to the role of a spy. That would also require more brewing to keep up with his conditions.

As Poppy walks towards the cabinet, she notices a piece of paper sitting silently on top of the neatly stacked medical documents at her desk. She picks up the note and immediately recognizes the slanted, neat cursive.

#
Madam Pomfrey,
I’m certain the headmaster had told you about the Potter boy, we should be able to arrive near the wooden bridge late at night on Saturday this week if things go according to plan, bring as much energy replenisher and Dittany you can get. I brewed the more potent painkillers in advance, please retrieve them in my office, black wooden box, at the very left on the second row of my glass cabinet next to the ingredient jars.
I took some of your nutrition potions and chocolates for use, my apologies for not notifying you sooner, I am in a hurry as I wrote this.
#

Poppy looks at the black splotches of ink on the paper, lined with increasingly spiky handwriting as the note progresses. Her sight swept over to the empty spots in supply shelves, and missing bars of Honeydukes chocolate from the half-opened drawer. She smiles at the thought of the most feared professor rushing out of school with sweets shoved into his inner robes.

#
I’ll brew you my enhanced invigoration draught as payment for the chocolate, and double the taken ones when I’m back, shan’t disrupt your “domain” further, as you would call it.
Wish me luck.
–S.S.--

P.S. Your table is a mess woman, at least put the files on one side, don’t spread it over like butter on toast.
#

Poppy Pomfrey looks back to the stacked papers at the right of her desk.

Cheeky sod.

She folds and puts the note into her pocket, closes the drawer but not before taking a bar of chocolate, and leaves the infirmary, heading down to the dungeons. Things are waiting for her to prepare.

—

Harry coughs himself awake from his restless sleep, it has been probably 3 or 4 days since he saw the professor in the middle of the night. Despite death eaters coming into the room once a while to taunt him and throw him a thin piece of bread, they haven’t hurt him, which is fortunate, perhaps Voldermort ordered them to only feed him to “keep him up alive and we can properly duel when the time comes.” The mad Bellatrix came in once during the period, murmured some kind of incantation as she walked back and forth in the room, not without shooting sadistic looks at him. “I’ll see you in a few days little Potter!”. Harry can tell they are planning something big by how she was skipping out of the room, the ends of her black dress bounced up and down.

He looks at the blurry outline of the ebony door, no one is coming in, not for the past hours.

Harry props himself up against the cold stone wall and grips the silver rod the professor gave him. He didn’t dare do any spells with it to alert people outside, but for some reason the thing in his hand provides him a sense of comfort, like holding a friend’s hand, telling them that things are going to be okay.

As he focuses on the gleams of moonlight reflected on the object, he thinks about the same dream he has been having whenever sleep comes to him. Ron, Hermione, Padfoot, flying over the burrow. A red-haired girl calling his name, in a field of violets. Is it a warped memory or vision? Probably just some sort of fever dreams.

Harry can feel his face radiating heat, but his body is shivering with cold, he raises his shackled hand to touch his forehead.

Yep, definitely a fever dream.

He looks up to the waning moon through the gaps of the iron bars of the small air hole above. Beyond the airhole was a long narrow tunnel leading to the surface, as the curves of the crescent fit perfectly at the dug hole, tiny bits of soil rolled into the cell as wind above brushes across the area. He is being held within a tiny cell in the middle of summer, yet he could feel his feet turning into icicles. The shackles roughly move across his blistered wrist as Harry tries to stretch his back a little, the sound of cracking joints reverberates across the room.

His thoughts keep moving back and forth pondering the meaning of the dreams and facing Voldermort, does Snape get similar dreams when he has the “wand”? If it’s a wand, why does it look different from the ones he has seen, did someone else craft this? Perhaps it’s something exclusive to death eaters. He doesn’t know what this wand’s core is, or if there’s one at all.

So if he doesn’t have the “wand brother” of Voldermort, does it mean he won’t be able to deflect his attacks?

His eyes wander to the door again, the professor is not here.

Harry straightens and bends his knees, his feet feel a little numb, and his calves are starting to cramp for curling up too long. He’s still wearing the old sneakers that were given to him when his cousin couldn’t fit them anymore, his toes getting stiff as he tries to wiggle them in the spacious shoe. The boy chuckled a little, thinking he must be acting silly right now. If he can’t stand to face the enemy, maybe just sit on the ground and shoot spells, perhaps roll away really fast to evade the attacks? He remembers one of those James Bond movies where the man just does a front roll to dodge a bullet.

Harry snickers at the image, he laughs a little harder, until his stomach is starting to hurt, until he can feel his heart pounding in his ears, until he’s curling up and hugging his knees closer, until tears start to fall, sliding to the edge of his jaw.

Am I going to die?

He takes in deep breaths to try to hold back his tears, pushing the knot at his lungs down. His heart doesn’t stop hammering against his ribs, fingers grasping tightly at his bruised arms as they shake, he buries his head into the knees, huddling the “wand” closer. Yet he couldn’t stop crying.

He’s a Gryffindor, the ones from the supposed house of courage and bravery, he has faced that snake-faced bastard more than enough times, even when he’s a baby, and managed to get out unscathed.

Harry twists his shackled hand further, metal rubbing against the blistered wrists.

Focus.

He can feel blood pouring out within the metal, the rusty parts prickling it like needles.

Focus, and you will live, you are the chosen one.

Cold sweat begins to pool at his palms as his wrist radiates pain, but it’s exactly what he needs to FOCUS.

“Potter.”

Harry snaps his head back up, he didn’t notice the man coming into the dungeon, nor has he ever been his life relieved to hear Snape’s voice.

“Muffliato.” The man swished his wand across the air and lifts the pale polished mask as he crouched down in front of the metal bars. He reaches into the inner pockets of his cloak and pulls out glass vials, like a few days ago. He brings two glass vials over, gesturing Harry to drink. His hands aren’t shaking this time. Harry downs the potion immediately, grimacing at the taste of burnt celery mud and the odd gritty texture in his tongue. He hands it back to the professor, who is occasionally glancing at the door.

“Are you hurt anywhere?.” Snape asks, with a twinge of concern Harry is not familiar with.

“They didn’t do anything,” Harry whispers cautiously, “...Sir.”.

Snape snorts at the last word, “My, the famous Harry Potter can actually be respectful towards teachers.” He looks behind for a moment as he takes the vials “It is certainly true that people change for the better when death comes knocking.”

Harry isn’t that relieved anymore.

Suddenly, a packet of something is tossed onto his lap, Harry flinches in surprise and is even more surprised when he sees the familiar Honeydukes package under the dim Moonlight.

“Eat as much as you can, you’d need the energy.” Snape stands up and scans his wand across the space. “You’re getting out tonight.”

Harry choked on the piece of milk chocolate at the abrupt announcement.

Snape narrowed his eyes and shakes his head exasperatedly, “Trust me, Mr. Potter, I didn’t volunteer, your dogfather did.”

“Don’t call him that.” Harry looks up at the man, irritated “it’s…not nice.” he mentally smacks himself in the head at the weak retort.

“And pray tell, since when was there an occasion where I am ‘nice’, Potter?” Snape drawls nonchalantly, scanning the walls.

Yeah, since never.

The light at the tip of the man’s wand turned light blue when it moves across the bars at Harry’s cell, the boy looks at his eyes widen in the mild alert.

“Anyone come in to perform warding spells?”

“Erm…” Harry hesitated, perhaps it has something to do with that madwoman? “Bellatrix Lestrange came in and maybe spelled something into the room?”

“What did she say?”

“... It ended with something like, ‘er ulfens skierder’...”

Harry watches as Snape’s face turns from confusion to realization, brows knitting tighter together, hand drags down his face, and looks away as if he faced a dead end in a maze.

“ The Gleipnir ward, why didn’t I consider that.” he said in a rather soft voice, but Harry is sure he can hear the professor’s panic, that the escape plan is not going to work. He thinks the chocolate bar might have expired, it now tastes like ash.

“So…what now? Sir?” Harry says tentatively.

“I’m thinking Potter.” Snape snaps, pacing back and forth with his hand still covering his mouth. “The ward is designed to entrap a specific subject within, right now even if you simply walk out of the cell, you would apparate back behind these bars, the more you attempt, the more the ward’s perimeter shrinks, until you are forced to stay at one spot to not splinch yourself.”

Snape takes out a small silver necklace “The bird won’t do us any good either.”

Harry recognizes the phoenix at the glowing center, “But Dumbledore told me Fawkes can go through any war—”

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Snape glared at the sitting boy in front of him, “is correct, however, the ward here does not apply. The Gleipnir ward requires the warder’s pure malicious intent, it’s made of all things impossible, and it’s extreme dark magic. The ward can only be lowered by the caster or the countering key, it can hardly be destroyed. If we apparate with Fawkes when you are in the perimeter, we would be ensnared just the same, either I am fortunate enough to kill off quickly by a possible alert system, or worse, splinching myself every move while I’m in your company. This bird would burn off as usual, but he would simply stay as a pile of ash.”

At some point, Harry must have dozed off because he finds himself trying to blink his eyes open as Snape puts his cold hand onto his burning chin.

“Stay awake, Potter, you’re having a fever.” Snape turns over and rips off the corner of his cloak, folds, and places it on the boy’s forehead after soaking it with a silent aguamenti. Harry sighs at the coolness of the cloth and hears the man mutter “Idiot boy” as he checks his cuffed wrist.

Snape is, concerned? Harry has an odd thought that the professor is fussing over him like madam Pomfrey or Mrs. Weasley over the twins when they got in trouble, yet he can’t help but grin a little at the comparison.

Suddenly, the darkness of the room is interrupted by a line of light, Snape snaps up and points his wand at the door, Harry jolts himself awake, retreating to the very corner of the cell. They both hold their breath as another figure walks in.

“Severus.” Lucius Malfoy points the snake-headed wand at his peer, “The Dark Lord requires your presence at the preparations, but you’re busy consorting with the enemy, I see.” He speaks with feigned shock.

“Don’t be daft Lucius,” Harry’s eyes dart back to the professor, “You’ve suspected it long enough to have accurate conclusions.”

“If I kill you here, I shall be rewarded heavily for cleansing the impure off our lord’s feet.” The Malfoy says in a sickeningly sweet voice, but Harry didn’t miss the slight tremble in it.

Before the blonde can take a step forward, icicles rose from the floor, trapping and freezing his body, his wand drops to the ground as the frost moves to the tip of his fingers. He stares straight at the spy as his wand is kicked to the dark stone corner.

“My apologies.” Snape steps and points his wand closer to the half-frozen man. “But I doubt the Dark Lord would believe the one cowering behind front lines ever since his return. Perhaps it is finally time to admit that you find him too psychotic to follow, or are you simply too cowardly to serve?”

“I am no coward!” Malfoy grits out, “He shall change the society for the better, our world will be greater with the mudbloods exterminated, next generations shall live is prosper when the Lord replaces that swine of a minister! I would sacrifice anything for the Lord’s cause!”

“Even your own son?” Snape asks in a glacial voice, Harry could feel the room’s temperature dropping even further. “Your own blood that you’ve spoiled rotten? That you and Narcissa loved like a bright pearl in your palms.”

So Snape does know Malfoy is spoiled.

“ALL I DID WAS FOR DRACO!” Malfoy yells, he thought of the blood in his hands, the same hands he cradled his son when he was an infant, the same that squeezed Draco’s shoulder when he sent him each year at King’s Cross, the same when he hugged his son for each achievement with unspeakable pride. “How can you possibly understand, the work and pain I go through just to keep my family happy, to keep them safe!”

“AS LONG AS YOU ARE UNDER HIM LIKE A BRANDED CATTLE, DON’T EVEN DREAM OF THEM BEING SAFE!” Snape boomed, he pauses for a moment to breath out. “You know the Dark Lord has started to take notice of him, it won’t be long for him to ask for your son’s initiation, to go out and kill. You think the Dark Lord would hesitate to leave him be if he fails?”

The older man opens his mouth, head slowly hanging, “The Dark Lord… wouldn’t do that to him.” his voice wavers as tries to reject something treacherous deep down, and the image of a heartless green light hits Draco.

“Wake up. Lucius.” The spy says, hand grasping at his friend’s shoulder as the ice slowly melts away. “Do I need to deduce how long he held you under his spell of entertainment before you came in?”.

From the cell corner, Harry can hear the soft shuddering breath from the Malfoy patriarch, and it makes him pity the man a bit. He thinks about how Draco brags about “my father” in every encounters they have, with pride and fondness. The whole exchange between his professor and his nemesis’ father is giving him some mixed feelings, it makes death eaters more…human. He recalls the two lackeys that follow Malfoy like bodyguards, did their parents join Voldermort too? Harry wonders if his parents ever did something really wrong just to keep someone they cared for safe, if not him.

“What choice do I have,” Lucius clutches his fist as the frost dissipates “other than keep going.” Severus moves forward to steady his friend, waving the wand to melt off the ice “Don’t tell me you want us to run to Dumbledore and beg on our knees?”

“Listen to me, go to him, then at least Draco will be safe, and you will have a choice if you’re fortunate enough.” The professor says.

Lucius Malfoy looks at his friend’s eyes, it’s filled with determination, a rushing wave different from the normal black pool of void, the very same that proved eager to serve decades ago, have returned to convince him the opposite.

How ironic.

The brief silence is broken by the sharp pain at the men’s front arm, almost toppling over the pain, Malfoy hisses “He’s demanding you.”

“What of you?”

Lucius scoffs, “Who are you, a Hufflepuff? Worry yourself.” he winces as he sees the veins from the mark crawls across the rest of his arm, “The Lord deemed less of use for the grand ritual, and I am to return to the comfort of my own bed after bringing his message.” while the whole situation sounds rather pleasant, Harry assumes it’s a top tier humiliation within the death eaters from the man’s tone.

Snape stops for a moment, “ What’s his final decision on destination?”.

“The other circle, spruce forest to the east of the entire village.”

“But outside the wards?” Snape says, shocked, they might have a chance after all.

“The Dark Lord put the whole area under fidelius, and find any others unnecessary.”

“The warding key?” Snape takes a brief glance at Harry, though the boy can tell his professor is now optimistic.

“Bella has it”

Snape looks to the side while still clutching his arm, mind doing quick calculations to form a new plan.

“Go home and take Draco and Narcissa with you, apparate to Hogwarts and find the Headmaster.” the spy squeezed his arm even tighter, slamming down the growing pain.

“And you?” Before Lucius can finish though, something is hurled into his chest, a silver plate necklace with a glowing insignia.

His friend walks past him briskly, not before spewing “Who’s the Hufflepuff now” and explodes out of the room, black cloak billowing behind like wings of a raven.

Lucius meets eyes with Harry for one moment, the boy’s curled figure even more vulnerable under the curtains of pale moonlight. “Damned Gryffindors” he snarls, then apparates away with a loud crack.

Harry wasn’t sure if Malfoy senior is referring to him.

—

Poppy Pomfrey floos back to the headmaster’s office, requests potions, bandages in tow, people of the order are arguing among themselves, and Sirius is pointing and yelling at someone.

“Ah Poppy, I’m afraid the stand-by is no longer necessary.” Albus says calmly as he leads her to the center of the room. Then she sees it, the Malfoys.

“Albus what–” Poppy is horrified by the scene, with Sirius pointing his wand at Lucius Malfoy on the ground, as Draco raises his. Narcissa slowly stands up by his husband’s side, yet no Severus or Harry in sight.

“WHERE IS HARRY WHAT DID YOU DO TO HIM!” Sirius Barks, his eyes filled with unleashed fury, shoulders raised. The rest of the order too, have their wands pointed at the three blondes, not without Draco shouting “Shut it, you blood traitor!”.

The Malfoy patriarch hesitantly sits up straighter and looks to Albus, “I doubt there’s time to allow me to explain.” he says in a diplomatic voice, but trembling, he holds up the silver necklace that came with him “Please Headmaster Dumbledore, you need to lower the wards.”

“Ah, Severus, about time for you to join us.” Voldermort’s snake-like eyes stay at the crackling bonfire, his cobra familiar circling him at his feet, hissing at the arrived follower.

Severus kneels right next to his master, gently holds up his lifted hand, and kisses the deathly pale fingers. “I apologize for my delay, my Lord.” He straightens his robes after the Dark Lord gestured him to rise. “Lucius was…rather agitated.”

The spy immediately takes note of the surroundings, he’s quite certain they are outside the wards, lightness in his body and magic proves it. They are at a small clearing within the dense forest, sharp branches above stand ominously over them, like the closing jaw of a predator. A couple of others from the close circle have already arrived, faces hidden behind masks, the pearl sheen reflecting flickers of orange as the flames dance in front of them, standing at equal distance around the magically marked circle, fire at its center.

Voldermort’s eyes flash crimson at his follower’s word, he lowers his hand at the snake familiar as Nagani lifts her head to her master’s caress. “Useless swine.” he hisses, and the fire in front of him spikes up like rapiers. “I need you to assist me in this.” The serpentine man summons a thick leather journal, levitating toward Severus. The spy lifts the cover gently, the binds are barely held together, yellow stains on each page, the writing within are washed almost illegible by time.

With a brief look at the first paragraph, “My lord…this is–”

“I’m certain your abilities will prove it no challenge to you.” Voldermort walks over to the fire, his hands hovering above like he’s soothing some wild animal.

“The potion leeches both the user’s and the subject’s energy, this is a great risk, my lord.”

“I know my limits, Severus.”

“But -”

Before Severus can finish, his master turns and with a slashing motion like a blade, he sends a jet of fire towards him, burning his left cheek. Severus holds his breath and immediately kneels once more, preparing to endure more of the man’s ire. Then it hit, red light encompasses him like devil’s snare, ripping pain across every part of his body, the freshly burnt skin stretching in which Severus instinctively clenches his jaw to stop himself from making a sound, scrambling to raise his mind shields, his arm shaking badly as he supports himself from lying onto the grass. Beads of cold sweat travel down from the bridge of his nose, Severus could feel his insides twisting like a towel under the spell, ribs slightly cracking under the muscles’ pressure, he lets out a small hiss as blood starts to flow out from his nostrils.

“I wish my proclaim of true victory be flawless,” The crimson eyes peered down at the shaking man, “are you doubting my abilities, Severus?” he says, red light continues to flow out of his pale wand, like streams of venom injecting into the snake’s prey.

“No…My lord.”

Voldermort lifts the curse and looks up at the moon, “Make haste Severus, you have wasted us enough time.”

“Of course My lord, I apologize.” Severus steadies himself, head remains bowed.

“As you should.” with that, Severus treads back out into the dense forest, body spasming as he goes, he holds the journal hard against his chest, attempting to control his erratic breathing. His eyes hazed under the after-effects, moving branches under the evening wind certainly does not help with his dizziness. He does his best to go back to the manor through a hidden trek as fast as possible, apparition is not an option with the now increasingly painful cramps he’s experiencing.

Occlude.

And so he did.

The recipe in the journal, procedures to make the Draft of Transference. The concoction is a double-edged sword, allowing drinkers to replenish and subsequently enhance their magical energy, however, it only functions as such when both parties it, letting their energy transfer to the one in need with a connection spell. While it drains the giver’s energy, the receiver might also have the same reaction to maintain the transaction.

While the Draft sounds extremely beneficial if used in dire situations, especially in the emergency wards of St. Mungos, there are obvious reasons why the draft is classified a grade X, most of its components are poisonous, the 7 Belladonna berries within are enough to kill off a dozen of wizards, the concoction is only working due to the poisons fighting over each other within the bottle. The abuse of the draft once lead to wizards winning duels by dishonorable means, a cup of spiked tea, a quick “legillimens”, or even non-verbal spells with a handshake before the event can result in the desired effect. What would happen is the victim finding themselves unable to focus and weaker effects in spells, worse, their magical core being sucked dry, possibly destroying their magical core entirely, turning them into squibs.

As soon as these cases were brought up to the Ministry and the Wizengamot by the 60s, the draft was banned and remains one of the darkest of Potioneering arts, along with the creation of its nickname “Wizard’s leech”.

When the gates of Riddle manor atop the hill is starting to show through the gaps of spruce trees, Severus picks up his pace. His mind sorts through every combination antidote he could come up with, and more importantly, how to administer it to Potter and find the perfect time to escape. His thoughts are abruptly halted by almost getting tripped over from another sharp pain spreading at his calves, he raises his hand against the rough surface of the tree to support himself, he straightens himself while noticing a rubbery texture in his palms. A string of deep amber on the tree bark glinting under the moonlight.

Spruce gum.

Eureka.

Severus immediately takes out his small harvesting dagger from the side straps of his boots and swiftly cuts down a portion of the resin, shoving them into his pocket before breaking into a dash towards the manor.

As soon as he walks back into the laboratory, he quickly summons all the things he needs, cauldrons, flasks, different poisons, and their respective cures. Finally, with the journal on the right and his notebook floating next to him, the potion master begins to work.

#

To create a base that holds the world’s deadliest poisons, pour 10 fl. oz of water along with 0.5 oz of salt extracted from the blood of a frost salamander into a large cauldron. Stir widdershins under medium fire until the potion is light cyan, extinguish the fire as it starts to steam, and immediately stir 3 times deisul. Once the mixture is cooled, start adding the following in order.

1 6 fl. oz Venom of V. Tentacula

2 3 diced Valerian roots

3 6 fl. oz Juice of Aconite flower stems

Once added, ignite a small fire and stir widdershins continuously until it starts to boil, the potion should have a thicker consistency and be mud-yellow in color.

#

He lets the stirring rod do its work, takes out the collected spruce gum, and puts it on a crystal dish, heating it next to the fire. The floating quill next to him moves widely as it jots down the potion master's ideas for the antidote on the notebook. He moves the used flasks out of the way and sets up the distillers. His hands trembling at the thrill of brewing a banned potion, not without fearing for the possible failure in developing an antidote. There’s no going back now, he must get Harry Potter out, keep her son safe.

The potions master returns to the old journal once more the moment when bubbling noise starts to come out from the cauldron, filled with mud-yellow, soup-like liquid.

#

Keep the potion boiling and drop 7 Belladonna berries in one by one, each after the potion turns into a darker shade. When finished, the liquid should be in deep indigo. Extinguish the flame and allow the potion to cool off.

After cooling, put in 1.5 oz of Snargaluff thorn powder, stir 3 times deisul, sediments would start to appear, when the sedimentation cease, strain out the liquid into a crystal flask.


To cure as to poison, to give as to take.

Thus is the Draft of Transference.

#

Severus looks at the indigo droplets slowly falling through the silver strainer, while the flask is slowly being filled, he turns back to the distiller, putting a round-bottom flask at the end of the condenser after putting in a portion of the sediments. He turns to his notebook and starts to recall everything he has learned, writing down each possibility.

#

Respective Antidotes:

Poppy seeds

African Calabar bean

Salamander blood

#

If the base requires the salt out of the salamander’s blood, it would be because of the other elements within it that could disrupt the potion’s function. Opium in poppy seeds can somewhat ease the pain from aconite poisoning, Calabar bean treats spasms in small amounts.


Looking at the draft’s ingredients, his brows furrow as he notices a peculiar pattern. In separation, all five ingredients of “wizard’s leech” are lethal poisons, each of its components has at least one property that counters the others’ effects, so does the antidotes, perhaps it works by fighting poison with itself?

Self-counteracting.

“To give as to take.”

Balance is the key.

The man mentally smacks himself in the head, Severus Snape you absolute idiot.

The draft itself creates a “void” by self-counteraction, hence it pulls in whatever energy it is linked to. If the 3 separate antidotes work in a similar fashion, then the solution isn’t to fill the void back up, it is to create a larger “void” to take more than the other…

The imbalance is the cure.

Severus promptly darts towards the shelves and snatches the required, right when he prepares to extract the needed parts from the raw ingredients, he halts and lets out a frustrated grunt.

Blasted Golpalott’s third law.

In Severus Snape’s eye, the one and only saving grace of Horace Slughorn was that one lesson on the matter in antidote creation, "The antidote for a blended poison will be equal to more than the sum of the antidotes for each of the separate components." Lily Evans once rattled out the law with ease when Slughorn enquired the class, awarded with points and the usual “Ah Miss Evans you never disappoint me!”, she sent the brightest smile to the Slytherin boy next to her, the mid-day sun dimmed a considerable lot that day, as he vividly recalls.

Stop it. His heart clenches, sometimes he hates his eidetic memory.

To create the synergy requires the matters to be alchemically combined, while he is not a master in alchemy, he proficient enough to use it with ease. He had used it when making potions and the remedies, he conjured his first focus stone, a piece of quartz out of a pile of salt when he was experimenting as a teen, assuming it was accidental magic, which he later discovered to be the alchemical process of transmutation, as told by his mother. Her eyes shone with something positive for the first time in years when she explained, mentioning her alchemist relative, something good from her past life, something she was truly fond of.

Her eyes returned to the usual bitterness and fear when the front door slammed open.

Severus takes out a square slate from his hidden drawer next to the ingredient shelves, texts from the Emerald tablet chiseled at four corners, a kabbalistic tree of life at the center of the philosopher’s stone’s circle, intricately engraved onto the surface. A family motto is inscribed at two sides, Severus is aware of whose it belongs to, but the table is too beneficial for his work to be blasted in half that his pride told him to do when he received it as “a gift”.

Reaching into his pocket for the focus stone, his brows rise when his hand is greeted by an empty space.

Great, I left it with Potter. He had given him the piece of silver as a temporary wand.

He looks at the ingredients, laying on the slate silently. His arm involuntarily twitches at the missing tool, but time is his enemy, and hesitancy is not an option.

Severus presses his hands onto the slate, ebony wand pointing at the materials above, and starts to focus.

—

“Oh, itty bitty Potter!”

Harry wakes to the voice of Bellatrix, he blinks his eyes rapidly to focus on her figure in the dark, and almost shouted when he realizes the woman’s face is inches away from his, her unruly teeth flashing as she grins maniacally.

“Be a good boy and follow me to the party, our lord is waiting!” She hops around, bent wand swishing as she goes, small crackling noise litters across the room, like a string of exploding snaps. Then he sees it, spiderweb-like threads encompassing around him, they glisten under the streams of moonlight, breaking as the death eater hooks the warding apart, a spider breaking its’ trap, setting the prey free, just to land in a bigger one.

Bellatrix summons the ends of the chains linked to metallic cuffs, yanking Harry forward. The boy’s face falls straight onto the floor outside the cell as the iron bars disappeared into thin air. “Come now puppy dog,” her eyes peer down on him like a hawk, “time for our little walk.” Harry feels his legs stands up on his own, the more he tries to fight it, the more his body screams at him to submit, his face contorts in anger and pain, whereas the woman’s sick grin continues to widen with glee at the pathetic sight of their prisoner, she turns towards the door and drags the boy out.

Each step his legs staggers forward, is a step closer to his death, Harry finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, his body paralyzes each time he wills himself to kick, to scream, to retaliate, and each time Bellatrix will slap him in the face, her grin twisting into something more wicked, eyes more unhinged, twisting her wand between the bony fingers erratically. Harry could feel part of the soles of his loose shoes are being torn off little by little at the friction between the stone path and his resistance.

His heart pumps at a desperate tempo when they reach the edge of a forest, the moon hangs high above the cloudless sky, yet darkness mercilessly floods the woods, a narrow path that slices through the trees call to them, to walk on it, walk to somewhere within the never-ending abyss, and march towards death. The wind brushed against the grey grass, needle-like leaves on the trees waves, branches bending back and forth like a disorderly dance, the cool breeze brought back an earthy scent, that of soil after a summer shower, or the newly disturbed loam, dug up to encase an ice-cold coffin.

Swimming through the sea of shadows, Harry’s lungs beg for more air, chest contracting harshly as he tries to control his breathing, instead of wheezing. His fever must have somewhat died down, as he feels sweat plastering all across his back, soaking the worn t-shirt. He took a moment to look up at the clear sky for distraction, the stars are barely visible despite them being in the countryside, flickering as the night progresses slow, and stops when he tries to focus on them, they turn away from him, revolted as if he’s a rotting carcass of an animal.

An inhuman croak boom across the canopy and the boy’s heart practically broke into a run. Bellatrix snaps her wand up and, “WHO’S THERE!” she screeched, the chains in her hands clangs at her violent lurch.

A bird, clad in black perched at the tip of one of the tree branches high above, silently regarding the two below, like they were the ones who broke his reverie, he straightens his silky wings, with a reflective sheen on its feathers, like he’s glowing in the dark, blessed by the moonlight, bathing in its glory, like a judge, ready to hammer a verdict down to the scum. He watches the woman and the boy, like a butcher at cattle, that who is blind to fate, and that who is born to die.

“AVADA KEDAVRA!” the jet of green light hits the bird, surrounding woods burst into that of the eerie neon green, as the light fades, the forest once again, became lifeless, despite how hard Bellatrix is cracking up.

Hundreds, no, thousands of black birds rose above the canopy, wings that carry them across the harsh wind, or the other way around, yet the night remains silent as if the birds are only ghosts or hallucinations. Bellatrix pauses at that, she grumbles in distaste, before resuming to drag the boy towards the clearing.

“Bella.” Lord Voldermort stood emotionless next to a bonfire, he points the wooden stake at the opposite side of the flames.

“Yes, my Lord.” Bellatrix bows, just when Harry is wondering what’s going to happen, he’s thrown and tied tight against the pillar, barely allowing any room for him to breathe.

“Harry Potter…” the serpentine man drawls, “glad that you can join us.” he savors each word that rolls off his tongue.

The death eaters laugh at the struggling boy, as no words came out of his silent scream, body thrashing helplessly. A hooded figure walks out behind the leader, holding a large crystal vial filled with deep indigo liquid, he mutters something, in which Voldermort gestured him to stand at the circle near the fire.

“Time is upon us, my faithful followers,” Voldermort raises his arms, and the death eaters stepped close, dozens of masks float into view as they surround the fire like a wall.

“With the boy dead, we shall tip the scale, and the dark shall overrule the light tonight, let us embrace our victory.” He proceeds to take the vial from the man, like picking a flower and takes a sip, followed by the others around the circle, sharing the potion.

Voldermort takes a deep breath, eyes flashing crimson as he stares straight into the boy’s soul, a shockwave of pain radiates from Harry’s scar, desperate to claw at his forehead, he screams at the sensation of a knife stabbing and turning in his head, yet his vocal cords sleep on. He clenches his hands against the wooden stake, splinters sticking into his palms. The Dark lord gives a satisfied hum.

“Excellent work, Severus.” and gestured the hooded man to continue.

Harry’s eyes stare at the man, pleadingly, and tears threaten to drop when the spy grips his jaw roughly, forcing the boy’s mouth to open. Harry tries to shake his hand off

“Respect your professor for once, Potter.” Snape’s finger stabs his chin harder, as he uncorks the vial. The indifference in his tone sends a ripple of laughter across the death eater.

Why? Harry looks back at the masked man. How could you? I trusted you, they all trusted you. Tears continue to swell at the corners of his eyes, his tongue unmoving despite all the curses he’s trying to throw at the man.

[ Potter. ]

Harry’s eyes widen, focuses back on the onyx pupils, behind the dark holes in his mask, and finds the tunneling eyes meeting his.

[ I’ll get you out, soon. ]

Tears finally fall across his cheek. And Snape abruptly pours down the hot liquid, causing the boy to flinch as the vial’s heat burns against his lips. A flowery taste dances at his tongue, followed by a mild bitterness, like the expired store-bought cookies aunt Petunia used to dump him for his “birthday gift”, as he feels the liquid travels down, a syrupy substance coats his throat.

[ Petunia? You live with Petunia? ]

The boy looks at the professor, confused at the disgust in the projected voice. His thoughts are suddenly interrupted by another wave of pain at his scar, worse than the one at the graveyard, Voldermort looks at his trapped enemy, as he gloats over the tortured body. “Oh, Potter,” he hissed, “Perhaps Dumbledore hasn’t disciplined his students enough, we shall stand dignified and bow before a wizard’s duel.” The yew wand points and lowers, commanding the young body to bend against the constraints, the ropes burying deeper into the boy’s flesh, gritting his teeth, he feels the ribs are about to be snapped under the pressure

It hurts. His body convulsed at the pain

“Kneel before me, Harry Potter.” The Lord commands, and so the body obliges, toppling down along the loosened ropes, eyes meeting the twisted smile which thrives in schadenfreude.

[ Hang on. ]

Both fate and the light’s nemesis must be playing a cruel joke on him, as Voldermort drags his unkempt fingernail straight across the inflamed scar, people staring down at him like a jester in a circus, laughter filling the air at his antics, mirroring the events during the tournament.

Please.

[ Not yet, almost. Hang on Potter. ]

The loud crack at his ribs only invigorates the mad man, the laughter became even more demented as Voldermort kicks him in the chest, bile forces its way up to Harry’s throat.

Please

[ A little longer. ]

Black pupils forces themselves to focus on the emerald green, as he hears the pleads of the son of his best friend.

Please professor.

“Please, Sev”

[ Almost there. ]

“CRUCIO!”

[ Potter, I’m sorry ]

The emeralds continue to plead.

The black tunnels continue to watch.

Amidst the hysterics at the clearing, a thundering croak disrupts the scene once more, Voldermort turns his head away from the boy towards the sound, and then…

“Romandre Oscuro.”

The roaring flames die, not even a piece of cinder, like those who were hit under the killing curse at the Dark Lord’s wand, the clearing plunged into the same sea of darkness at the spruce forest, even the last shimmers of moonlight vanished.

The crowd was suddenly pushed back by a surge of magic, the air surrounding them flows towards the center of the abyss, before it shoots up into the sky, a trail of ribbon-like dense black smoke twisting above the forest, shock, to those who witness it as the light seeps back into the field, and of betrayal, to the Dark Lord, whom personally taught the ability he trusted the most, he raises his wand to command the traitor's death, rallying the men, yet not one spark comes out of their wands.

—

[ Potter! ] a familiar voice ring in his head, laced with urgency.

The first thing Harry could feel after what seems like hours of torture, is wind hitting against his face, and an arm hugging his waist tightly, another shielding his head. Harry almost pushed away whatever is holding him when he sees lights of different colors shooting at them below the sea of trees.

They are flying.

Snape is bloody flying.

Without a broom.

They twist and turn as they dodge each attack from, probably the death eaters and a very angry Voldermort, the trees under them are moving like waterfalls, as they continue to fly at high speed. Just as they reach the end of the dense canopy, Harry feels a sudden jolt and the man’s arms tightening around him.

“Professor?” he shouts, something starts to seep through his T-shirt, like small spurts of water.

[ Hold on ]

Harry feels a tug in the navel, just before they disappear into the night, he hears the same thunderous croak that rings across the air.

Lucius Malfoy isn’t sure what he should be feeling right now, he sends possibly the hundredth glare towards the old man’s back in the past half an hour, who is lowering his head and discussing with the others, well, mainly arguing the Malfoy’s trustworthiness, as if they aren’t there.

Humiliated; he resists the urge to fight against the magically conjured ropes binding him. The head of the house of Malfoy, the icon of the social elite within the wizarding world, a member of the school’s Board of governors, revered within the pureblood circle, being tied up, and left there on the stone floor like a speck of dust that is about to be brushed off to a corner.

Proud; when his son stood in front of him, prior to this… indignity. He’s using all his skills to force down his lips from quirking up, at his son, who is kneeling beside his wife in front of him. Snarling at whoever even glanced at them, and sends reassuring smiles at his parents. Something hit in his well-concealed heart and mind, that their little boy, who, two months ago was still beaming like a child when they bought him a brand-new quidditch maintenance kit along with a Hebridean dragonhide wand holster, lined with Welsh green scales.

The hand on his tied arms tightens, “Father?” A voice calls to him, calm and commanding. Lucius wakens from his reverie and finds his own glacial silver eyes looking back at him, with a gaze that could pierce bedrock. His little boy, a little taller as he kneels over the man, platinum gold hair that shimmers like ripples across the quiet lake at sunrise, his brows knit together, lips thinned. Despite the commotion when they initially arrived, the collar of his shirt remains straight, white, and untainted, the composure and expression of a true pureblood, upstanding heir.

Their son’s gentle grasp at his arm sends a warm straight to his chest, despite being separated by layers of suits and the cloak.

“I am well, Draco.” Lucius is unsure if the time with his son was obliviated, the young man seems to grow by the inch each time he blinks. Judging by the look on his wife’s face, he can’t help but think she would agree with the sentiment as well.
“Oh, Albus please, this is a great risk!” a bush of flaming red rushes through the crowd, straight towards the headmaster. “Harry is in danger, he’s probably using this time to infiltrate the school with more death eaters too! And take our children!” Molly Weasley wails almost hysterically, fists quaking at her sides, and trying to shake her husband’s hand off the shoulder.

“That’s right!” Sirius Black steps up “If trusting one death eater is not enough already, Snivellous took my godson and served him on a platter to You-Know-who, now you’re getting more people into Hogwarts, are you out of your mind Dumbledore!” Almost choking at the last word, the dog animagus runs his hands up the messy bangs, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down, his eyes looking wildly across the office. Lupin, that werewolf, catches up to his friend, holding his friend across the shoulder, whispering low at his ear. “NO MOONY THEY CAN’T BE TRUSTED.” the man shrieks, pushing the scarred man back.

Oh, how Lucius wish to throttle that dog.

Another man in deep cobalt robes steps forward, Kingsley, Lucius recognizes, speaks in an even voice, “ Perhaps we can try administer the veritaserum, Headmaster.” He looks towards the family, and nods at the younger Slytherin, despite who Draco’s wand is aiming at, “If they brought their son with them their words should hold some merit, if not all.”

Dumbledore glides his hands down his long white beard, stopping at the cuff, wringing it between his fingers, his eyes linger on one of the stone tiles, blue eyes unblinking behind the half-moon spectacles. Others stand beside him forming an arch, waiting for the Headmaster’s verdict, and occasionally stealing glances at the kneeling Malfoys.

“Fawkes.” Before Lucius could register, the metal chain he’s been holding on for dear life slides itself away from his hand like a retracting whip, bursting into a ball of fire, like a new Sun born within the confinements of the office. The radiated power pushes Lucius straight to his wife, in which the order members staggers a step backward as well. Out from the blinding light spreads a pair of fiery wings, a mirror image to the engraved figure on the plate, in its full glory.

The phoenix circles once above the crowd before landing onto Dumbledore’s outstretched arm, its red-feathered tail dangling on the side elegantly, like the silk curtains in the bedrooms of Malfoy Manor. The bird lets out a gentle trill, like a short serenade as the man lowers his head to smile and listen, nodding along with his song. While Lucius contemplates if he should try to eradicate Dumbledore from his position, for health reasons, the members of this…order either anticipate answers from the manor in a heated debate on whether to trust the Malfoy or not.

“Mr. Malfoy?” Albus Dumbledore guide’s his familiar back to his perch next to the raised platform, his grandfatherly voice gathering everyone’s attention. “I think you’re aware why lowering the school wards is a great risk, so do convince me, why should I do as you suggest?” he asked calmly, though lacking the warmth that normally comes with it.

“Why? What are you playing at headmaster?” Lucius stands up with the help of his son, while others immediately point their wands at them. “How else is your blasted savior boy going to get in? Let him bang his head against the shield? Or luck his way through the wards?” Lucius takes a step forward, ignoring Narissa’s warning, “Your spy, your own man, sent me with the bird here to give you the message. He pushed me! To come over just to fore-warn you! My son is a student here, my wife has nothing to do with our Lord, he had me promise to grovel at your feet just to ‘save my own family, haven’t we’ve stooped low enough just to beg you lower the wards for one moment?” The patriarch was yelling at the end, and he grimaces at his very un-Malfoy-ish display.

“I also find it very reasonable for us to doubt your intentions, Lucius my boy,” Dumbledore smiles serenely at the man’s growl, “how should I confirm that you’re not here for Voldermort?”

Lucius flinches at the name, his scowl even deeper “The necklace-”.

“My friend here, sadly can’t provide much confirmation that I need.”

“He gave it to me, and It stayed with me.”

“It could also have been you, Mr. Malfoy, murdering the traitor and taking Fawkes, devising a plan to destroy the school, perhaps gaining a higher position in Tom’s ranks too?”

“Damnation! You old coot!” Lucius finds his throat in contact with several cold tips of wands, and his Draco’s arm at his waist, holding him back. “The Potter boy could be coming right now! And Severus could already have been-” strands of blonde falls to his face, hiding his cold irises “dead.”

Arthur Weasley thinks he hears a tremor at the last word, but surely he was imagining things.

Sirius Black allows his outstretched wand go slack, “He better be.” he says, an uncontrolled sneer plastered onto his face, eyes smiling with glee.

The Malfoy’s expressions turn to that of unfiltered abhorrence, Draco snaps his head towards the disowned cousin, his eyes feral, face contorts in rage, pointing the wand at the man “SHUT YOUR MOUTH YOU FILTHY BLOOD TRAI–”

“FUCK YOU YOU PRAT!” The youngest Weasley boy steps in front of his family shouts.

“RONALD BILIUS WEASLEY!” the two older redheads admonished, reeling their son back next to them.

“Step back, Weasel.” Draco sneers, wand switching towards the younger Gryffindor.

“DRACO!” the Malfoy’s exclaims, in which the young Slytherin looks back at them in shock. Taking a deep breath, he drops his wand, but his glare unrelenting.

“Listen you brat,” Sirius takes a step forward, grey eyes glinting maliciously, “You lot and Snivellous are the traitors, slimy death eaters, a whole lot of you.”

“Watch your mouth, Sirius Black.” The temperature in the office dropped immediately the moment Narcissa spews that name packed with venom, her face dangerously impassive, the surrounding magic crackling like an ignited fuse. Her spine is straight, and while her arms are being tied, the air of authority and superiority never leaves her as if the handicap is none of her business, she is every bit of The lady of a noble house, elegant but fierce.

Lucius Malfoy thinks he might be enamored with the same person for the second time.

Dumbledore hums and turns back to face the crowd, “Very well, I’ll lower the wards.”

“Albus!”

“Dumbledore this is madness!”

“However,” the headmaster waves the other’s concerns away, “I’d like something in exchange.”

Lucius stares at the man, eyes widening, and his mouth goes dry. “Don’t you have enough on your checkered board already?”

“Oh?” the headmaster lays a gentle hand on Lucius’s shoulder, ignoring the blonde’s wave of shiver “And what of yours my boy?”

“Familia Ante Omnia.” Lucius replies, his chin raised, voice projecting across the office, like how he would deliver a decree in the ministry, the motto of a noble house is not to be undermined.

“And what will you offer for dear Draco and Narcissa’s safety?”

Blue eyes twinkling, expecting.

His wife and son shake their heads, urging him to stop.

“Then at least Draco will be safe, and you will have a choice if you’re fortunate enough.” Severus told him as such.

Cold sweat pools at his clenched fists.

“Any-”

A sudden flicker of light within the office interrupts their negotiation, the candles and the fire in at the fireplaces dancing violently despite the lack of wind, the chandelier above the crowd dies and reignites, the light blinks like eyes as the room alternates between well-lit and drowned in darkness. The ground, no, Hogwarts herself is rumbling, quaking in displeasure, perhaps wounded.

“What’s going on?” Lupin holds his friend close, looking at the odd movements of the ball of flame at the torch above.

Albus Looks towards the perched phoenix, now bowing its head and intones a low lament, and when he looks back at Lucius Malfoy, the man is clutching his head with the marked arm, “Mr. Malfoy?”

The man meets his eye, panicked, “He’s here.”

The headmaster raises his arms, wand in hand “Abbssarsi!” he commands, a low groan can be heard across the proximity of the school. Light continues to flicker and dim as the air grows heavier, almost suffocating with metaphorical hands pressing hard onto their lungs. The shelves and portraits of former headmasters shudder against the wall, the people within cry and escape from their canvas to the far corners near the staircases. Arthur Weasley steps in front of his wife, one arm wrapping at her waist and the other hugging the youngest girl close. The two Aurors and the deputy headmistress cast a Protego around the people, the latter looks at the headmaster tentatively, whose eyes narrow at the commotion.

A loud explosion and the sound of shattering sound rings at the far end of the office, near the observatory, glass shards scattering all across the telescope and down to the stairs linking the raised podium, moonlight glimmering across them. Followed by strong gusts of wind.

“What the-”

“Hell is that?” Fred finishes the question for his twin, he points at the window through the gaps of stone pillars.

McGonagall hesitantly takes a step near Dumbledore, both of their wand raised, “Albus?” She squints in the pointed direction, something, like a ball of smoke writhing above the black lake, steadily growing bigger. The headmaster abruptly grasps her arm, “Better stand back Minerva, Protego Totalum!”

The smoke isn’t growing.

It’s coming closer, straight towards them.

“Oh that impetuous… back to the walls!” The Malfoy patriarch yells, shoving his wife and son behind him.

The next thing they hear is the howling wind, the office lights continue to dim a shade darker, the order scrambles to protect the younger ones with more shields, and Draco holding one up on his own around his parents. Something like a black shooting star bursts through the shattered lancet window, ribbon-like trails of smoke billowing behind it, distorting as it knocks across the large shelves of books and paintings, blocking out the light above the crowd. With a final hard slam against the wall opposite to the elevated platform, the “thing” slides down onto the floor, ribbons of smoke still moving above the core like black fumes rising from chimneys. The office grows dead silent, quakes stopping along with the ceasing strong breeze.

Lucius daringly raises his head to look at the chaos surrounding them, parchments and trinkets scattered all over the place. Painted predecessors are all cramped to the frames above the three Malfoy’s, muttering and speculating what has barged into the room.

Dumbledore slowly rises from behind the shields, “Sarcio Tutela.” he waves his wand above, drawing an arch. A line of pale light rises outside the window, surrounding the school once more with an invisible dome. With that, he turns to the heap of black, and treks towards it.

The silence is interrupted with several harsh coughs and groans, two prone figures appearing through the dispersing smoke, a man in thick black robes holding a familiar teenager tight in his arms like a cacoon, as the boy hold’s a fistful of the cloak of the man, before rolling off, back flat onto the floor.

“Harry!” “Harry! Severus!” Sirius and Albus bolt towards the two, kneeling beside their ragged forms, the others draw close to the boy with varying degrees of worry. “Harry wake up!” Sirius frantically pats the younger boy on the cheek, “Oh gods, don’t do this to me Prongslet, please…”. Minerva quickly kneels beside the headmaster next to a panicking Ron Weasley, hand clutched over her mouth, eyes suspiciously gleaming over the usual sternness, her sight lingering between her student and colleague. “Merlin…” she gasps when she noticed trails of red on the stone floor.

While he hears Molly Weasley wailing “Oh! Poor boys!” onto her husband’s shoulder, Lucius staggers up, trying to catch a glimpse at the other still figure on the floor, his wife’s stoic expression but uneven breath allows his normally cold heart filled with fear for his friend.

“Severus…” He hears his son whisper, who is at the brink of tears. Lucius doesn’t dare take a step further, and for the first time in his life, something invokes an unspeakable fear within him, that of what he might see, or who he might see nevermore.

—

Clearer shapes start to form from the sea of blurred colors as Severus slowly rises to consciousness, other than the blaring pain at the back of his head and his lower left abdomen, he could hear someone shouting Potter’s name outside of his pounding adrenaline-fueled heartbeat. “Thank Merlin Severus.” A piece of blond swims into view “Blink if you understand me.”

Narcissa, Severus recognizes her voice, he looks around, spotting a concerning Draco and his father standing behind her, the knot in his stomach relaxed as he is eternally grateful that Lucius listened to him once. But what happened?

“Harry! Stop-” the mutt’s plead was cut short when an inhuman guttural sound breaks into his still ringing ears, like a beast crying to be let out of a cage, with great force he turns his head around, facing the crowd. The boy is ashen-faced, his eyes rolling to the back of his head, body arching like someone is trying to snap him in half as he continues to shake like a leaf in a storm, he screams something at the people, but more so a series of hisses. At the corner of Severus’s eyes, he sees the headmaster and Minerva in a rare display of visible distress directed at the boy, the bearded man holding the boy’s chin and boring his eyes into those pools of emerald green “Stay out Tom… stay out…” Albus continues to mutter, while the Gryffindor head of house holds Potter’s hand up to her cheek, tears trailing down her features.

His mind suddenly plunges into ice-cold clarity; the antidote he warmed and poured down to his throat, the image of the dark lord staring into Potter, the boy screaming in pain under his feet, them flying and apparating into the night, and landed in Albus’s study…

Did the potion not work? Severus jolts up, struggling not to drop beside Potter, a few audible gasps can be heard as he makes his presence known.

“Severus… oh gods..” Minerva exclaims.

“Not now Minerva,” he’s noticing how raspy his voice is, along with the wetness at his face, “Legilimens!”.

He goes straight into the mind of the boy and feels surprised that there’s a thin layer of wall blocking his entrance, though none that he can’t penetrate through.

The moment he steps through, something unspeakably horrid starts to overwhelm his senses. He arrives at a sea of blood, the sky is filled with twitching black veins, extending and branching out to the pure white sky from the horizon, the air reeks of something rancid, reminding him of Pettigrew’s lack of hygiene, the troll that went rogue in the dungeon when the boy first came to Hogwarts, and the dozen of mutilated bodies he was forced to witness being burnt or dumped in the past decade.

He sees a wraith-like figure trying to latch itself onto the boy’s image, trying to push the boy into the liquid and falling back into the blood, Albus is constructing some kind of invisible wall, shielding himself and Potter.

[ Professor! ] the boy calls out to the headmaster, attempting to aid him, but fails when he is pulled down once again by decaying hands that rise from blood. He frantically tries to hold onto the headmaster’s outreached hand, kicking off the restraints as he does.

Severus runs towards the two, not before noticing a thick string of green and black fog twirling around Potter, slowly engulfing a strand of gold. The magical core, the man realizes, It’s going to destroy it.

[ Albus! Leave the shield up and get out! ]

The two within the wall seem to notice, Albus looking at him like he is the most unbelievable thing [ We can’t leave Harry like this Severus! ] the older man yells across the now turbulent waves of red, [ Tom is trying to destroy him inside out!].

Dark crimson is now reaching the boy’s calves, the hands continue to desperately crawl at him like a lifesaver, the veins high above are steadily covering the sky, the dark lord is making a move.

[ I’m not leaving. ] Severus breaks into a run towards them, snatching his legs off the inferi-like creatures as he slams his occlumency shields down, he picks up the boy in his arms, fingers now climbing across his ankle, ignoring how the boy just buries his head into his chest, the man constructs a broader mental shield around them[ Go, trust me in this. ].

With a nod, Albus releases his hold from Potter’s mind, disappearing into the crashing waves of blood.

The boy is trembling in his arms, despite only being a mental image, Severus can’t help but think of him as Lily’s child, no, there’s something he missed when he learns how Petunia is somehow a part of the golden boy’s life.

[ You will be alright, Potter ]

With that, he covers his hand over the boy’s emerald green eyes, [Dormir.] the boy went slack, the spell should shield the boy away from the attacking link temporarily, this should buy him enough time. He lays the boy on the clear water within the shield and pulls himself out.

“Snape!” Black yells “What did you do to him you bastard!” he lifts Severus’s collar and shakes him.

“If you want your precious godson back without mental damage like you, I suggest you wear your muzzle and sit in a corner Black.” Severus roughly wipes off the blood at his left cheek and under his nose. He searches the boy’s pockets and retrieves the silver focus stone, “Albus, Minerva, hold the boy down.”

“Severus,” Albus squeezes the younger man’s shoulder “bring Harry to us.”, he smiles at him, the same one that pushed him forward in life.

With a nod, he takes the boy’s hand in his own, the silver pointing at the scarred head.

“Hold my hand.”

“Follow my lead.”

“Channel your voice so Lady magic may hear.”

“Everything will be alright, Severus.”

He remembers, so he sings.

“Rami supra, radix infra…”

It’s natural to him, water running through a stream, magic reaching down to the boy.

—

The last thing Harry remembers, is being trapped in some sea, Dumbledore was there, and Snape too?

A small hand is shaking his arm, and someone singing softly nearby.

Slowly opening his eyes, he’s greeted with a young girl, the same one he saw during his fever dreams, a mob of bright copper, sparkling emerald eyes, and the familiar smile widening when the girl sees him awake.

“Mom?” He didn’t hold back the tremor at his throat, nor did he hesitate to return his embrace when the girl wrap her arms around his neck.

[Potentia a sole, almitas a luna.]

Harry looks around, he’s in somewhere bright, sitting in the field of endless violets, the gentle wind caressing him as the song continues like someone is hugging him close, soothing his fears. Just when he’s trying to figure out what is going to happen, his…mother tugs at his trousers, points towards something far in the sea of purple.

[ Amnis fluente, purgat maculam. Clemens vento, vulnera sanat. ]

In the distance, a young boy with shoulder-length hair, his back facing them, carrying something in his arms.

His mother shouts something, animated, even though no sound comes out of her lips, the boy seems to hear it, he turns around and beams at both of them, waving, a bundle of something fuzzy cradled in the right arm.

[ Anima eius pura est, depello infecta. ]

The song in the air continues, the melody seems to be concluding, the girl pushes Harry a little, and gesture him to walk to where the boy is, her encouraging smile unwavering as Harry walks forward, occasionally glancing back. A stark line of brilliant white separates the violets to a new field of lilies, surrounding the boy in an oversized and worn-down beige coat.

[ Ergo imperio meo, ]

Harry finds it difficult to focus on the boy’s face, like how faces would be blurred out in dreams. But this isn’t a normal dream, isn’t it? The boy is bouncing a little bit when the older slows down in front of him, he has been waiting for his arrival. His free hand outstretched, which Harry wraps the tiny fingers in his own.

[ Tutus es in manibus mei. ]

His sight is engulfed into a flash of white.

After a moment, noise and colors start to seep back into his awareness.

“Mister Potter, can you hear me?” A raspy baritone voice asks “squeeze my hand if you’re with us.”

Squeeze the hand? That’s easy.

“Glad to have you back with us, my boy” Dumbledore brushes off the fringes from Harry’s forehead.

The faces around him are now clearer, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Remus, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, and Padfoot licking his face. Never had he felt so relieved to see them all again, when hours ago he was pondering how they would react to his death, he’s finally awakened from the nightmare. But instead of lying on a stone-cold floor, his back feels cushioned, noting he is lying on a thin layer of glowing mist, in the shape of an ethereal bed of lilies.

He looks a the cold hand he’s been holding on and sees a very bloodied Snape, his hawk-like nose wrinkled, onyx eyes glazed, with blood smeared all across the left side of his pale face, there’s blood dripping out of his nostrils, and some from the corner of his mouth, thick locks of black hair obscuring his other eye.

“Sir…” Harry whispers at the man, giving the hand a firm squeeze.

The usually dour potions master offers the young man the tiniest smile, tugging at his lips. “Poppy, give him the energy replenisher, and check him for lingering curse effects.” Snape releases Harry’s hand, the silver wand hitting the ground with a clink. He stands up staggering against the wall, hand clutching his side.

“I think not, young man.” Madam Pomfrey rushes to him, not before shoving a bottle into Professor McGonagall’s hands. “You’ve probably been losing blood for Merlin knows how long. Minnie, feed Mr. Potter the replenisher.”

Several people gasps at the sight of the spy, as they’ve just noticed him, Remus quickly carries Harry to the sofa, and the transfiguration professor kneeling next to it, holding the bottle to the boy’s lips. He hears Ron “ Thank the gods mate” feeling a playful pat on his shoulder.

“Severus!”

The crowd at the other end of the office turns their heads towards the shout, Draco Malfoy at the floor crying the professor’s name, the man curled to his side, squirming and shaking in pain, his breath erratic, blood occasionally spurts through the clutched wound, his teeth clenched as to forbidden any noise coming out of his mouth. The older Malfoys kneeling beside their son, calling out the professor’s name with their arms awkwardly tied to their backs.

“Poppy?” The headmaster inquires, his eyes darting between his wounded colleague and the mediwitch, blue eyes filled with worry.

“Mr. Malfoy, lay him flat on the ground, Albus, cut his clothes open.” the Matron gives her commands while taking vials of various sizes and bandages out of her medic box. At the corner of Harry’s eye, Dumbledore visibly recoils at the sight of something, he pushes the exhausted body upwards, head now propped up at the armrest, curious at what could upset the fearless Hogwarts headmaster.

Under the voluminous layers of clothes, Harry sees the sickly thin frame of the potions professor, his ribs jutting out of the pale skin, some set at weird angles, while there’s a subtle line of muscles at his stomach, it’s mostly covered with familiar pulsing dark veins, a stab wound at its center, blood gushing out of it.

“Draco, roll his sleeve up.” Mrs. Malfoy moves closer to the prone figure, black seeps out of the eye sockets of the skull in the dark mark, slowly moving and covering the entire arm, and moving towards his neck.

“It’s Bella’s dagger,” the woman stares at the wound, a tip of metal buried deep into the flesh, yet the blade handle is nowhere to be seen “it’s resonating with the mark, you have to take it out.”

“No!” Madam Pomfrey blurts out “the metal pierced through his spleen, it’s acting as a cork to stop more blood flowing out, he’ll die like this.”

“Madame, the blood loss is the least of our concerns here, if the Dark Lord decided he should die right now he simply has to activate the mark in a matter of minutes, we need to take it out and sever the connection.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Malfoy,” Madam Pomfrey retorts, somewhat breathlessly “I’m a trained healer, and Severus is in dire need of medical attention.”

“Excuse you, Madame, St. Mungo never trained their healers in dealing with extreme dark arts, especially not the ones from ancient houses, if you would please move out of the way so I can heal him!” Narcissa breaks her icy and composed demeanor, her shoulders shaking as speaks.

“Al.. bus…”

“Severus!” Dumbledore cups Snape’s face with his wrinkled hand, thumb wiping the blood off his lips, “what is it my boy?” he asks with such tenderness like a father to a son.

“ Let…Cissa…” The professor chokes out, blood and sweat trailing down to his ears, dripping onto the floor.

The ropes on Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy suddenly vanished, she summons her wand without a second thought. Taking the cloth and tweezers away from a very disgruntled Madam Pomfrey, she dabs the pooling blood around the wound, causing Snape to hiss in pain. Harry never thought he’d get to see the Malfoy’s as the caring sort, the sight of Draco Malfoy and his father surrounding his professor, holding his hand muttering “Hang on, Severus.” and the former tearing up “Please, professor.” was rather mind-boggling.

Lady Malfoy points her wand, her other bloodstained hand reaching the wound “Ready?”

With a nod, Snape braces himself, covering his mouth with his sleeve.

The woman slowly digs her fingers into the wound, ignoring the droplets of blood that are starting to spurt onto her porcelain cheek, chanting over and over as she carefully pulls out an impossibly long thin blade from Snape’s body, as it had expanded within his abdomen.

“Vulnera Sanentur…Vulnera Sanentur…”

Professor McGonagall, who is now standing beside Harry but facing the bloodied scene, is silently sobbing each time Snape lets out a muffled cry, shaking as he breathes rapidly, his body hold still by Dumbledore and Lucius Malfoy. Mrs. and Mr. Weasley desperately try to block their children’s view, while Kingsley, Tonks, and Remus continue to focus treating Harry’s bruises, and Padfoot resting his snout on his chest, jerking at the noise nearby.

Snape’s back arched upwards when the last of the cursed blade is out of his skin and tossed to the side. With a spell, Mrs. Malfoy mends the wound together, a blue glow envelopes the damaged area.

“Severus?” She shakes the professor’s shoulder, who is breathing heavily, and looks back at her. The dark Mark has returned to normal, and the black veins at the wound receded, leaving a reddened web behind. She smiles at him “It’s alright now, rest.”

There was a collective sigh in the room, Harry noticed the hazy tunneling eyes met his, he mouthed a small “thank you” at the man. Snape seems, oddly calm and relieved, and closes his eyes.

Harry feels exhausted too, with Remus repeatedly brushing his hair, he falls back into the dreams of a little girl in a field of flowers.

Everything will be alright.



English Translation:

Thy branches above,
thy Roots beneath,
The power of the Sun,
and nurture from the moon.
A flowing river, it cleanses the stains.
A gentle wind, it heals the wounds.
His soul is pure, expel the infected.
Therefore by my command,
you are safe in my hands.

The same field of violets, the little girl bouncing and circling him, plucking flowers and putting them into his hair. Her smile, ever so bright, it brings sunlight to shame. He has never felt that much peace in him throughout his childhood, despite knowing he is in a dream, it won’t hurt to drown in it just a little longer.

A boy in an oversized coat comes running to them, without a word, he pulls Harry up to.

“What?” Harry hears the young boy say something, but instead of words it is a series of gurgling, like it is spoken under a lake, or with a mouthful of water.

“You need to go, Harry.”

Harry looks back, a body with limbs splayed out, switching between the red-haired girl and a woman whose t-shirt was covered in dust, her dead green eyes staring straight at her son, speaking without the pale lips moving.

The young boy once again pulls him away from the scene as he staggers backward, small but calloused hands hold onto his arm tightly, and breaks into a run. Harry let the boy lead him away, trying to catch a glimpse of the younger’s face, but it is hidden beneath slick locks of black.

Harry turns his head back for a brief moment, the serpentine face of Voldermort hovering above his mother’s now skeletonized body, surrounding violets withering away. The boy with black hair shouts something at him, and runs even faster. Harry could feel the hair at his back standing up as he senses his enemy catching up to them.

They soon come to an abrupt halt at the border at the flowers, yet instead of the stark field of white, they're met with a cliff, alongside a bottomless pit.

“You cannot run forever, Harry Potter.” says the face of his enemy, who stops, just a couple feet behind them, “no one escapes the inevitable.”

A low rumbling sound rings across the now barren plains, thousands of charred bones, like water from a breached dam, rushing towards the two, Harry hugs the scrawny boy close to himself without a second to spare. Yet with a sudden burst of strength, the boy pries out of his arms and pushes him towards the abyss.

“NO!” his voice booming across the darkness that engulfs him as he falls, the boy at the edge of the cliff watching from above, gives him a meek smile until it is submerged by the wave of bones.


“Harry… Harry…” the abyss calls.


“Wake up.”


His head crashes into another man’s as he jolts awake from the nightmare.

“Prongslet…hello to you too.”

“Sirius…wha-”

“Tried to wake you up,” Sirius grimaces, rubbing his forehead “You were tossing around…no wonder you and James were fine falling off brooms all the time, that skull can kill.”

The man drags a stool over and sits next to the nightstand, picking up the glasses and gently gliding the temple tips to the boy’s ears. He grins at the confusion on his godson’s face, and slowly pulls him into a tight embrace, feeling thinner arms wrapping his waist a moment later.

“Thanks” Harry pressed his face onto Sirius’ shoulder, inhaling the familiar scent of cologne and cigarettes, “what time is it?”

“Well,” the other man casts a quick Tempus, “it’s almost 2 in the afternoon, Poppy said you’d probably sleep for another day, but here you are.” he pauses, and cups the boy’s cheek, grey eyes searching for any lingering bruises, “I’m just glad you’re okay.”

A renewed sense of relief washes over Harry like a brief summer shower, desperately holding the tears that are starting to pool in his eyes, he looks away, but the older man didn’t miss the choked chuckle he let out.

Sirius encompasses him once more, “Shh…shh… you’re here Harry, you’re safe.”.

With that, Harry decides that Sirius probably expensive coat doesn’t matter too much.

Their quiet moment is soon interrupted by thundering footsteps, and a loud bang at the infirmary door.


“Harry!”

“Mate you’re awake!”

“Harrykins!”

“Oh, my sweet darling!”

“My boy, glad to see you up and well.”

“Mister Potter, thank Merlin!”


One moment he is still in Sirius’ arms, then the other his face is buried in a mix of his best friends’ bushy hair and bright red handmade sweater, surrounded by Remus, the rest of the Weasleys, his head of the house, Dumbledore…

As much as he tries to calm Hermione’s quiet sobs, he can’t help but get emotional again, his heart is a bit overwhelmed by the newfound sense of security.

“Everybody move and cease shouting!” an angry hiss came out of the cyan partition screen opposite to the crowd, Madame Pomfrey (not so discreetly) stomps towards Harry’s bed, shooing off the people around the white linen bed. “There’re other patients here.”

Harry pats Hermione at the shoulder, who is still clinging onto him like a lifeline and sniffing, in which he sends an apologetic grin at the matron.

The older woman clears her throat, setting her arms on her hips, “Miss Granger, you can hug him as much as you want after I check on Mister Potter, if you’d please.”

The two Gryffindors immediately pull themselves off their friend at the command of the healer, looking sheepish.

Harry lets Madame’s wand scan all across him along with an extending piece of parchment on right, while smiling a bit at Dumbledore’s comforting grasp at his relaxed hand.

After what feels like ages of silence, Madame Pomfrey withdraws her wand and glances at the paper, everyone seems to release a breath at her now soft features.

“Well Mister Potter, as far as I’m concerned, nothing seems to be amiss, though, for safety measures, I suggest you should stay here for another full day.” She says, emphasis on the word “suggest”. “Do you feel otherwise uncomfortable?”

“Just a minor headache, and a bit exhausted.”

Madame Pomfrey hums, “What do you remember before waking up?”

Everyone’s gaze on the boy becomes more intense.

“Er… I was in a forest, Voldermor- sorry, You-Know-Who was there with some other people, and then Snape-”

“Professor Snape, Mister Potter.”

“We kinda flew… and then apparated? Then I woke up in a sea of blood…”

Madame Pomfrey immediately looks back at the parchment.

“Ah Poppy, that would be Tom’s doing.” Dumbledore smiles at the healer jovially, blue eyes twinkling.

“Professor Dumbledore was there, and so is Sna- Professor Snape, I woke up again…”

What was it?

“In the Headmaster’s office.”

“No, somewhere else before that, maybe it was still a vision? But more pleasant.”

The older woman reluctantly nods, gesturing him to continue.

“Then I was laying on the floor at the office, and then Professor Snape-”


the man curled to his side, squirming and shaking in pain, his breath erratic, blood occasionally spurts through the clutched wound.


“ Let…Cissa…” The professor chokes out, blood and sweat trailing down to his ears, dripping onto the floor.


“Vulnera Sanentur…Vulnera Sanentur…”


“Is… Is he okay?” Harry looks at the healer, then sweeps his gaze towards the others.

Both Dumbledore and McGonagall look at the school matron, the Gryffindor Head of House’s brows knitted, while the older man’s eyes lose their twinkle.

Madame Pomfrey pauses, then gives Harry a smile, albeit a very professional one.

“I can handle the professor. Have some rest, Mister Potter, and keep it down, you lot.” she says, moving away from his bead after giving a pointed look to the crowd, and signals the two colleagues to follow her, walking towards the partition.

“God’s Harry you scared us all to death!” Hermione gives a light punch at his arm, grinning at him with wet eyes.

"Sorry Mione, how come you're here though, I thought you were back at home?"

“Well, definitely not the first time, isn’t it?” Remus cut's in and hands the boy a chocolate bar from his coat’s inner pocket, Harry feels odd at the change of topic, but he happily accepts and starts unwrapping it.

Honeydukes. He remembers the one he ate at the cell.

“Well, there’s the stone, Basilisk, Buckbeak, then there’s the tourna-”

The Weasley twin slaps their younger brother at the back of his head simultaneously, while Hermoine punches him in the arm, and Mrs. Weasley glares at her son.

“Sorry mate.” He mumbles.

“Yeah.” Harry looks at a specific crease on the blanket, doing his best to move the corner of his mouth upwards, and takes a bite off the chocolate, which tasted like ash.

“Well… mind telling us how you two escape Voldiekins?” George rests his elbow on Fred’s shoulder, while Harry is trying to stop laughing at the name and choking on the candy bar.

“George!”

“I’m Fred, dearest mother.” giving her the widest grin.

“Snape uh…came to me when I was being held in a cell.” Harry savors the steadily blooming sweetness at his tongue. “He came in the second time, gave me some potions and chocolate.”

Harry tells their looks without facing them.

“Malfoy Senior came in, they argued and Snape convinced him to go to Dumbledore. Where is he now by the way? I think I saw him at the office.”

“The Malfoys are currently detained and monitored in the dungeons.” Mister Weasley says, face lights up with a hint of merriment.

“Oh you should have seen their faces,” Ron grins ear to ear, “Those prats got tied up on the floor before you came in, and begged, can you imagine? Malfoys begging, so much for being ‘the elites of society.”

For a brief moment, Harry recalls the scene of Malfoy’s surrounding the professor, comforting words spilling from their normally venomous lips.

“And then?” Ginny asks.

“There’s this madwoman, Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“My insane cousin, the epitome of the Black Madness, broke out of Azkaban early in the holidays.” Sirius nods.

“She led me out into the woods, there’s like this bonfire with other death eaters surrounding it, including…him. He tied me onto a stake then stared at me, and my scar hurt like hell.”

Remus’s eyes flash bright amber at that, alongside Sirius’ low growl.

“Before that, they all drank a vial of something that Snape brewed.”

“Did you drink it?” Sirius holds onto Harry’s shoulder in an instant.

“Yeah, but I feel pretty fine.” Harry shrugs.

“He could have given you poison!”

“If it’s poison Poppy would have known just now, Padfoot.”

“It’s the dark arts Moony! And Snivellous made it! Harry could be dying!”

“Sirius, you should trust Albus, if not Severus.” Mrs. Weasley says, the last part lighter than the mention of Dumbledore.

“After a moment,” Harry waits until his godfather calms down again, “Snape kinda flew me up above the woods? I think he side-long apparated somehow and then landed us both in Dumbledore’s office."

“Ha!” Sirius barks, “Snape on a bloody broom, that's the sight I'd pay to see. He didn’t even join the class in fourth year, nor Quidditch, bastard can’t even fly straight.”

“Severus can ride a broom, and he was not that bad at it until someone decided it was funny to jinx his broom, he fell off mid-air and broke his leg in third year, so he stopped taking it.” Remus kicks Sirius in the shin, who looks away at the questioning glares sent towards him “I didn’t see a broom bursting through the window though?”

Harry, still processing the information about Sirus and the jinxed broom, feels a sense of familiarity from what Quirrel did to him at his first Quidditch match.


Maybe that’s why he knows the counter-curse?


“Snape didn’t use a broom, he sorta just…flew?”

“Flying without a broom?” Ron's eyes go wide at that

“I’ve read about someone named Jarlet Hobart using a levitation charm on himself to fly unassisted, it didn’t work out though,” Hermione says.

“I didn’t hear him say the spell,” Harry shrugs again, “he just held me and took off.”

“Bloody hell, imagine-“

“Flying like that instead of using a broom in Quidditch.”

“Think he’ll be-”

“Up to give us lessons?” Fred finishes the sentence for George.

“Quidditch without brooms being smashed mid-air is no fun, that’s just Three Broomsticks without Rosmerta.”

Everyone chuckles at Sirius’s flair of dramatics, yet Harry can’t help but stare and wonder about the happenings behind the partition screen at the opposite side of the room.


He sees Dumbledore’s arm around McGonagall’s shoulder, whose fist is clenched, the other hand removing her golden spectacles, shaking. Madame Pomfrey is hidden behind the cyan fabric, though judging by the red-stained cloth she just put into the water basin, things are pretty dire.

“He’ll be fine, Minerva.” Harry hears the grandfatherly whisper.

McGonagall steps out of the screen, takes in a deep breath, and gives an absent nod towards the man.


“Hey, that’s Snape you’re looking at, he’ll probably wake up and make us scrub cauldrons tomorrow.” Ron smiles wryly at where Harry’s sight settled on.

“Singing while blood practically pours down from his head too.” Sirius sneers, his nose wrinkled as if he smells something pungent.


“What?”

“You don’t remember?”

“I was in a dream of some sort when I heard someone singing,” Harry shudders, it’s soothing melody still lingering in his mind

“Yep, holding your hand and singing to you and your sweet dreams.” George slaps Harry at the back of his hand. “Who knew dungeon bats can sing.”

“Professor Dumbledore told me about it, it’s in Latin, but even he hasn't heard of it before, maybe it’s some kind of old magic?” Hermione suggests, stifling a laugh.

“Yep, dark magic,” Sirius shakes his head vehemently, “He’s Snape, and he hates Harry, maybe we should have Poppy scan him again.”

“Merlin Pads, no, he sang that to Lily bef-” Cutting the sentence off, Remus slaps his hand to his mouth.

“My mum? They knew each other?”

[ Petunia? ] Snape’s voice comes up in his brain, his aunt’s name rolls off his tongue with disgust and contempt.

“We were all in the same year, but I think they knew each other before Hogwarts.” Remus’s kind smile is now back on his face, a little wider at the teenager's shocked expressions. “I’m not at the liberty to tell you anything else, perhaps Severus will if he’s comfortable to do so.”

Yeah of course he will.

“Times up! Let the boy rest!” Madame Pomfrey comes stomping back, “No buts Mr. Black, Mr. Weasley.” She pushes Harry down, pulling the white covers up, and dousing him with a small flask of dreamless sleep.

“I’ll see you later tonight then Harry,” Remus brushes the fringes off Harry’s eyes, Sirius, now in his dog form lets out a soft, but cheery bark before whining and leaving at the scarred man’s gesture. The crowd too disperses after more hugs and well-wishes.

Dumbledore appears at the end of his bed, tapping lightly at the corner of the bedsheet. “Rest first my boy, let us talk in the evening.” he says in a calm and benign tone, finally leaving, the hunched figure of McGonagall in tow, closing the large wooden door with a click.

Harry's consciousness falls back into the welcoming darkness at the sound of equipment clinking and the occasional chirping outside the window.

---

“Full Name?”

“Severus…Tobias Snape”

“Occupation?”

“Dungeon bat of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

Deep orange light streams through the tall windows of the hospital wing, while Harry woke up a while ago, he’s desperately trying to hide his smirk under the blanket at the quiet conversation at the opposite side of the room.

“Well Mister Snape, seeing your sarcasm wasn't lost to the blood that you smeared all across Albus’ office floor, I’ll take that as a good sign.” Madame Pomfrey scoffs.

“Do consider it an impromptu interior decor if you will madame, it’ll be a breather from the atrocities he calls robes.” Snape replies, although his voice is reduced to a hoarse whisper.

There’s the sound of bedsheets ruffling, and a moment of silence.

“Is the boy-”

Harry brings the covers higher at the mention.

“Mister Potter is currently resting, all injuries or whatever You-Know-Who did to his brain are gone, healed by whatever you chanted I suppose.”

“The Malfoys?”

From the gap of his squinted eyes, Harry sees Madame Pomfrey’s hands poking out of the partition, dumping another stained cloth into the basin, summons a clean one, and back into the hidden view.

“They’re the least of your concerns right now, hold still.”

“Poppy-”

The sentence is cut short by a low grunt, followed by metal rattling.

“They’re being held in your quarters, you exasperating man.” another rattle, “My scans can’t identify much, how do you feel?”

“In pain.”

“For a person in pain, you sound too calm about it.”

“You prefer I wail like a Hufflepuff first year getting scraped at the knees?”

“Severus, that…thing is cursed, and impaled a vital organ of yours.”

“And Narcissa pulled it out.”

“That woman,” Madame Pomfrey takes in a deep breath, “sees me incompetent to do my job as a healer and insisted, your bleeding only reduced with your enhanced Blood Replenisher.” she says, snapping at the last sentence.

Snape’s snort is immediately followed by a pained hiss “How long?”

“Two and a half hours ago, large flask, along with painkillers.”

Snape’s already strained breathing seems to be dulling even more.


“Oh.”


“Oh?”

“It’s nothing, apologies.

Harry releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding at the sight of a large silver phoenix gliding gracefully towards where the conversation is.

“Albus is asking for me,” Madame Pomfrey steps out into view, Harry hurries to curl back up into the sheets. “Go back to sleep, Severus.”

“Tell him–”

“Go to sleep young man,” the matron stops mid-stride, snapping her head back at the unsteady voice, “Don’t even think of sitting up.”

“As you wish, mother,” he draws.

The older woman sniffed, and resumes taking wide steps towards the exit.

Harry silently waits until the clicking boots outside the hospital wing until he can only hear Snape’s shallow breathing. He sits up and puts his Glasses on, after taking a moment to gather his Gryffindor courage, he slips into the fluffy slippers at the side of his bed and tip-toed towards the cyan partition across the dim-lit hospital wing.

“Perhaps the thought of Gryffindors attempting stealth at the presence of a spy might be futile did not pass through your brain, Mister Potter.”

Harry jolts at the worn-out voice, then with an audible gulp, he stops at the side of the nightstand next to the professor’s screened bed.

“Sir…I…uh.”

“Eloquent as ever Potter,” Snape glares through the gap of the fabrics, though it lacks the heat that’s it’s usually associated with, “what do I owe the displeasure?”

“I just want to thank you, professor, for yesterday.”

Snape goes still behind the screen.

“I’m either past delirium or in the depths of inferno.” the man ripostes “I do not require— nor appreciate your gratitude.”

Harry ponders if he should dare himself to move the partition aside or keep his face out of the man’s sight, though his inner debate is cut short by another groan.

“Sir, are you–, should I get Madame Pomfrey?”

“No Potter, you shall not disrupt them, and I can handle myself.”

Snape shifts behind the screen, yet judging by the irregular breathing Harry highly doubts the man’s words. There was an awkward pause between them after that.

“Unscathed?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You, Potter, Is your body intact.”

“Err, just a headache?”

Suddenly the screen is roughly pushed aside and a pale hand yanks Harry in, the onyx eyes stare straight into his, as the boy feels something prodding his brain. Snape lets his arm free, his body immediately went slack against the headboard, like he just finished running across the quidditch field. It came into full view that Harry realise Madame Pomfrey wasn’t exaggerating about the blood, Snape’s viciously shivering hand is pressing on top of a darkened spot of the blanket, his already pale complexion now looks translucent, bloodless lips slightly open at the occasional wheeze, the intense gaze that has been solely directed at him for the past four years is hazed and unfocused.

“Get me quill and parchment.”

“Sir,” Harry’s eyes linger on the shaking hand, “maybe I should write for you.”

Snape rolls his head back towards him and stares him down for moments like he is some kind of unsolved mystery.

“Very well, if you are capable.”


The professor proceeds to recite a whole list of potion ingredients along with brewing procedures, Harry pauses his frantic note-taking, can’t help but send worried glances each time Snape stops to catch his breath. He doesn’t care how hard he’s pressing the tip of the quill onto the parchment it’s scraping the tissue off, but only to make sure he’s writing a perfect transcript of Snape’s progressively slurred instructions.

After a long pause, and by then Harry almost thought the Professor passed out from it, the man Accio-ed the notes wordlessly into his hand, painstakingly tearing it into two parts, quill clenched in his now slightly stable hand, he scribbles something at the very corner of the smaller severed sheet.

“Have Poppy brew this for you, drink it every several hours until that head of yours ceases throbbing.” he hands the larger piece over.

“This,” Snape raises the now-folded smaller portion of parchment, “is for Lucius Malfoy in my quarters, do it discreetly, use that blasted cloak of yours if you will, the password is ‘Asphodel’ It’s urgent for both of you.”

“Yes sir.” Harry stumbles off, almost knocking the inkwell over the nightstand, but just before he steps out of the hospital wing…

“What now?” Snape hisses at the returning figure.

“Sir, just–... you knew my mum?”

Something indecipherable flashes across Snape’s eyes, though it disappears as quickly as it happened, his gaze seems to become more focused, and his lips press into a thin line, he turns his head over, back now facing the boy


“Yes.”


“Can you, tell me….”

“Merlin’s sake Potter what part of ‘urgent’ do you not understand!” Snape snaps up.

Harry does not move a step, determined to stare back at the man.

Snape lets out a deep sigh, head dropping back onto the pillow, his hand slightly relaxed above the darkened spot.

“May my demise come sooner than the time to fulfill whatever pits of curiosity you have in that head.”

“It won’t sir!” Harry bursts out of the dim-lit room and dashes towards the dungeons, missing the muffled “Insolent boy.”

---

Draco Malfoy is in a bad mood.

For one, he and his parents are now confined within the spaces of Severus’ quarters and monitored by people from whatever poultry group the senile old man founded.

Two, his worldview is flipped over in a matter of hours, from seeing his father’s haggard appearance when he steps into the Malfoy library at mother’s call, to the man arguing with Dumbledore about protection, and then Severus crashing in through the window with Potter, of all people, in his arms.


Blood, a lot of blood.


From the moment he can walk, Draco, the sole heir of Lucius Malfoy is taught to be an upstanding member of the elite; etiquette, academics, politics, and most importantly, “We Malfoys are purebloods, we do not allow ourselves to be tainted by those who are treacherous to the blood of our ancestors. We uphold our traditions and what is right.” is drilled firmly into his head

Oh, and “Dragon, turning the heat up or stirring faster would not hasten the brewing process.”

Yes, the Dark is where he belongs, the common goal of true Slytherins, they make their way up the ladder to achieve their destiny, to spread what is right, to make sure magic stays alive, and keep the Wixen safe from outside threats, the Dark Lord makes sure of it.

Yet sometimes, he can’t help but question why the china is shaking in father’s gloved hand at the table before he went to the ministry, the Dark Lord’s name spoken with fear, instead of admiration and reverence. Severus limped back to his office after curfew before summer, in that cloak.

“The Dark Lord has returned.” He told him over dinner at the manor one night, the first dinner in his memory where the adults didn’t bring out the champagne.

Draco is aware his parent’s picked a half-blood as a Malfoy’s godfather, not that he cares in that regard, “Malfoys only acquaint themselves with those who share their intellect, ambition, and benefits.” He remembers staying at Severus’ place in Cokeworth when his parents went abroad for business, the embodiment of “filthy and depressing”, but he doesn’t mind either, it was one of his fondest childhood memory, especially the part when his parents came to pick him and kept insisting to give the man their summer cottage until he straight up slammed the front door at his father’s face.

Being dismissed in such a manner, especially by a half-blood is humiliating, not that they cared though, “Old friend here is merely being his stubborn self.” His father smirked as they apparated away.

Worthy enough to be referred to as a friend by a Malfoy is an honor, he is an equal.

So why, the two men he looks up to the most, one begging asking a favor from their supposed enemy, and the other risking his life to protect his future master’s sworn nemesis, and more importantly, the golden boy the which man-made no qualms to show he hated?


Do I even want to wear that cloak? That cowardly whisper at the back of his head asks.


Draco puts down the mug, there’s no use warming it just to let it cool again. He walks towards the ebony bookshelves opposite the couch and lets his fingers roam freely across the worn spines across the leather-bound tomes. Unsurprisingly, the books are about potions and spell-crafting, along with a couple of theatre collections, the same ones his mother used to read to him before bed.

At the corner of his eye, a varnished wooden container the size of a shoebox catches his attention, the glossy surface stands out like a luminescent pearl in a sea of books. Much to his shame, curiosity gets the better of him, I’m bored and no harm will be done. He carefully takes the lid off, there’s the Potions Mastery certificate, the shiny badge from the International Potions Guild, pieces of parchment with two rows of handwritings divided by the printed texts in the middle, a vault key which his parents gave him but to their knowledge was never used, and–


“Merlin.”


He picks up a palm-sized hand-crafted book of some sorts, its cover made with pine green-dyed leather, with loose wax threads poking out from the badly done binds, on the cover is a hand-drawn Malfoy coat of arms with charmed silver paint, a couple drops of stray paint across the border, slightly shaky handwriting at the bottom, similar to a child who hasn’t gotten used to using a quill.

Draco flips it over, and is greeted by a family photo they took when he was three years old, charmed to stick on the loosened piece of parchment, his younger self in a white suit with leather straps at the sides along with shiny black boots, sitting on his mother’s lap and smiling at the camera, occasionally back to the woman.

She was in her old Forest green jeweled gown, the silk and silver damask ends elegantly brushed at the side while she sat on the dark ornate chair, her hair was longer back then, black and golden stands draped over the shoulder reaching her waist, surrounding the Lady Malfoy’s golden necklace; shaped like an upsidedown crown, inlaid with sapphires and emeralds, with a large diamond at the center. She smiles with an air of grace and unrivaled beauty, like a greek goddess, hands moving between cooing the boy and pointing at the camera.

His father, resting his right hand at the curve at the back of the chair, stood behind his mother. The man’s smile radiated confidence and superiority, the man's broad figure in Slytherin green coat and a light grey vest, deep blue cravat neatly tied at the collar. His left hand holding the snake-head cane, wearing the Malfoy ring, which was shining under the light he’s facing. He suddenly turned his attention towards the toddler in the photograph and chuckled silently.

Severus stood at the left side of the Malfoys, a gap in between. His usual black buttoned jacket tightly wrapped around his slim but sharp figure, the white shirt slightly poking out from the black collar, arms behind his back as he stood like a soldier. His hair was relatively silky, probably washed the fumes off as rigorously as he could before the photoshoot. Black locks tied to the back with a small tail, his face was tensed, and barely any life in the eyes, but there was a small tug at his lips. He also looked younger in Severus’ standards, less gaunt to be exact and appear to be in his own age, instead of looking like a man in his 50s when he’s only 36.

Father smiled and said something, which his godfather inched a bit closer to the older man, and three year old him must have made some comment, it made his godfather smile more relaxed.

Draco continues to flip the pages, more photos from balls, celebrations, and birthday parties, at the very end of the crafted album, is a very rough drawing of himself and Severus brewing in a lab, the black robes he drew was glossy due to repeated strokes of wax crayons.

“To Bestest Godfather and friend, We wish you a Happy Birthday.” is written below the illustration, and at the backside of the cover is the glowing signatures of himself and his parents, along with the wax seal with the Malfoys’ coat of arms stamped at the corner, like it was supposed to be some important official document.


The dust in the private quarters is making his eyes sting a little.


There’s a sudden creak at the door, and Draco immediately jolts up, bemoaning at the absence of his wand, he picks up the fireplace poker, ready to throw at whoever intrudes the space.

Well, nothing…wait, someone came through the door.

“Potter?” he whispers, not willing to alert the others of the new presence.

“How did you know it was me?” That provoking face comes into view as he drops the magic imbued fabric of some kind.

“Your hospital slippers and lack of stealth.”

Good, at least the idiot looks embarrassed.

“Come to gloat?”

“Snape told me to give your father this.” Potter hands over a folded wrinkled piece of parchment.

“And why should I trust you?”

“Oh I don’t know, maybe because ‘Merlin’s sake Potter what part of ‘urgent’ do you not understand!’” He crosses his arms in front of his chest, brows furrowed creating a rather uncannily good impression.


Draco did not almost smile at that.


“Fine.” He pinches the note and snatches it away.

A quick look at the parchment there's the shaky handwriting at the torn corner:


#

Lucius,

The headmaster is the wind, and Irene Hunt was right about it.

#


He pumps past Potter and into the private lab where his mother is. As his father is still being interrogated since four hours ago in the bedroom.

His mother takes one glance at the note and gives him a sad smile, “I’ll work on it dragon.” and promptly ushers him out of the cramped lab, closing the door behind.

“Cool gift you made here, Malfoy.” Damn Potter smirks at him, leering over the album, which makes Draco snatch it away from the table, holding it in his arms.

“Oi! Have you no decency you prat, it’s private!” he hisses.

“And you just put in wide open on the table where everyone can see, ferret face.”

Gods, I can’t punch him with Aurors next door.

“Have fun with your father then.” Potter turns drapes the cloak of his head, disappearing into view.

“Wait.”

The still visible white slipper turns back on its heels.

“How is the professor?”

“I don’t know.”

“How the bloody hell do you not know!”

“I don’t fucking know! No one ever tells me fucking anything!”

“How vulgar Potter, help me give him a message.”

“Oh, and why should I do that?”

“HE’S DYING BECAUSE OF YOU!”


That sentence rings in his ears, somehow his parents and the others don’t seem to care what’s happening outside.


The dust is everywhere.


“Fine.” Potter says, voice slightly wavered, Draco immediately summons a piece of paper from the notepad at the desk, in which Harry slides his hand out and reach towards the album again.

“Circe, NO! It’s his stuff, and private!” he bites out each syllable.

“Good luck with that then.” Potter replies, and makes his way towards the installing wall.

“Ugh! Just stay till I am done with it!”


Severus will murder me.


Potter seems to have caught his thoughts, and snorts, then starts to flip through the album with only his arms visible, much to Draco’s distaste.

Whatever Irene Hunt is about, she is most certainly be correct about Potter too.

It’s almost the end of the week, and for the hundredth time, Minerva tries to pick up the quill and write her future lesson plans to no avail, the 4-foot-long parchment still painfully blank, its edges wrinkled between her fingers. The metal tip of the Deputy Headmistress’s favorite deep red quill almost stabbed into her palm, but she can’t put her mind to it, even as the pitch-black liquid continues to trail down towards her already stained sleeve.

Fed up to the back teeth of her lack of productivity, she hastily toss the tartan blanket across her shoulders onto the bed. She slowly massages her temples, attempting to ease her turbulent thoughts. After days of nerve-wracking waits, and pacing along the empty Hogwarts Halls, she feels her age is finally catching up. Oh, make no mistake, she can still death-stare students into paying attention, and make sure Albus Dumbledore’s ears ring for days. But things are wearing the woman down more than she’d like to admit. Yes, the headmaster did insist on You-Know-Who’s return even before the actual return, but her heart didn’t lurch as much before Potter’s rescue.

Minerva walks over to the cabinet next to the scrolls and pulls out the half-filled crystal decanter along with a rock glass. Pouring herself a good cup of Scotch instead of using her wand, she savors the increasing coolness at her palms as the amber liquid glints like the horizon at sunrise. She can’t help but let out a satisfied sigh at the spicy finish, appreciating the mild taste of citrus rolling on her tongue.

Looking at the shimmering surface, the woman recalls the day she receives this bottle, and the same dream she has in brief moments of deep sleep — it was a snowy night, she was reading a book next to the hearth in the small cottage in Hogsmeade, Elphin setting down a tray at the coffee table, “Prove it to me, Scot.” he said, his nose up despite sitting on the carpet next to her chair. Minerva McGonagall, the Hogwarts head girl, the talented transfiguration student, one of the best in Gryffindor Quidditch team history, naturally starts downing the alcohol, ignoring the protest of her throat, and the reddened but horrified face of her husband at the 10th shot. At least he didn’t challenge her in that regard anymore. Ironically, she was only a social drinker back then, but soon she grew fond of the acquired taste, and the memories that came with it. Each anniversary, small and big accomplishments of her own family.


It was after decades when she re-acquired a drinking partner, after the first one can no longer babble drunken words of love to her.


Minerva puts down the glass and stares into the unlit fireplace, there is slight anticipation in her mind, that the man would come through and pick up the other cup and continue the weekly bickering that came to a halt when summer approached.

Oh, the shame! Getting hazy after one pint! She takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes.

She stares into the half-charred logs, and with some careful consideration, she transfiguration the bottles and cups into pieces of folded parchment with a swish of the wand, swiftly lighting up the fire as well.

“Hogwarts Infirmary, Poppy’s office!” she throws the powder and steps into the green flames, stuffing the parchment into her pocket.


The aromatic smell of dittany and something sour hit her nose as soon as she steps into the dim-lit area. The usually occupied chair is empty, with documents on the desk uncharacteristically neatly sorted. She gently pushes the wooden door open and heads toward the screened bed, but a cold voice almost sends her back behind the wooden frame.


“I could just finish you. Right here.”

“Indeed”


Minerva raises her wand, barely stopping herself from dashing into the scene.


“I trusted you, they both trusted you.” Narcissa Malfoy says, icicles threatening to pierce through the man. “I don’t care if you save the boy or not, but what about us? What about Draco?”

“You are safe here.”

“No, we’re not!” She hisses “Draco will never be! If they caught wind of Lucius, they will have his life! Our lives! And now that– bastard wants something from us, what will that do to our son?”

“Then hide.”

“Unlike you, Malfoys do not run away.” There was a sudden draw-in of breath from both women. “You and that muggle-lover are well aware how a life debt works, what would Draco think when his own godfather’s rash decisions lead his life to ruin?”

“You rather have the Dark lord ask for your son?”


There is a pregnant pause in the air.


Outside the screen, Minerva lowers her wand, transforming into the feline form she’s always proud of, biting the parchment, she silently treks and walks closer, stopping under the bed next to the partition. Looking up from the gaps, she sees the manicured fingers clutching the stained calloused hand, shaking slightly.

Suddenly a low buzzing sound rings in her ears, she raises her paw to scratch them, Silencing charm. So the cat edged closer until she is in the bubble.


“J'ai un chalet en Ploumoguer, personne ne le sait.” the deep raspy voice breaks the silence.


Minerva inwardly chastises herself for not taking up the french class and acting like a gossiping teenager.


Narcissa scoffs “Et alors ? Nous en avons plus d'un avec le charme de Fidelus dessus, ils peuvent toujours nous trouver d'une manière ou d'une autre.” her well-controlled voice wavers at the end.

“Il y a une île à quelques kilomètres de la côte, mais elle n'apparaît sur aucune carte ni aucun signal de localisation.” he retracts his hand suddenly, and his body jolts, Narcissa immediately stands to check, but sits back down at the gesture.

“Comment ?” She replies dejectedly.

“Une incitation, et vieille magie.”

“De qui?”

“Un de mes associés, fais-moi confiance sur ce point, Narcissa.”


The buzzing becomes so loud in their silence that Minerva has to curl up and bury into her legs to protect her eardrums.


“...What about you?”

“I can handle myself, Cissy.” He lets out a short chuckle, and immediately grunts in pain.

“You have no right to call me that after all this, Sev.”

“How are they?”

“Lucius is…on edge, and Draco ambivalent, he’s worried for you.”

“Je négocierai avec Dumbledore, s'il ne bouge pas, le badge d'argent dans la boîte en cèdre sur mon étagère, à côté du cintre.”

“The access?”

“Accordé à vous et à Lucius.”

“How long have you planned this?”

“The very beginning.”


The cat slightly pokes out from below the bed, she sees something indecipherable in the eyes of the usually stoic Malfoy.


“Time’s up.” Nymphadora’s boots click loudly against the stone floor as the buzzing stops.

“Take care, Severus.”


The wait for her two ex-students to be out of that door feels like an eternity, and the soaked parchment in her mouth is starting to feel unpleasant, she carefully walks out of the shadow, and silently jumps onto the nightstand next to the hidden bed, and almost falling off when she’s met with a glowing wand tip.

Severus, through his hazy eyes, stares intently into slitted pupils, his brows slightly creases in confusion, or fighting exhaustion.


“Why is a cat in the infirmary…”


Minerva is slightly perplexed that the observant man fails to notice the unique lines of fur that resembles her glasses.

Her colleague, with much effort, shifts his body and frees out a little gap, lifting the slightly blood-stained blankets as he winces at the movement “Come here.” Severus says, in the softest tone that the woman can never fathom to be out of the man’s mouth, despite all the questions that she has in her head, she gracefully lands on the mattress.

“Where do you come from?” Minerva rests her head at the edge of the pillow, the smell of alcohol attacking the cat’s nose.

“Has Poppy been keeping you?”Severus asks, looking at the cat next to him, he wasn’t aware that the matron has been keeping a pet in the school, let alone allowing one into the infirmary. He hesitantly raises his hand to brush the grey and black fur, but he feels the cat shivering against the touch.


The cat looks at him, tilting its head to the side like it’s looking at a puzzle.


“Are you cold?” Once again he gently pats the back of the cat, they will always be an enigma to the spy, cats are unpredictable, elegant, mysterious, and sometimes perceptive. And when they look at you it feels like being in that special chair within the Ministry’s courtroom. Severus Snape will never admit he’s fond of animals, outside of respect towards those that provide ingredients, but there’s always this part of himself whose heart twinges in grief when he sees one, buried deep within.

The cat leans towards his arm, purring, its tail brushing curling around his wrist, seemingly cajoling him to come closer to be encompassed by his body warmth, in which Severus Snape of all people does just that. He feels somewhat honored to be the fireplace of some cat, against his better judgment in his fatigue.

“It’ll be better.” Severus breathes, palm remaining on top of the fuzzy fur, and closes his eyes.

Minerva silently looks at the resting colleague’s peaceful, but pained expression, his breath has evened out, yet cold sweat still glistening on his face. There are times after meetings with You-Know-Who before this mess, where she sits in the infirmary with him as Poppy fuss over the man for not taking better care of himself, and they both argue about who’s quidditch team will come out on top next year.


“What the students in my house achieve is no concern of mine as long as they behave, and not steal anything from my storage, unlike certain lions.” he gave her a pointed look.


She never misses the fondness that makes its way through the two empty voids at the topic of Slytherins though.

Her attention jumps back to Severus immediately at the small noise he makes, his eyes rolling frantically under his eyelids, and his chest rises and falling frantically. The cat spats the half-melted parchment onto the floor before leaning in closer to the pillow, and curling up against the man’s face.

She only hopes he can feel some comfort from whatever nightmare that haunts him.

She shivers again and snuggles even closer against the body, hoping to provide some heat.


So, so cold.

---

Severus hears two familiar voices chatting outside the screen as he becomes more aware of the surroundings. A quick look across the framed ceiling, he relaxes the occlumency shields, recognizing he is true, safe.


“Poppy?”


Quick steps come closer from the corner of the room, and the matron’s red dress comes into view, parting the blue partition.

“Good to see you awake Severus,” She wastes no time scanning across his body with her wand, parchment rolling out by her side, “how are you feeling?”

Severus hesitates, “Surprisingly well?”

No way is Poppy Pomfrey believing it.

“Less pain at the abdomen.” He hastily adds.

“And exactly how much is your ‘less’ Severus?”

Minerva, who steps in at his right, smirks at him.

Poppy lets out an exasperated sigh and looks at the parchment, “Well, the bleeding stopped, however since there’s already at least 5 large doses of blood replenisher in your system, I can’t give you more painkillers nor internal repairers.” she drags out the last word, “Your energy is still depleted, but it should return to normal levels once the replenisher finishes its job, it’ll take quite the amount of time for the inner wounds to mend itself, it will be painful.”

“I will be fine Poppy, what about-”

“I’ve brewed the potion with Albus’ help for Mr. Potter already, though I must ask, what type of antidote is that?”

“Antidote?” Minerva chimed in.

Severus takes a moment to formulate the best answer, “The Dark Lord used a Grade X potion on him, least to say, it was banned decades ago, and my formula is crafted under an hour, I am certain it stops the poison, but there is no guarantee for possible side-effects.”

“He only has minor headaches for now.”

“I didn’t think Albus can brew as proficient as you Poppy.” the Deputy playfully elbows her friend.

“Rest assured Minnie, a man who has a whole stash of sugary lemon drops will never beat me in brewing medicine,” Poppy scoffs, “he was there for the alchemy.”

“Combine and transmute, Golpalott’s third law.” Severus answers the query in Minerva’s eyes.

“Do you need it then?” Minerva’s gaze tenses upon the bandages around the man’s waist.

“It would not have worked for me nor do I need it.” Well, it’s not a complete lie, but necessary. “Give the boy a stronger energy replenisher, have Albus check him through Legilimency more thoroughly, when did he start drinking it?”

“Evening on the day before yesterday.”

“I gave him the recipe yesterday night,” Severus states, confused.

“I had spelled you to sleep for an entire day, just to make sure your body is stable enough to take more potions.”

Minerva looks away, finding the view beyond the infirmary windows interesting.

“What time is it?”

“Half-past three in the afternoon.”

“Check on the boy immediately, the antidote itself consists of volatile ingredients and allergens.”

Poppy nods and turns to leave, “Minerva, order some soup and watch him eat it, and make sure he rests properly, you still owe me your draughts and chocolates, Severus Snape .” she shouts across the infirmary just as she walks out of the door.

“Yes, Poppy.” Minerva shouts, who doesn’t even bother to hold back the mirth in her eyes, in which Severus scowls in response.

“Mipsy.”

“Mistress!” An elf with large blue eyes in the Hogwarts elf uniform pops right next to Minerva, large ears flapping, shrieking in joy at the summon, which Severus grimaces at the volume.

“Get us some soup if you would please.”

The elf disappears in the blink of an eye, popping back with two bowls of steaming soup on the nightstand, and pops out again.

The man slowly sits up, bracing the pain barely holding back a hiss.

“Careful Severus.” Minerva gently pushes him back against the headboard and lifts the bowl and spoon towards him once he’s settled.

“As much as you wish it, Minerva, I’m still fully capable of feeding myself.” He drawls.

She put the bowl onto the younger professor’s hands, ignoring how it is shaking.

“Well,” pulling a damp parchment out of her green robes, Minerva continues to smirk, “I have a nice beverage with me, though it will do no good to your recovery, I must apologize for your lack of luck in this regard young man.” She transfigures them back to the set next to the other bowl and pours herself a cup of scotch.

“Touché.” Severus bites out, glaring at his colleague as the woman swings the scotch-filled glass in front of him. They both take a sip from their drink.

“Are you sure you don’t want a taste?”

“Unlike you Minerva, Slytherins have a sense of self-preservation, I have no desire to face the ire of Poppy Pomfrey.”

“You’re missing out on the good stuff then.”

Severus ignores her amused voice, gripping the injured side as he swallows, grimaces as he almost dropped the bowl at the stabbing pain.

Minerva silently waits for the stubborn trying to recompose himself, while pretending to busy herself with the liquor.

“If it weren’t that glare of yours, I would have stunned you for your worries about Mr. Potter’s state of health.”

Severus chokes at that, and the damaged muscles spasmed at his sudden movement.

“Potter,” He slowly places the bowl back onto the nightstand, “is not my concern.”

The Gryffindor hums, lips involuntarily lifting at the man’s growl.

“I was doing what I was ordered to.”

“I am not disputing that.”

They stay in the companionable silence for a moment.


“There’s a cat in the infirmary.”


Thankfully Severus isn’t able to pierce through the animagus’ concealed panic.


“No?” Minerva takes a long sip from the rock glass, Poppy would not risk animals into the infirmary, let alone one that can cause allergic reactions.”

Severus makes a noncommittal sound.

“You were dreaming, perhaps.”

“Why would I be dreaming of a cat?” Severus asks incredulously.

“Memories, visions. Or perhaps Sybill’s droning finally got to your subconsciousness.”

Severus makes a face at the mention of the divination professor. “Sybill did predict dreaming of the dead when she saw my cup at the leaving feast.”

“Feeling Macabre today are you, Severus,” she puts the empty cup down next to the half-finished bowl, “Same for me.”

“Oh? You and ‘the most imprecise branch of magic’?”


“I drank with Elphin last night.” Minerva’s gaze settles on a line of glass refracted light.


Diving into some of his memories, Severus vaguely recalls a conversation about the older professor’s early days in teaching and subsequent marriage.

“My apologies.”

Minerva waves it away, “Be honest Severus,” she pulls the stool closer, “I can tell you are hiding something, what did he do to you?”

“Other than the usual, a spell to my side.” Severus replies, his half-opened eyes hardening in frustration. “If you are afraid to lose 20 galleons for the cup this year, now is the perfect chance to surrender.”

“Pish posh.” She crosses her arms in front of her chest, “I am offended that you think so lowly of me good sir, a true Gryffindor never backs down. My lions shall topple your snakes this year.”

Severus’ smugness on his face is suddenly killed by the radiating pain, “You should go… back to work…” he grits out, doing his best to not bend over.

“So eager for me to leave, I’m wounded.” Minerva summons another pillow, sliding it under as she gently pushes the man back down, “I shall leave once I’ve stunned you.”

“Minerva-”

“No, Severus. I’ve seen you like this more times than I’d like to admit.” She pins her hand down at the man’s shoulder. “And we haven’t talked like this since… his revival.”

Knowing the insufferable woman is not going to leave anytime soon, he buries his head into the pillow, eyes closed, anticipating whatever question she’s going to bomb him.

“Stubborn man, is it such a hard blow to your ego to admit you need help?”

“If you’re here just to mock me,” Severus glares, or he tries to, “you may take your leave.”

Minerva harrumphs, crossing her arms up to her chest, and faces the other way, a little longer than intended.

Severus' breath suddenly picks up its pace, as the older woman picks it up in her ears she turns back to the man, cold sweat plastering all over the weakened form, and too tired to conceal his weakness.

“No!” He rasps, cutting off the incantation before she can summon the cat Patronus. “I am fine, I just— need some rest.”

Professor McGonagall, despite knowing how unreasonable the man is being, Minerva still settles back onto the chair. “As you should have moments ago, I might as well keep watch to make sure this isn’t some ploy of yours to slip back to the dungeons.”

“Ah, I have falsely presumed that the sternest witch in Hogwarts would be the most responsible in lesson plans.”

“No need to lecture me, young lad, I’ve finished them,” she lies.


No snarky retort, no glare either.


Minerva relaxes into the chair, looking at the man’s fluttering eyelids, he looks younger when there’s no scowl to mar his face. While he holds himself like a man in his 50s, she will never forget how Severus the many times where he calls her “Professor McGonagall” when he first returns to Hogwarts, and the fact he’s currently in his 30s, or as Pomona phrases it “An infant amongst the faculty”, out of his ears of course.


“Severus.”

The prone figure jolts awake, his black snaps back at her, like a student hearing his name being called as they’re about to doze off in class.

“You’re still here.” he whispers, surprised.

“Is my company that undesirable?”

The man frowns, and squints his eyes to focus, silently looking at her, after a moment he responds.


“No.”


“So, how was Sybill’s prediction?” a poor attempt to continue an ended conversation really, but Minerva’s heart is yearning for some accompany after months of unbearable silence, and she really should transfigure her scotch back.

Severus’ brows furrow, looking slightly confused, before returning to the usual blank expression.

“That does not concern you, why haven’t you met your demise with your insatiable curiosity?”

“Hmph, indulge me.”

The man shifts his gaze beyond the view of the infirmary window, beyond the horizon, beyond this world.


“I had a cat.”


Oh, Pomona is going to love this.

“Says the man who makes first years cry solely with his presence.”

“I found it when I was a mere imprudent brat,” he sighs, a hint of disgust at the mention of the younger child, as if describing one of the miscreants in class, “she was in a sewer pipe under a bridge, I somehow managed to gain its trust after a couple of night visits.”

It is hard to imagine the most formidable professor in Hogwarts as a boy who runs around with strays.

“We named her after you” Minerva’s eyes widen at that, “ after seeing your animagus form in the first year, she had a rectangular-shaped scar above her nose, we thought it looked like your spectacles.”

Minerva feels a little bit flattered by that. “We?”

Severus glared at her, but she has a rather accurate guess.

“What other little adventures did young Severus have with another me then?”

The man’s face remains emotionless at the tease, and continues, “She didn't last for long.”

“Strays have weaker immune systems.” Minerva hums.

He rolls his head to the other side, facing away, and clutches his side tighter.


“My father found out about it.”


The air is suffocating, and the birds chirp incessantly under the scorching sun, the smell of alcohol punctures her nose.


“I failed all of them, Minerva.”


Severus' eyes are unfocused but pained, seemingly looking nowhere and everywhere at the same time.


The sun is shining awfully bright today.


Minerva leans forward, and pulls the covers up a bit more. She looks at the relaxed features of the man, and the bandaged side under the white covers.

“Rest well Severus, you deserved it.”

He is already back into blissful oblivion.

Minerva banishes the tray of soup away alongside the folded parchment, standing up to leave, she lets her eyes linger on her friend for a moment and breathes out. A tabby with a mouthful of parchment gracefully lands on the edge of the bed, and nudges its soft grey hair under the chin, paw feeling the slow pulse at the man’s chest, with a soft meow, it leaps onto the floor, keeping its footsteps quiet at she walks out of the infirmary through the thin gap at the wooden door.

---

“Hey, Professor.” Fred says

“Glad to have you join us here.” George bows dramatically.

Minerva looks at the Weasley twins as she stands next to the moved Fat lady’s portrait, lips pursed as they talk in turns like passing a ball, how much she wishes to be in her private quarters to finish her scotch right now. She subtly moves her hand towards the robe pocket, where the transfigured parchment is when she returns from her tabby form.

“Mr. Weasleys, I do hope you are not up to any mischief.” Minerva raises her chin and peers into the room, the younger Weasley is talking animatedly with Miss Granger in front of the fireplace, and Potter’s back facing them, probably with Poppy who is hidden by the door frame.

“Of course not–

“Dear Professor,”

“We are on our best behavior.” They both send her an innocent grin.

“See that you do.” The Deputy shakes her head and steps into the warmly lit area.

“Yes ma’am!” The twin salutes.

She gives a curt nod as she walks pasts Potter’s friends, and heads straight to where Poppy is fussing over her frequent patient.

“Minerva.” The Matron calls as she walks closer, Albus who was sitting next to Poppy gives her a genial smile, while Potter mutters his greetings.

“Professor McGonagall.”

“I see you are doing well Mr. Potter,” She pats the boy on the shoulder gently, “Glad to have you back with us.”

“I’m glad to be here as well professor.”

Oh, you brave, brave boy. Minerva can’t help but feel a surge of fondness and pride at her student’s calmness despite the recent predicament.

“As glad as you are, best to finish your potion, Mr. Potter.” Poppy takes her eyes off the parchment and looks intently at the boy.

The adults all chuckle at the face Potter made as he empties the small vial.

“As much as I’d like to continue our conversation, Harry, there is still business I need to tend to, let’s chat again tomorrow.” Albus says in his grandfatherly tone, “stay out of trouble children.”

A series of “Goodbye Professor Dumbledore.” rings across the room as Albus steps through the green flames, yet in the corner of her eyes, she sees the tense shoulders of the young Gryffindor visibly relax at the professor’s departure.

Curious. But she refrained from commenting.

“Any problems Poppy?”

“Mr. Potter here insists that he is feeling splendid,” The matron drags out the last word, and Potter nods his head vehemently while sending a pleading look at her. “However, your headache is quite persistent, as far as I’m concerned you aren’t allergic to any ingredients from that potion, but it’s better safe than sure, you need more rest.”

“Madame,” Potter throws his hands up lightly “I’ve been sleeping like a basilisk in hibernation, I’m alright. And I really just want to catch up with–”

“I alone shall decide if you are ‘alright’ or not Mr. Potter, healer’s orders.” Poppy points a finger at his forehead. “The antidote is completely unknown to us, and we can’t exactly determine what side effects it could have, I’d rather have you lying down than having whatever symptom while running around.”

“Yes, Madame.” The boy deflates, it took all of Minerva’s power to not smile at the familiar scene.

“Boys! Always so stubborn, you two are one of a kind.” Poppy scoffs, then pauses “How is he Minerva?”


Conversations in the room go completely still, as the rest of the occupants of the room not so subtly anticipate her answer.


Minerva breaks away from the healer’s eye contact, “Exhausted, but his usual self.”

“He’ll pull it through, Minnie.” The matron replies in a hushed tone and squeezes her arm comfortingly. “Time for you to head to bed, Mr. Potter.” with that, she took her kit and left the common room.

“Well, Mr. Potter you heard Madame Pomfrey, best not to earn her displeasure.” Minerva jerks her head towards the stairway.

Potter lets out a deep sigh and carry’s the rack of vials and a charmed ice bag with him in one arm as the others waves later at him, he halts before going through the red arch.

“Professor, do you mind if I ask you something…privately?”

Minerva dips her chin and looks at the boy through her gold spectacles, assessing.

“Very well.” She ignores the curious looks from behind, “but you will rest after this.”

Potter rolls his eyes and starts to walk up the stairs, Minerva will let it slide this time.

When they arrive at his dorm room, Minerva feels a pang of nostalgia course through her mind, the four-poster beds, the red carpet with the golden Gryffindor insignia proudly embroidered on it, rays of sunlight streaming through the gaps of scarlet curtains. Between two beds are two trunks, one with frayed lines and rust at the metal hinges, the other with an outwardly bent leather surface, a large “W” sewn on top. Parchment and clothes lay all across the sheets, along with some Chocolate frog cards on one of the beds.

She doesn’t remember when was the last time she stepped into the Gryffindor dorm room. Between her duties as a Transfiguration professor and the Deputy Headmistress, she barely, no, there’s no time for her to check up on her lions other than sorting out disputes, and maybe announcements in the common room.

Her gaze sweeps across the room and sees charmed lights suspended at the ceiling, a roommate's work? Has this always been in the rooms? She has never stayed long enough to see what has children in her house have been up to in the rooms, despite being the head of house.

“Erm…Professor?” Potter’s voice breaks through her thoughts.

Minerva remembers to pull her face into a frown, “Perhaps, Mr. Potter, I should start taking points seeing how…unkempt you and Mr. Weasley’s room is.”

A shade of pink rises to Potter’s cheek, “Sorry professor,” He moves and stacks the mess away, “Ron and I were just trying to make sure my relatives didn’t throw anything away from my trunk.”


Oh, those muggles.


“I assume Remus collected your luggage for your then.”

“Yeah… I mean yes ma’am.” Potter corrects quickly.

Minerva gives the boy a pointed look at the odd behavior, before settling down next to the boy, “What is it you’d like to inquire?”

She watches the boy wriggle his hands as he tries to formulate his question. Her gaze softens at the familiar gesture of a certain Slytherin boy from the past.

“You taught my parents along with Sirius and Remus, right?”

“Indeed, the boys were always in trouble, but your mother, Lily was always there to ground them. I’d say they are all good in transfiguration, and I think you might have carried their talent.”

Potter, Harry blushes at the rare compliment, before his eyes refilled with curiosity.


“Professor, did you teach Sna— Professor Snape too?”


Minerva must have let her surprise show, because something in Harry’s eyes lit up.


“Yes, he was also my student back then.” she replies, “what prompted you to ask about the professor?”

“Well...I um, thought he is only a bit younger than you, but then Remus said they were in the same year.”

“Stress makes people age faster, if you have to instruct your dorm mates to write a 3 foot-long essay daily, it will do a number on you.” She replies, with feigned annoyance.

“Right,” Harry has the decency to look sheepish at that “Do you know if he knew my mum?”

Minerva takes a moment to consider what Severus would say, as the green eyes of the son of Lily Potter look expectantly at her.

“Yes. He does”


“Were they really friends?”


If Severus is next to her right now, no doubt he would: one, hex her for divulging about his schoolboy days; two, say “be careful where you are treading into”; three, cloak billowing as he makes his way out of the Gryffindor dorms.

Green eyes are begging for an answer.


“I am hoping to apologize to her, professor.”

“Give her some space for now Mr. Snape, and come back tomorrow.”

“I failed all of them Minerva”


“...Yes, Harry.” She takes a deep breath, conceding, “They were.”

Harry’s face visibly lightens but is instantly replaced with unspoken sadness, his back hunched, and his expression agitated.

“But then…why…”

“Yes?” Minerva nods in encouragement.


“Why does he hate me so much?”


What could she possibly say to that? Seeing the hurt in the boy’s face gives her an urge to wrangle the nonsense out of Severus Snape, Poppy’s patient or not. The hate between them is illogical, and by gods did Severus not notice the familiar too thin frame of the young boy in front of her?

“Believe me, Harry,” she stresses, “I have brought that up more times than necessary to him, but I think we both know you did nothing wrong, and he’s just being, as most of your peers would say, a stubborn git.”

Harry chuckles at the name, and Minerva inwardly relaxed at the reaction.

“However, I don’t think he actually hates you.”

The boy immediately chokes at the statement, “No way professor, him hating me is a well-known fact amongst all of us.


Severus Snape shall live to rue what he did to her lions.


“I understand where you are coming from Harry, but trust me in this,” she pauses, and considers for a brief second how to continue, “he simply projects the hate onto you, but he does not detest you, Harry. If he hates you that much, he surely wouldn’t have taken you out of You-Know-Who’s grasp.”

“Projecting?”

“I shan’t reveal much of it, all I can say is, you remind him of something unpleasant,” she stops, and adds “and something he regrets.”

Harry looks away from her, seemingly in deep thought.

“For example, if you have to see Mr. Malfoy’s son…”

She smiles at the barely concealed horror on the boy’s face, “Yeah, though, he’s not Malfoy.”

The son of James Potter and Lily Evans never ceases to make her proud.

“Don’t worry Mr. Potter,” Minerva slowly stands up from the bed, smoothing the creases on her dress, “I’ll talk some sense into Professor Snape, he remembers who gave him detentions all those years ago after all.”

He nods, snickering.

“Rest well and recover soon, we still need our seeker for the Gryffindor quidditch team afterall.” With that, she shuts the door with a click, and walks down to the floo, bidding farewell to the other Gryffindors.

By the time she is back into her private quarters, the sky has already turned into a deep shade of orange, the blank parchment is still sitting silently at her desk, but she couldn’t care less about it, she sets the tray of scotch back into the cabinet, before transforming into the Tabby cat, jumping onto the bed and curl up against the tartan blanket.

Hexing Severus and lesson plans can wait, but for now, she only wishes to rest, and perhaps another dream, back into the cottage in Hogsmeade, sharing a pint of scotch with Elphin in front of the hearth in the middle of a snowy night.

Cool air blows across the starless night in the Scottish highlands. Hogwarts, unlike any other year, is occupied by a few students and outsiders for the summer. Despite the warm lights shining through the tall windows from the great hall, never has the children under floating candles and abundance of stars at the enchanted ceiling been this mute, silence chokes them like a cobra strangling its prey, they eat their meal stiffly, preventing any of clattering from the silver utensils.

“Mate…hey.” Ron waves his fork in front of Harry, “you good?”

“I’ll get Poppy for a checkup.” Remus leaves his barely eaten meal and stands up abruptly, wooden bench scraping against the stone floor. Padfoot, who is resting next to the man’s legs immediately attends to Harry’s side, eyes wide in alert, its hackles raised.

“Ah no, Remus I was just lost in thought!” Harry holds on to the man’s threadbare sleeve, “really, it’s just…a lot happened, you know?” He squeezes a tight smile to appease the skeptical look upon the scarred face.

Remus waves his wand along Harry’s scar, then down to the newly healed bruises, finally ending at the long faint line at his arm that was cut open to resurrect a monster. The tip of his cypress wand glows a comforting deep sea blue, convincing the man to sit down, and ruffles the boy’s raven hair.

“Sorry Harry, I guess you’re right.” The scars on the man’s face warp a little at the warm smile, “I’m just — we’ve been worried.”, the harsh line bordering the recovered skin creases like a valley, and there's a suspicious gleam at the corner of his eyes.

“I’m fine!” Harry says brusquely, with barely suppressed frustration, “Really, I just need some time.” he smiles around the gut coiling guilt, but he really can’t handle it when he feels all the sympathetic looks directed at him plastered onto everyone's faces. “I…I’ll just head to bed early.” He throws them an apologetic smile and walks toward the door as calmly as he could.

“Oh Harry–” Mrs. Weasley, pushing her plate aside, stands up and opens her arms, ready to pull the boy into a crushing embrace, yet her face falls when Harry evades her, as well as the fearful expression on his face. “Not now.” he blurts out, before rushing past the Matriarch, bolting out of the great hall.

“Let him be Molly, he needs the space.” Harry hears the whisper before the wooden door shuts, he can’t help but tug his oversized jacket close to his cold sweating body, hoping to evade Cedric’s vacant eyes that had been following him at the empty Hufflepuff table.

He can feel dozens of blades clawing at his arm, Voldermort’s sharp nail stabbing his scar, the merciless scythe of the angel of death choking him. It’s choking him, choking as hard as it can, and he can’t breathe, his airways blocked, He gags, cold stone tightening its hold around his neck, blood bursting and trickling all across his arm, he’s drowning, he’s sinking, he’s dying.



I’m dying. He claws at his own throat



Yet from the sea of overwhelming sensations, a gentle strum from his pocket calls him back to the shore like periodic sweeps of light from a lighthouse, dispersing the dark spots in his vision. Lambent flames from the flambeau slowly light up his view, as they did to the empty halls.

[ Breathe ] A familiar, yet distant voice whispers, like a gush of wind, fresh air is coaxed into his constricted lungs, and the tremors at his arms stills as his heartbeat returns to a steady tempo. And Cedric’s eyes seem to have moved away from his back.

Harry slowly slips his hand into the pocket, his fingertips are met with a slow hum at a cool surface, the same resonation he had felt when he was still in the cell, with the silver wand that Snape gave him.



Wait.



Harry draws the object from his pocket, though he is met with a snitch size sphere, sitting snuggly on his palm rather than a wand. Its silvery exterior is almost as clear as a mirror, his worn-down face looking back at him, the reflections of the torches forming halos behind him.

Didn’t Snape take it back? He delves into the jumbled memories and vaguely recalls Snape using it to heal him, yet here they are, a suspicious object, possibly a death-eater exclusive artifact that can morph itself, and pops up in someone’s pocket.

Debating if he wants to risk being seen by the injured, but no less snarky professor, he treads back to the Gryffindor tower, the sphere rolling in his hands, maybe he’ll just return it under his invisibility cloak.

[ Keep it ] The melodic voice rings again, yet it doesn’t startle him like it is simply one of his best friends cajoling him into copying his essays. It’s playful, comforting, almost freeing like soaring the skies on a broom. And the flower field with his mother… and that someone else.



No, Harry Potter, this is an unknown artifact and it could kill you at any minute.



Harry shakes his head and continues his walk down the everlasting corridor, just as he is about to take his turn, footsteps come echoing down the ends of the hallway, just as he’s about to fumble his own recently retrieved “Freakish stick”, the sphere thins out in his hand, stretching into the shape of the wand, and snaps up on its own accord, leading his hand to the pointed direction.

“Professor.” The boy immediately recognized the headmaster as soon as the long white beard comes into view. Yet, the man simply walks past him as if he is one of the suits of armor standing guard along the corridor, making him stumble back against the wall as if there’s an invisible border surrounding the man.

“Professor Dumbledore?” Harry calls out again, demurely.



The man turns around, his expression uncharacteristically apathetic, cold like his ice blue eyes as he turns his sight on Harry, there is a hint of irritation at the slight twitch of his brow. Still, just like a flash of torchlight, it is gone in a second, replaced with the usual serene smile that gave him assurances and guidance.



“Ah, my boy.” Dumbledore nods, eyes behind his half-moon spectacles twinkling, “I thought you were at the hall with your friends?”

“Oh, I uh…” the warm sensation climbs all across his body from the wand, he glances at it and notices his holly wand in his hand instead of the silver. “am feeling a bit tired so I’m turning in early.”

Harry sees how Dumbledore gives his “wand” a peek and subtly retracts it into his sleeve, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to point–”

Harry almost yelped when Dumbledore marches forward and pats his shoulder.

“Don’t worry Harry, it must have been stressful for you, some more rest won’t hurt, hm?”

“Yes sir.” Harry breathes out. “Ah, what about Sna– Professor Snape?”

Dumbledore smiles at him, yet his brow twitches, “Severus is recovering well-”, he suddenly pauses at the sight of a ghost-like cat. A Patronus, Harry muses. The man lowers himself and listens to the message it relays, his eyes brighten considerably when the Patronus finishes.

Must be good news. Harry looks at the man from his spot.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow young man, have a good night.” Dumbledore gives him one final pat on the back, turns, and walks down the other end, as Harry stands still at the same spot watching the ends of the flowing robe disappear with the pressure that has been building in his head.

The “wand” in his hand never stopped humming, instead, it grows warmer as it melts and reforms back to a sphere.

[ Go to rest ] it suggests.

Death eater artifact or not, Harry picks up his pace, hoping to dive back under the safety of warm blankets and perhaps, a dreamless sleep this time.



But then, of course, since when did Harry Potter ever get what he wants.



The first thing he sees waking up is the gay sky, and how the darker clouds are moving rapidly despite the lack of wind.

He sits up and notes he is not in a field of flowers, but rather on a small hill with dried-up mud-yellow grass, a few feet away from a ginormous leafless tree, its empty branches expanding like a web in the air, standing out from the pale background. A large tree hole in the middle splits the black trunk in half, tangling roots exposed, the space between seemed to be occupied by a few strips of sticks and rags. A nest? Harry thinks, although he doubts there’s any life left in this desolate dream.

Looking around, a thick layer of fog covers the surroundings like a blanket, yet the repetitive outlines of houses and unlit streetlamps going on for miles are like a never-ending loop, reminding him a lot of Privet Drive, except a lot more depressing. Pushing himself with one hand, wet mud sticks onto his palm, like the cheap diluted glue Duddley used to pour onto his old mattress in the cupboard, dries quickly, but the sour smell of chemicals lingers for days.

Everything seems to exist, yet does not at the same time in this dream, at the other side of the hill is a dried river with a line of darkened soil in the middle, a wide bridge that leads to a series of even more blurry shapes, large sewage pipes supporting the structure beneath. The air grows colder as he continues to look around. Pattering rain slowly echos across the hill, yet nowhere on his body is wet save for his muddied hand.



What is going on?



There’s no red-haired girl in sight, no singing, no nothing whatsoever—just him in this desolate dream.

Wake up, wake up, wake up. He urges himself, squeezing his eyes shut, wishing the posters at the end of his bed to reappear when he opens them.

Harry jolts when there’s a tug at his sleeve, wands at ready despite being in a dream, he turns around and sees a short figure.

“Oh.” The boy he saw previously, still in the oversized beige coat, albeit soaked in rain, pale hand-holding at Harry’s jacket’s sleeve, with a cardboard box under his right arm. He still can’t see through the frustrating blur on the boy’s face, yet he can somehow tell his expression is that of fear.

“What’s wrong? Where’s the other girl?” Harry kneels and holds the boy’s hand gently, trying to comfort him.

Harry doubts he can hear him, but the young boy hugs him close in response. He feels the small chin bobbing atop his head, yet no voice comes out as he speaks…

The young boy steps away from the embrace and pulls Harry towards the tree hole by his hand. He quickly throws the pile of junk in it down onto the grass and slides the box into the emptied space.

Harry has learned to accept that his dreams or visions have always been an omen of some sort, but never has there been a dream as bizarre as being lifted effortlessly by a seemingly 10-year-old boy, and even weirder, being laid into a box that could miraculously fit him in, inside of a tree hole.

He tries to stand up within the cardboard walls, but the pale hand gently pats him on the head, coaxing him back down, like a parent tugging a child to sleep.

Through the ripped-out handle of the cardboard, he sees the boy taking off his coat carefully to not have its ends touch the mud. Things within the box dim as he covers the box with the wet coat after the boy gives Harry one last hesitant hug. A continuous cacophony of scrapes can be heard all around until every last spot of light is blocked out.

The boy speaks, his voice is overpowered by the harsh, insistent bullets of rain, yet still discernible:



“Wait for me.”



Thunderous humming rings painfully in Harry’s ear, hugging his knees close with his head in his hands, he moves to the very corner of the box. The bottom part of the card box starts to soak and soften, the wind hitting the coat makes it vibrate aggressively, much like the batter head of a war drum. As the noise grows deafening, Harry begs his mind to fight its way to reality.



WAKE UP WAKE UP WAKE UP.



In a flash within the darkness, he sees blood gushing out of his side, dripping and slowly pooling onto the floor, skin on his left hand crusted with the dried matter, his body is on fire, and his mind spirals in pain and confusion.



STOP!



Everything comes to a sudden halt except the slight ringing in Harry’s ear, his heart thumps loudly, then slows down to a gentle staccato, finally to a normal pace, and gradually fades into nothing.

Harry doesn’t fight the welcoming darkness.

---

Despite hearing whatever Potter is up to at the Gryffindor table, Draco doesn’t bother to turn around and sneer at the lot of them, he’s currently busying himself with stabbing the fondant potato into a mashed pile of patheticness. His parents have given up reminding him of the deplorable table manners, as they seem to be far away, their meals abandoned, fingers interlocking on the table so tightly the knuckles have gone white.

“I’m sure he’ll be a fine Padfoot.” The werewolf, Draco recognizes, appeases his disgraced cousin who has transformed back into his human self.

“You can’t expect someone to recover that fast, especially right after what happened in the tournament.” One of the Weasley twins adds.

More people pop into the conversation, while the Slytherin table remains eerily silent, only breaking when Dumbledore’s pet Aurors have short discussions among themselves, when they aren’t staring at him or his parents, that is.



“…adding to the guilt.”

“I‘ve heard that Prongslet and that Cho girl from Ravenclaw are friends.”

“Poor Miss Chang, it’ll never be the same for her.”

“Well yes, her too, but also…you know…”



Draco Malloy genuinely detests Gryffindors, mudbloods, blood traitors, and reckless idiocy aside, they seem to know nothing about “being discreet”.

“Snape’ll be fine as ever, he’d be back sneering at us in no time.” Without looking back he can tell Weasley is speaking with a mouthful of food like a swine. He better be, Weasley.

Across the table he notices his mother’s lips pinched thin at the subject, and looks away from her plate that she has been glaring daggers at.

“That git?” Black bites out, “Casting some wicked dark arts thingy into my godson,” He takes a large bite of steak from Lupin’s plate, “he better be dead, that is as much good as he can do.”

What comes immediately after both McGonagall’s and several decent beings’ cries of disapproval, a resounding “Bang” rings across the hall, effectively silencing everyone, in which Draco finds a dozen wands pointing at him.

Ignoring the splinters that have found their way into his palm, he turns around, as gracious as the Slytherin Ice Prince does, and glares straight at that offending thing.

Whatever rubbish the Aurors are yelling at him right now, his white-hot rage is effectively blocking them off. For the first time anger powers him, he feels it deep within its core, he feels mighty, invincible even, it is infinitely euphoric to see how that dog flinches at the crackling magic, magic of a Black around him.

“Draco, compose yourself.” Mother gently grasps his wrist.



How dare they stop him? How dare it call Severus that awful name?



“Dragon. Calm down.” Mother calls him again, her light blue eyes shining with intensity, and by the looks of both of his parents, they are livid too, Father’s face is still impassive as ever, but a harsh line of vein popped up at his temple.

He sits back down hesitantly, and remembers his euphoria amidst his anger is also what hurts people under his power, fearing it’s the same that causes his godfather to be incapacitated, he blocks off every emotion in his mind.



Breathe in.



Breathe out.



The Aurors’ wands are begrudgingly back in their holsters.

There’s a collective sigh at the Gryffindor table, Black is muttering something under his breath, and immediately got a warning from Lupin.

Father puts his hand on his knees under the table and gives him a firm nod.

Suddenly, the man's eyes widen, and slowly removes his hand from Draco’s knees, caressing the fabric on his left arm.

“Lucius?” Mother's voice is now solemn, and the prospect of what is going to happen to them fills the boy with dread.

“I think…” His father ignores the Aurors, who are now standing up, “he might be calling me.” He is still looking at his covered arm, but the confusion is apparent on his face.

“Might be?” The taller Auror, Shacklebolt, Draco recalls, asks.

Father looks at the man and pauses, “Normally, the lor— he would give… stronger implications.” Both men turn their eyes back on the covered arm, “This feels different.”

“Like hell we are letting you leave that easily!”

“Black! Stand Down!” Professor Moody, the real one, shouts at the advancing man, his magical eye twitching frantically, the scars stretched tight with his wrathful expression, much like a mythological demon itself. “Minerva, call Albus.”

“Wha-“ Father’s objection is immediately shut off by Tonks, another blood traitor’s silencing spell, with cuffs now holding his left arm down onto the table. He and his mother are also forced back down onto the bench, at least the Shacklebolt has some decency to make a quiet apology.

Casting the spell, a ghostly mist flows out of McGonagall’s wand, swiftly twirling and forming into a cat Patronus, sitting there obediently waiting for a command.

“Go to Albus…” she whispers, and the cat runs and disappears through the door. McGonagall doesn’t take her eyes off for a moment, but when she turns and looks at him, there is something indecipherable in her eyes.



Dark wizards are unable to cast Patroni.



Pity? Draco sneers at that. He does not need such spells.

After almost a lifetime, the old man casually ambles into the hall, like he’s visiting a museum and enjoying the spectacle in front of him with that disgusting grandfatherly look on his face.

“Minerva, Alastor.” He greets, “Mr. Malfoy, kindly show us your dark mark, please.”

Despite being under the silencing charm, the father’s refusal rings rather loud when he slams his fists down on the table, consequently tied back by another Incarcerous.

“Lucius,” Dumbledore chides him patronizingly “your cooperation is necessary for your family’s safety, it will help me greatly in turn to provide your son a better sanctuary against Voldemort.”

There is a collective flinch at the mention of the dark lord while the senile man keeps smiling at his father, Draco looks back at him across the table, his expression is calm, and the familiar haze of occlumency is washed over in the glacial grey eyes.

A quiet “thwack” can be heard when the Aurors cancel both of the spells, like a retracting bowstring. Father slowly stands up, removing his sapphire cufflinks, and rolls his left sleeve up.



“Is this what you put him through, too?”



Mother is looking intently away from the chaos, far towards the head table, her voice is soft but firm, and to Draco’s knowledge, very deadly

Dumbledore's twinkling eyes merely simper at that.

“The mark…it’s gray.” One of the headmaster’s lackeys says, bewildered.

The snake and skull no longer stand out against the porcelain skin as they did for the past few months, now it simply looks like a fading sketch on parchment. The mark itself is not moving as it usually does like a living being either, now it’s simply…there.

“I assume it should be black since Tom’s return, correct?” The old man runs his hand down the beard “How long has it been in this state?”

The boy’s parents look at each other in a moment of soundless communication. “Hours ago it was still activated,” Father replies warily.

The hollow sockets of the skull flashed jet black for one second before returning into an even lighter shade of grey, and the father seems to wince at the change.

“He is calling me.”

Dumbledore stays silent, he looks upward at the enchanted ceiling, constellations orbiting peacefully above them, and a wave of silence washes over them as they wait in bated silence.

“Go to Voldemort,” the old man ignores the flinch and glare sent his way, “come back after the meeting.”

A sense of déjà vu comes over Draco when a familiar wave of disagreement ripples through the crowd.

“Draco, Cissa, go back to the manor, just in case.” Lucius says in a hushed tone.

“Ah, pardon me, my boy,” Dumbledore puts his hand onto Draco's shoulder, fingers almost stabbing into the muscle, which he unwillingly squirms against it. “But I think dear Draco should stay here in Hogwarts, after all, it’s the safest place in Magical Britain.”

Draco could feel his barely eaten meal about to rush its way up.

“Headmaster Dumbledore,” Mother turns to face the old man, “are you keeping my son hostage?”

Mother’s hand clamps on his other shoulder, slightly pulling Draco towards herself, but Dumbledore does not relent.

“Oh no my lady, in times of danger, it has always been my priority to keep my students safe.”

Newly manicured nails dig deeper, and her son barely suppresses a grimace.

“Then I’ll stay here with him.”

“That would be unwise, Mrs. Malfoy.” Dumbledore’s voice lowers, the ceaseless glittering in his eyes is grinding on Draco’s already frayed nerves, but the man is not wrong either — his father is a trusted one of the most trusted and valued followers for his wealth and status in the Wizenmagot. To be in close relations with a defector would surely cause suspicions.

What if the Dark Lord decides to pay them a visit tonight? He would certainly question their disappearance, especially when father came home early after a meeting, and he himself should be at home during the summer holidays. Auntie Bella would most certainly be happy to eradicate any opposers, her years in Azkaban didn’t deter her resolution in pursuing this particular goal either. She may love mother, but it’ll never surpass her devotion to the Dark Lord.

They are under suspicion, and they will die.

“Mother.”

The dead gaze in her eyes immediately soften into one of affection, “Yes Draco?”



Breathe in.



Breath out.



“I’ll stay.”

“NO!” Both of his parents shout without hesitation.

“I’m safe here,” just saying that leaves a bad taste in his mouth “but what if aunt Bella checks on you, Mother?”

“No, Draco. No.” Father’s tone is final, but his son looks at him defiantly.

“In return, Professor Dumbledore,” Draco drawls with much Malfoy confidence, while keeping his eyes on his father’s, unblinking. “give them the portkey.”

“Mr. Malfoy, you know I cannot do that.”

“Keeping your priority safe also entails those who are closely related, surely that is a concept you have learned before getting your group of bargaining chips?” Draco continues, “Negotiations require incentives, you may keep me here, and I want my parents safe.”

He can feel Dumbledore glaring holes onto the back of his head, but the astonishment and worry in his family’s eyes push him further.

“Besides,” Draco forcefully turns around facing the old man, without making eye contact, “ father risked going against our ancestor’s wish for putting the family in danger, to give the leader of the opposing faction a forewarning, hence doing a favor for a non-aligned individual.” he pauses to let it sink in, and for dramatic effect, “Professor Snape is for reasons, incapacitated for your cause, regardless of his stance, he is one of us, and I think Sirius Black over there, should understand the significance of a godfather in a family. Though I must ask, why is he here instead of Azkaban? And moreover, Aurors are under the Ministry’s authority, why are you, the headmaster of Hogwarts school, supposedly autonomous from the ministry, commanding them, let alone not taking action with an escaped convict in a School of children?”

Sirius Black is frothing at the mouth with rage but doesn’t make a move, the Aurors are smart enough to stay silent.

“My boy —”

Before Dumbledore can finish, a ball of flame suddenly burst into existence above the table, a melodic trill reverberates across the great hall, and a familiar bird emerges from the blinding light.

“Fawkes?” instead of reaching the old coot’s extended arm, the Pheonix gracefully lands in front of the father instead, much to the surprise of everyone.

“What the hell!” Sirius Black yells.

The bird continues to sing, its tail gently sweeping on the table, onyx eyes looking questioningly at McGonagall.

The transfiguration professor lets out a sigh, and with a flick of her wand, the phoenix stretches and twists until it morphs back into the portkey they used to come here.

“Minerva!”

“Shush Albus!”

Draco does his best to remain stoic at the turn of events. “Thank you, Professors.”

“Draco…” Mother pleads worryingly.

“Mother, please just go home first, you shall see me very soon,” he gives her the smile that usually gets him away from things, “I am not a Malfoy for nothing.”

Uncaring how the Auror is still by her side, she pulls her son into a tight embrace. “Still —”

“You have always been the ones to handle matters, let me aid you for once, as a worthy heir.”

He sees the pride glittering in his father’s eyes, “Narcissa, Draco will be fine here, you need to be safe too.” he lands his warm hands on each of their shoulders.

Dumbledore is merciful enough to allow Draco to see his parents off, looking at how his mother smooths the wrinkles on father’s black coat just two steps outside the gates, outside the wards, like it’s just another day sending him off to the ministry in the morning, except how his parents cling on each other longer than usual in public, and the Aurors standing right next to their son.

The pair gives Draco one final look and disappears into the night.

Lingering his eyes on the now empty space, he could only feel the cold wind brushing across his back, and nothing more.

“Mr. Malfoy, do come with me, it’s getting late.” McGonagall walks up to him.

“Yes, professor.”

“You will be staying at the Gryffindor common room for the night.”

Being taken hostage is worse than I expected.

“May I go to the hospital wing first?”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Malfoy.” Dumbledore cuts in rather rudely with feigned concern, “Severus is still recovering, it will be best to let him rest.”

And whose fault is that?

“The Headmaster is correct, but you can always visit professor Snape tomorrow.” McGonagall says, steering him toward the direction leading to Gryffindor's common room.

The moment he steps into the red and gold decorated space, the occupants' face either turns to disgust or wary, well except for the Weasley twins, who look like they have found a new specimen.

Potter is curling up between the younger Weasleys and granger on a large velvet sofa, a steaming cup in his hand, and wrapped in a duvet, looking scrawny as ever.

Their eyes meet, Draco puts up his best sneer, while Potter just looks back onto his cup, eyes filled with… guilt?



Coward.



“Alert! Alert!”

“Little snake in the lion’s den!”

“What is he doing here?”

“Mr. Weasleys,” McGonagall raises a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose, “Mr. Malfoy will stay here, for the time being, it will be delightful if you two don’t cause more of a ruckus than you normally do.”

“He’s a Slytherin!” Weasel yells, Draco cannot help but roll his eyes at the statement.

“And you are a Gryffindor Mr. Weasley.”

Ok, Draco admits that he is starting to like her a bit.

“No offense, professor, but why not the dungeons?” Granger inquires, eyes darting between him and Potter.

“Accessing the Slytherin dormitory during holidays requires the Slytherin Head of house to unlock the door manually.”

Thankfully, that shut them up.

“I too will stay until further notice, so do behave around each other, or I will take points from all of you before the term even start.”

“Umm professor,” Potter looks up from his cup, “where are the others?”

“In a meeting with the headmaster. That is all you need to know”

“Meeting?”

Oh, Draco recalls, the bird club.

“I’m afraid I cannot divulge much information to you, Mr. Potter.”

While Potter looks disappointed, Granger and the Weasleys seem rather suspicious, as they look at each other intently, seemingly debating something.

Deciding that it is none of his business, Draco simply walks to the very corner of the common room, looking through the pathetically small bookshelf to see anything worthy enough to read through the torture. He knows they are still discussing him at his back, but in these circumstances, he must stay silent, revenge will come later.

At some point, he must have fallen asleep, as he is still apparently on the page about Falmouth Falcons’ “ Possible curse started by Karl Broadmoor because he once punch the opposing team’s manager which lead to a fight between beaters.” from a ridiculous book on Arthrimancy and its link with quidditch. The sound of the flaring floo wakes him up almost immediately, but instead of seeing his parents safe and sound, the school nurse steps in, breathing heavily.



“Merlin!” Granger shrieks.

“Poppy! What happened!” McGonagall rounds up from the coffee table, walking towards her.

Draco sheaths the book back into the gap on the bookshelf and calmly walks towards the commotion. There stood Madame Pomfrey, her cap almost falling off, and almost half of the white parts in her uniform are stained with crimson. She’s holding a wet towel in her blood-matted hands, blood dripping and melting into the common room’s color palette. Dried blood smearing across her cheek and sleeves, her expression is manic, and frankly looks like she murdered someone, her hand is rhythmically squeezing the wet cloth, blood streaming down onto the already soaked patch of carpet.



“Minnie.” She breathes between the labored breath, relieved to see the professor. “I—”

She stumbles towards McGonagall and quickly grasps her by the arm, deep red quickly spreads onto her green sleeves.

“Poppy, calm down. What’s wrong?” McGonagall asks again, holding the nurse up.

“No time.” Madame Pomfrey’s legs are trembling by now, “Just come with me.”

“What—”

“I DON’T CARE WHAT YOU DO, I DON’T CARE WHAT ALBUS SAID! JUST COME THROUGH AND BY MERLIN HELP ME KEEP THAT DAMNED MAN AWAKE!”

The seven teenagers stand still around the now extinguished hearth with varying expressions on their faces. None dare to comment on the exchange between the school matron and the Gryffindor Head of house, nor look away from the stained spots on the carpet.


“That does not -“

“Look good at all.” The Weasley exchange looks with each other.

“Do you think all that blood is-” Ron shivers.

“Should we follow?” Hermione looks back at the others and steals a glance from Malfoy, the Slytherin frozen stiff like a marble statue, but you can still see the slight trembling at his shoulders, his eyes unblinking and wide open, and a suspicious glint that seems to be forcing its way out at the corner of his eyes.


Harry, who suddenly found himself on the floor, surrounded by reaper gravestones, panting heavily while seeing the bloodstains on the carpet seeping towards him, he squeezes his eyes shut in an attempt to block off the unpleasant feeling bubbling up in his chest.


“Harrykins, breathe” Fred, or George kneels beside him, running a hand across his back, “You are back here, in Hogwarts.”


He’s dying because of you! The words Malfoy shouted at him days ago echo with his own voice.


Despite what Amos Diggory told him that night at the end of the tournament, he’ll never forget the look the man gave him in the infirmary.


“Maybe we should find Dumbledore.” Ginny says, just when she’s about to walk towards the exit, someone shoves her aside and makes a beeline towards the fireplace.

“Incendio!” Draco Malfoy jabs his wand towards the charred logs, repeating a few times when not even a spark of fire comes up.

“Oi ferret face! Watch what you’re doing!”

The Slytherin ignores him and continues to scream at the fireplace.

“Malfoy, Slytherins can’t access the floo in the Gryffindor common room.” George says.

“Then you bloody do it!” Draco snaps his head towards the older Weasleys along with his wand, his breath haggard and looking disheveled as if he had just rolled down a hill, tears obviously pooling in those murderous eyes.

“Calm down snakey -”

“If McGonagall shut it down -”

“None of us can use it.” Fred subtly moves George half a step behind him by the arm.


There is a loud bang when Alastor Moody wrenches the common room door open, earning a loud shriek from the fat lady as well as a sound of broken glass in the portrait. “What is going on here!” His magical eye eerily still and lands its electric gaze on the young Slytherin, the man immediately makes a move and tackles the boy onto the floor, hand clamping onto the shoulder with the wooden leg on the now wandless hand.

“LET ME GO!” Draco shouts, struggling against the retired Auror like a caged animal.

The rest of the order members run into the room, carefully avoiding the conflict and towards the other children, Mrs. Weasley tries to usher the kids out of the scene “I said we will handle it!” she urges in a hushed tone while pushing her children, including Harry towards the staircase, stifling any arguments. Remus and Sirius practically manhandled Harry up along with his friends.

“But Sirius — !”

“Cub, I don’t think it is wise to do anything right now.” Remus says.

“Off to bed kid.” Sirius tugs both of them along.

The yelling dampens as the group ascends the stairs, reaching Harry’s room where they settle themselves onto the beds.

After a pregnant pause as the Weasleys, all try to sit near him, forming a protective circle within the now cramped room, Harry decides to break the silence.


“So…” Harry leans onto Sirius’s arm, “What are you guys in a meeting for?”

The adults surrounding them seem to look shocked for a moment, directing a quick glance at Ron and Hermione behind him, before turning it back to Harry.

“Well, Dumbledore —”

“Oh no you don’t Sirius Black! Albus said it specifically!” Mrs. Weasley effectively cuts off Sirius, her hands perched on her hips. “He’s only a child! A fifteen-year-old child!”

“He’s involved already! Shouldn’t he know about it if he has to fight?” He shouts back, arms tightening around Harry’s shoulders.

“What fight? Voldermort?”

“NO! YOU ARE NOT FIGHTING!” Mrs. Weasley screams, causing Harry to recoil at the shrill voice.

“But-”

“Harry listen to me,” Mrs. Weasley kneels in front of him with both of her palms gripping onto Harry’s, ignoring the glare Sirius is giving her, “You just need to focus on school, on life, be happy, leave the fighting to us adults, okay? You are just child!” she says, trembling, and borderline hysterical.

Something broke in Harry at the mention of “just a child”, Cedric, who was only two years older than him, he was technically a kid too, just months short from adulthood if he didn't join the tournament. He died because of him, “The boy who lived”. While Harry couldn’t do anything but watch him fall as “a spare”. And seeing the bluish specters of his parents alongside his friend only reminded him more of his faults.


A savior that can’t save.


“I’M NOT A CHILD ANYMORE!’ Harry shoots up from his bed, “How am I supposed to sit back, while people are dead! Dying! Because of me!

“Harry…” Hermione reaches out.

“You knew all this don’t you, you and Ron?” Harry turns accusingly toward his best friends, “I’m involved, it always has something to do with me, but I don’t get to know anything! Nothing!”

“We are just trying to protect you mate! Really!” Ron pleads

“Not writing to me is part of protection, I see.” Harry laughs bitterly, “You saw how I was before summer, but none of you bother to ask how I am?”

“Professor Dumbledore said it’s risky! We just don’t want your location to be found out by You-Know-Who!”

Harry pauses at that, Dumbledore is protecting him, his friends are protecting him, and the blood wards are protecting him. Everything everyone is doing is supposed to be protecting him, right?


Even Snape.


But gods, Harry brings his arms around himself, trying to hide from the concerned looks from the people around him I'm so weak, so…lonely.


Roughly wiping off the frustrated tears, he breathes out.

“Fifteen or not, If I’m supposed to defeat him, then I will fight, I’m not a coward.” Harry declares.

“No, cub, you are not.” Remus stands up, intense gaze meeting the boy’s.


[ You are not ]


Harry nods and gives him a strained smile, “Fred, George, mind if I stay in your room tonight?”

“Anything for you, brother.” the twins push away from the wall they’re leaning on and leads Harry out of the door.

He hears the quiet sniffles from both Hermione and Mrs. Weasley as the door clicks shut, it hurt him to say it, to his best friends and to one of the people who care for him like a son, but they don’t understand. He needs to do this alone, so he won't drag anyone down with him.


And you are walking away, like a coward.


[ You need space, and they need time to understand. ]


The silver slowly warms up Harry’s still trembling hands through the pocket.

Harry can’t be more grateful to have such a creepy yet reassuring artifact exists.

“Well Harrykins, you’re stuck with us.” Fred says, motioning him to sit on Lee’s bed.

“Don’t mind Mom, she gets all riled up when it comes to Order meetings”

“We are both of age, but as long as Mom has a say in it, we’d never get to join the fight either.”

Harry feels his lips tug up at the seamless exchange and lets out a sigh, “Thanks guys, appreciate it.”

“But worry not, our favorite secret sponsor! ” George puffs up dramatically.

“We might or might not have invented something for this special occasion.”

With that, Harry spent at least an hour or so listening to the twins’ explanation of the “Extendable ears”, as well as testing it out by throwing it toward a red towel on the other side of the room for “target practice for possible future missions”, before all three of them proclaiming they should rest.

Hearing the twin snoring lightly, Harry sit up from bed and looks out to the bright crescent moon hanging in the dark sky. He quietly leaves the room, careful not to make a sound as he shuts the door, then walks to the end of the corner of that floor, with Draco Malfoy's yells still lingering around him. Something about it bothers him, as he is certain if Sirius is the one incapacitated, Snape would have cheered on it, Malfoy gloating how he has no one. Heck, the fact that Snape can be someone's godfather already baffles him, let alone in a close relationship. Lily Potter, his mum, everyone told him about how kind she was, Dumbledore saying how her love made him won against Voldermort, the time he saw her in the Mirror of Erised, she stood there alongside dad, just as beautiful as people described her, but at the same time, she's supposed to be buddies with Snape? A complete contrast to her, and only scowls and mocks when Harry is in the man's presence? Harry thinks reality likes to flip so much that nothing makes sense to him anymore.

“Dobby?” He whispers into the air.

Dobby pops into view without the loud crack, his big eyes gleaming with admiration even during late hours into the night, his ears flop with excitement at the sight of the boy and leaps forward, wrapping himself around the boy’s legs.

“Harry Potter is safe! Dobby is glad to see you! Dobby is missing you very much!”

“Shhh, Dobby is quiet.” Harry gestures a finger at his lips, then drops down and hugs the elf, “I missed you too.”

Dobby squeals, quietly, in delight.

“I need you to do me a favor Dobby, can you check if people in my room are asleep, and if they are, help me get my invisible cloak please? Don’t get noticed.”

“Dobby will dos as Master Harry wishes! Dobby will get it straight away!”

In mere seconds, Dobby pops back into view, with his small hands blending into the unlit surroundings, eagerly holding up to him.

“What is Harry Potter needing his cloak for?” Curious green eyes blinking.

Harry twists the soft fabric between his fingers, trying to figure out what exactly is he thinking or feeling these few days. I’m not doing this for Malfoy. Harry recalls the look of desperation and panic on his nemesis’ face.

“I need to know.” He tells Dobby and himself, determinedly “They are here because of me, but they can’t shield me forever.”

Dobby tilts his head to the side with one ear standing up, “Dobby is not understanding, but Dobby will be here if Harry Potter needs any help.”

“Dobby, I have to do this on my own, but thank you for being a great friend.” He pats the elf on the head, who is at the brink of tears, with a silent farewell Harry throws the invisibility cloak over himself and slowly tip toe down to the common room.

There’s only a single Lumos shining from Moody’s wand in the black space, who seems to be somewhat sleeping like the others despite sitting up straight with both of his arms on the wooden cane. He carefully maneuvers around the furniture and out of the magical eye’s sight towards a tied-up Malfoy, now slumping against the bookshelf on the floor next to Tonks. Another Auror, he remembers.

He crouches down, behind the sofa Moody is occupying and pokes Slytherin's arm. Who immediately jolts awake, and squints to refocus in the dark.Harry reveals the same white slippers he’s been wearing lately, “Come with me.” he whispers when Malfoy’s eyes widen in recognition and wariness.

“Can’t” The other boy mouths, jerking his head at the restraints around his body.

Harry raises his head, and after making sure that everyone is still asleep, he cautiously raises his wand “Finite incantem” he whispers, and the ropes snap, pooling onto the floor. At the same time Moody lets out a grunt in his sleep, the boys promptly freeze and stop breathing.

Both of their tensed shoulders sag when the magical eye goes still again, “Your wand?” Harry asks.

Malfoy mutely looks at Tonks’s pocket with a scowl, “Just go.” he hisses.

After what felt like a lifetime of trying to go through the hardest obstacle course, they finally make it out beyond the common room, out to the grand staircase, it seems to have felt the two’s urgency as the rest of the staircase below stays still, paving a way to the infirmary.

“Why are you helping me?” Malfoy asks, like he's out of his mind

“The world doesn't revolve around you, Malfoy.” Harry quotes a certain potions master. “I need answers.”

Malfoy looks at him incredulously and speaks no more.

Only their rhythmic breathing accompanied them as they go down the endless spiral.

---

“Luciussssss…” the Dark Lords’ call is barely above a murmur, but it isn’t any less of a threat in the just arrived man's ears.

“My Lord, you wished to see me.” Lucius kneels low, showing his neck to present himself as vulnerable as possible. Seeing that no others are in the same room, he is under heavy suspicion, and very likely to be tortured.

“Where…have you been.”

“At the Manor, as you have ordered.” The patriarch hesitantly raises his eyes at the fatigued voice.

With a wave of his hand, the sleeve in Lucius's marked arm rolls up on its own, and the half-faded skull and serpent on display

The man on the throne narrows his eyes and beckons him forward, grabbing Lucius’ chin with shaking hands to meet his blood-red eyes. He feels the dark lord trying to go through his mind, but instead of feeling stabbed, his occlumency shield is merely pricked by a needle. The sharp presence continues to press through before Lucius loosens his grip and let him through into a memory of him dining with his family, but it's clear that it isn't the answer he is intending to search for. The prickling sensation doesn't last long as it retracts quickly, they are now back in the gloomy room, with the Dark Lord panting heavily.

“My lord are you -”

“CRUCIO!”

While Lucius steels himself from the incoming pain, he isn’t expecting the red stream of light to trickle down and dissipates onto the floor in front of his knees.

The Dark Lord looks visibly bewildered and enraged. Lucius is equally stunned, the all-powerful man he has been following for decades is slouching against the armrest, with balled fist against his face; the first time Lucius has seen a sign of weakness from him.

“Shall I call for Narcissa, my lord?”

“That wretched half-blood, he had me fooled.” the Dark Lord growls, hate and murderous intent evident in those lidded ruby eyes.

“Severus?” Lucius asks with faux shock. “My apologies my lord! I thought he would be grateful for your reacceptance!”

“He dares poison… me –” the man groans again, leaning further onto the side of the chair “I, Lord Voldermort, who gave him everything!”

The Malfoy Patriarch is blaming his friend for his predicament, as well as impressed at whatever he seems to have achieved on the Dark Lord.

“May I have your permission to bring Narcissa, my lord?” he absolutely detest the idea of bring his wife to this mess, but he needs to keep this up.

The man on the throne waves him out. In moments, Narcissa walks through the worn-down fireplace, giving Lucius a tight squeeze on his arm before bowing reverently at the lord, pulling her wand out to do a quick scan.

“Dare I ask my lord, did you consume any potions that might be related to energy replenishers?” Narcissa keeps her head bowed.

“That draft… Draft of Transference…”

Narcissa pauses for a moment, before snapping her head up, “Who else? My lord?”

The Dark Lord gives Lucius a pointed look, in which he quickly lists off who was called to participate in the ritual a few nights prior to his wife, including

“They’ll need energy replenishers, that will in turn feed it back to our lord.”

The man nods, "Narcissa, tell me about the Black dagger."

Narcissa looks at both of them, there was a flash of pain, before being buried deep by a thick layer of ice.

She recites the heirloom history and its usage, while the dark lord doesn’t react much at first, his grin grows wider and more manic as Narcissa continues to explain.

“So much for being a potions prodigy, he brews his own death, I shall accomplice that wish tenfold.” the man laughs. “I shall find a replacement to guide our aspiring Slytherins.”

Both Malfoy displays the same mirth, yet their hearts unanimously lurch at what is going to happen, as they were sent off to administer the potions to the others recovering at the manor.

“Lucius…” Narcissa breathes.

“Cissa, we will go back as soon as we are done here. Draco is safe. Then we will leave the isles together.” Lucius pulls his wife into a tight embrace as they reached the end of a long hall way.

“I know, but…”


Family Draco and Narcissa come first.


“Let’s just finish this quickly.”

As the lasts of the residents slowly recover, feeding their energy back to their lord, the serpentine man gladly vents his anger upon the inner circle with his renewed energy, using the recolored Dark mark and sending pulses towards all of them as he savours the scene of black veins sending pain all over their twitching bodies, like a carnival show. Luckily both Narcissa and himself are exonerated from the torture session, with Lucius getting a cut on his face as a warning should he keep in touch with the traitor.

They leave the manor together, turning their backs on shouts of Crucio and tormented screams.

The crescent moon shines bright tonight.

---

The first thing Minerva notice as she’s being dragged into the infirmary is the dreadfully familiar metallic smell, not just from her blood-stained sleeves, nor Poppy’s Nurses gown.

The infirmary is dimly lit except for the spot where Severus’s bed is, she sees Albus standing near the footboard, hands griping onto the metal, and seemingly having a quiet conversation. Behind her, Poppy is frenziedly gathering jars, plasters, and smaller towels, pushing some of them into Minerva’s arms, then stomping out of the office, leaving Minerva to fumble with the items.

“Albus if you aren’t helping, step aside.” Poppy snaps, Minerva can’t help but feel shocked at her tone, but then again, the situation is probably quite dire.

“Poppy, you must understand, I have to —”

“NO ALBUS I DO NOT!” Poppy whips back behind the partition, “He’s already in pain, what more do you want!”

With that said, Minerva quickly levitates the rest of the supplies behind her and rushes toward them, Albus visibly lightens up when he sees her, “Minerva, please–”.

She almost dropped all of the levitated objects behind as soon as she steps into view, the smell of blood attacking her full force.

The wound at Severus’s side looks like it was torn open by force, black veins that were supposed to have disappeared from a few days ago now spreading into an even larger web up to his left chest, blood constantly flooding out from the edges wound, staining most of the hospital gown, the bedsheet, the blanket that was roughly thrown to the edge, dripping onto a large puddle of red on the floor, blood traveling along the creases between the stone tiles on the floor.

Severus’s skin by now is translucent, he’s already unhealthily pale normally, now it seems like there’s not even a drop of blood left on his face. A shimmering layer of sweat all over the exposed body, tremors coursing all over him, his chest is barely moving, the only indication that he’s alive at all is the occasional moaning, as well as his feverish eyes wandering somewhere, occasionally squeezing shut and a shout when Poppy applies more pressure and dittany onto the injury.

Minerva immediately sets the medical supplies onto the table next to Poppy, pushing past Albus towards the chair next to the bed and taking Severus’s freezing hand into hers. Thankfully Albus stops talking.

“Merlin… why did it…” Minerva chokes out. “Oh, Severus.”

Poppy moves one hand away from the towel, and grabs a different vial, directly pouring it onto the wound, which the man screams silently, and all Minerva can do is hold his hand tighter, as if that is any resemblance of comfort, he in turn grips onto her's like a lifeline.

“Don’t sleep yet, keep them open.” Poppy pats the pale face, trying to make him focus, she looks at Minerva, urging her to catch the man’s attention.

“Severus, Severus, can you hear me?” She gently shakes the man’s shoulder while tightening her hold onto his hand, hoping he will feel the pressure.

She sees how the man’s eyes float aimlessly in waves of pain, from the ceiling, the bed next to him, to the stack of towels, and eventually find their way to herself again. After a moment, realization sparks in those hazy onyx orbs, even those shaking, taxing just to keep his eyes still.

“Minerva.” He rasps

“I’m here.” She gives him an encouraging smile.

“Minerva, my girl —”

“Why isn’t he at St. Mungo’s curse injury department already?” Minerva pulls herself together as she asks, eyes never leaving the younger colleague.

“You know I cannot do that, and it pains me so,” Albus replies.

“Nonsense!” Poppy shouts her exact thought back at Albus, “ If you are worried about him being marked, the healers there won’t care, they are obligated to heal anyone! I can ask my friend over for help!”

“Poppy, the world does not believe Tom has returned,” Albus attempts to placate her, “Even so, the Ministry is well aware that Severus is a Death eater, they might send him straight to Azkaban for possible illegal activities.”

“He is a wizard, one of those people you are vowing to save, Albus Dumbledore. He himself is trying to save us back.” Minerva declares.


The Headmaster looks at her, emotionless, not a twinkle in his eye.


“We cannot send a Death eater from Hogwarts, Minerva. The public is already doubting us, sacrifices must be made for the greater good, and we can't risk more of their faith.”


Minerva feels a deep resentment cutting through the life-long friendship and trust between herself and her mentor, just as she’s about to explode, cold fingers grips her hand. Severus, who seems slightly aware, looks at Albus, then zones back at her serenely and blinks once.

He understands what Albus must do, as there’s something recognizable in his eyes:

Resignation? Defeat?


Acceptance?


“No.” Poppy pulls her attention back, vehemently shaking her head, “No, I will go to St. Mungo’s, I’ll ask for supplies, and maybe some extra help, DON’T ALBUS! I’M A HEALER, AND I DON’T JUST STAND ASIDE WHEN SOMEONE IS IN NEED.”

There is a tense silence before Minerva feels Severus’s hand goes rigid, his eyes wide, and starts shaking harder.

“Severus? Do you need -”


The was a loud crack and a muffled scream against the pillow, his breath sounds even more pained with a terrible wheezing noise. As Poppy immediately scans across his chest, she notices the flesh nearest to the center of the veins starts to bruise, deep purple blooming on the pale skin. And both women came to a horrible realization:


The curse is breaking the closest bones.

And if it continues upwards the ribs…

His heart will be impaled.


Poppy quickly mutters a spell, mending the rib bone together, the colored patch fades, yet the bone beneath can’t seem to be mended back to its shape.

“Where’s Lady Malfoy?” Poppy asks, horrified by the situation.

“They were sent away.”

The matron throws the bloody towel on the floor, and reaches for a clean one “Then go get her back.” She commands coldly.

Albus opens his mouth before shutting it again, then walks out of the infirmary.

“Severus, stay awake alright? You can do this.” Poppy presses another towel while pouring another vial onto the wound. “Minnie keep talking to him.”

Minerva's heart sinks when he goes silent, not even a whimper for an entire minute, but he finally finds his way back.

“...As you wish… Madame…” he says, trying to pull a smirk despite all.

But in Minerva’s eyes, it resembles the rare, small, but the gentle smile she had seen when he was still a young lad.


And it breaks her heart.


“Severus, we still have a bet going, and you have yet to drink with me this month, don’t bail on me now.”

There is a slight frown of confusion on his pained face, finally noticing Poppy isn’t the one talking.

“Minerva?” he asks, forgetting that she is next to him.

“That’s me.” She replies, now sandwiching his hand into hers, hoping it can provide some warmth.

He stares and assesses her face, taking a shaky breath, he composes his face into the usual frown.

“You again, oh joy.”

Both Minerva and Poppy chuckle wetly at that.

“Must you insult me at midnight too?” She retorts, leaning forward to make sure he can see her face.

Severus huffs, and his eyes move to the right.

“...Keep you on your toes.”

“Well, you are doing a great job with that then.”

He hums, but his body goes rigid once more, his body involuntarily arches up despite Poppy’s best efforts to hold him still. A crack louder than before, another strangled yell.

“Osto Popraviti!” Poppy points the wand at the ribs again, noting how the veins are climbing up towards his left shoulder, linking with those that have completely covered the marked arm in black.

Severus convulses and coughs up a mouthful of blood, two trails of crimson trickling down to his ears.

“Minnie hold him up!” Poppy moves her wand upwards to the center of where the man’s lungs are, with a flick of her wand, blood spilling from his mouth, while Minerva gently rubs circles at the writhing man’s back, tears welling up in both of their eyes.

“You are doing fine Severus, everything will be alright.” She comforts the man who is now half leaning against her, struggling to keep his head up, either quaking in pain or in fear. Splotches of blood staining more of the green coat. "It's moving up fast, a stasis charm? Petrificus? Anything?"

"Those only work on nerve levels, not with organs, nor curse wounds." Poppy stands still at the opposite side of the bed, observing the carnage in front of her, she had certainly seen worse in her years of being a Healer, but there hasn’t been one case that shook her like now. Should she stay? Minerva might have basic first-aid knowledge As Head of House, but it's less than enough for such circumstances.

"...try... my counterspell..." Severus struggles out.

"The one Malfoy uses? I unsure of the incantation." Poppy's eyes light up.

"Vulnera... Sanentur...three times."

The school nurse quickly mutters the spell, some of the blood retracts back into the large gash at the center of the veins, thought the wound doesn't knit itself together, the blood no longer gushes out, slowing down to a steady trail, and the two mended bones seems to move back to their original place.

"It's not stopping, but I assume the curse has to do with blood," She bites onto the blood-stained fingernails, brows brought tightly together as if she is trying to solve a huge dilemma " I'll rush to St. Mungos and call for an emergency, but you two will need to help me buy time.” She presses another towel onto the gash.

“Poppy, Albus constricted the wards days ago!” Minerva takes the stained cloth from Poppy's grasp and gently increases the pressure.

“I don’t care if I have to run to Hogsmeade just to get a floo, or fly to London,” Poppy pauses to catch a breath, “I’ll get help, wait for me okay? Severus Tobias Snape you better stay awake!”

Missing the weak nod from the man, Poppy runs out of the infirmary with her leather bag in tow, unbothered to clean of the blood all over herself.


The deafening silence that is only broken by pained gasps and erratic breathing.

“The muggle injection for the pain you used before, maybe I can —”

“No.” Severus looks at her, eyes sparkling with rare emotion. “Please.”


The unspoken “Stay” is loud and clear in her ears.


“I can summon Mipsy to get it.”

He shakes his head “I want to be… clear… for this.”

She nods, remembering the side effects.

“Hey.” Minerva calls out, seeing how Severus’s eyes are starting to go dull, “better not lose focus.”

The young colleague seems to have found his way back into the infirmary through the fog. He forcefully wipes the pain off his face and raises one brow weakly.

“Why am I in second year… transfiguration class…”

“Not if you keep looking around, no.”

The shaking seems to have gone worse, “Cold?” She asks, and spells the nearby blanket onto him as gently as possible before he even replied.


“Potter?”

Minerva looks at her colleague, pained, but focused.

“He's probably in bed.”

“Malfoy?”

“Them too.” A twinge of guilt rises in Minerva’s chest.


Severus looks around, searching the bloody ground to Poppy's office, to the moon hanging outside the window.

"Do you... have my wand?"

Minerva shakes her head, knowing that Albus kept it in his office drawer, who said he will return it when the spy has recovered.

Severus frowns at that, purses his lips and averts his gaze, looking across empty nightstands in the infirmary, his hand clenching and relaxing, trying to get a hold of his wand in the air.

“Since we are on the wait, how about some poetry.” Minerva tries to bring up one of their favorite topics during their drinking sessions, hopefully distracting Severus from his unease and pain.

That somewhat catches the man’s attention, as there is a trace of a half-smile.

“Don’t tell me… Witch Weekly.”

“I don’t mean those fakes hired by Tobias Misslethrope.”


For some reason, Severus flinches at the name.


“How about a poem from Dylan Thomas?”

Severus, through excruciating slow breaths, raises his head to meet her eyes, questioning.

“You know muggle ones?”

Seeing how her friend is bleeding out in front of her, while ribs are snapped one by one is already overwhelming, yet hearing how he forgets the starting point of their friendship is unbearable.

“You gave me a book during Yule, your second year as a professor at Hogwarts.” Minerva halts when she feels like her voice is going to give out at the disoriented look, “You gave me ‘Selected Poems By Dylan Thomas’” She speaks out each word of the title as clearly as possible, hoping he would remember.


After a moment, he nods in understanding.


“But then, months ago, you told me he wasn’t your favorite poet, and we had a debate over it.” She smiles fondly at the memory, they were drinking, and he was starting to get tipsy at that point, and he proceeds to write a two-foot-long essay on why he then likes another Blake poem better in front of her as they argue.

Severus moves his eyes upwards, looking back and forth at the ceiling. Then, his breath hitched, getting more and more frantic.


CRACK.


Too weak to contain himself any longer, he Severus lets out a harrowing scream, and a sob escapes from Minerva's clenched mouth, the dazed fearful eyes are starting to roam with increased restlessness, to the footboard, the stone tiles, and the elongated windows.

“Severus, look at me.”

He doesn’t respond, he can’t respond, his frail breathing quickening like a panicked animal. He looks everywhere, nowhere, then recognizing something familiar between the jumbled reality he stills, eyes widening at whatever has appeared in front of his eyes.

“Severus, don’t look over there, look at me.” Minerva clutches his shoulder, hugging him just above his chest.

Her friend finally looks at her again, still quivering.


“...because…”

“Yes?”

Severus breathes unsteadily, holding on to whatever is left.

“...Because, the night has always been gentle for me…”

Painfully ironic, as the grave man in front of her is raging against the dying of his light.

Minerva hugs him closer, like a mother comforting her son after a nightmare.

“I’m fine,” he whispers, with a familiar hint of annoyance, blood dripping down from his chin.

Minerva pulls herself together, and forces a chuckle, “ Don't worry, Poppy will be back soon, maybe dragging Albus and the Malfoy's with her by the ear”

Severus look her shoulder, or maybe at the infirmary door.

“Don’t find… Slughorn.”

“Hmm?”

“Slytherin… the children.”

“Severus, no.”

“He’s” Severus rasps “incompetent pig…”

“That’s why you need to be there for them.”

“Please…” Severus's voice starts to tremble “they are children.”

“I know, Severus, I know.”

“Her son —”


CRACK.


Tears are flooding from the usually impassive eyes as he sobs in agony, yet stubbornly clinging onto his eyelashes.

“Shhh, you’re okay, you’re okay.” Minerva feels like she’s only comforting herself at this point

“Watch him...” he speaks between wheezing in pain “watch him… don't send him back...”

“Of course, I promise, Severus, but you have to watch over him with me."


He’s shaking like a leaf in a storm, like a starving stray in a blizzard.


He looks at the crescent moon, the shaking eases as he starts to calm down.

“The sun is rising.” He says, this time sober, his voice steady like it's one of their breakfast conversations at the head table. "it's... beautiful..."

Minerva turns and looks, the sky is still black, the crescent moon is touching the peak of a mountain, the white arc smiling widely at them through the window, its light streaming through the glass onto them, draping over him like a blanket.

“Indeed” Minerva assures.


"Thank you."


She turns back, Severus’s half-opened black eyes are still seizing the moon.


But the life in it is gone, flowing out along the single streak of tears


“Severus?” She shakes the man, whose head was leaning against her chest, now rolls to the left onto her arm.


No.


She grips onto his hand, technically crushing it at this point, hoping the pressure would get his attention.

The hand is relaxed, not trembling at the slightest, and cold as ice.

“No…No… don't.”

She turns Severus’s face back to herself, hugging him close, thinking that he’s just cold, dark voids staring into things that no longer belong to this world


She ignores it when she hears another person’s anguished cry behind him, one choked, and the other’s shocked gasps and murmuring.

She ignores the sound of boots quickly clicking against the stone tile through the crowd behind her, before a figure slowly falls onto her knees at the opposite side of the bed, holding the blackened hand against her face.

She ignores as three more people came in, two coming to a halt at the sight, leaning against the other as she weeps silently into his black cloak.

And when the tip of the sun finally breaks upon the horizon, harsh lines of sunlight come through the window above the bed, covering the man’s face.

She let her tears fall, head touching the man’s still chest, and wails.

With the early sunlight pouring into the room of white sheets come the songs of red-breasted robins. Their chuckles reverberate throughout the silent infirmary, blissful ignorance penetrating the cold walls. The Order along with the handful of teenagers settled down at the opposite corners to the Malfoys in the infirmary; hushed debates and quiet words of comfort, sandwiching exchanges of doubtful looks. The creeping snakes of red have been purged, and any evidence of what might have happened before daybreak has vanished as well, only the usual spotlessness remains.

The Professor has yet to leave her chair behind the half-opened partition, staring dejectedly at the white covers that are fully covering the stillness under, with one hand cradling the bloodless fingers. Her usually fierce eyes ran dry of emotions hours ago, yet continue to keep vigil and brush across the pale hand mechanically, almost like how a muggle would iron out the creases from an expensive shirt.

Dumbledore is nowhere to be seen, presumably up in the tower trying to take care of the aftermath, call for a meeting whatsoever, there was a brief staring match between the School matron and the older man moments before she retreated to her office, proclaiming she needs to collect the unmoving figure's files, which she has been searching for at least an hour, while paper shuffling and sniffing noises seep out of her office.


"He may only be your spy, Albus. But he is also friends with them for more than a decade. Call them, that's the very least you can do for him now ." She said, with a buried fury behind her blank tone.


Harry thinks about how funny and weird he is looking now, the invisibility cloak still wrapping tightly around him, leaving a bodiless head popping among the people surrounding him. The warm hands on his shoulder, two arms circling his, and a reassuring hand squeezing his invisible trembling knee.

And the many hands of the dead holding onto his throat, pulling his neck down.

Is this what Voldermort feels like too? Having a wicked sense of humor next to the corpses he piled up?

Seemingly to answer his thoughts, a burst of pain shoots through his scar, and a renewed sense of mirth forces itself into his mind, he feels happy, and he feels happy for him, as his lips pull into an unwilling gill, the terrified whimper transforms into a snicker. Eyes immediately turn to his direction, gleaming with varying levels of concern.

"Harry?"

"I—I'm" he desperately stifles any sound or imagery of joy, clutching his mouth. "I killed— I'm so sorry, I'm sorry."

Someone is using the corner of his cloak to wipe his tears, so tenderly, but he flinches away, as he does not deserve such things, he tries to struggle his way out of the hugs he is being pulled into,

but the comfort is too tempting, so he gives in, and cries anew. The presence in his head taunts him one final time before the pressure at the scar fades completely, making Harry even more terrified of himself than ever.

The ends of a black robe float into his sight, Harry almost jumped in surprise and relief, thinking he is still alive, and most probably going to sneer at him, he hates that look of disgust very much, but it's ironically an anchor of normalcy.

Professor McGonagall kneels to his level, and slowly wraps her arms around him without a word, pulling him onto her shoulder, rubbing small circles at Harry's shivering back. He can smell the mild soapy scent — the after-effects of a Scouring charm, and the horrid hint of metal he thought was supposed to be gone. He can feel the professor's jaw clenching and relaxing repeatedly as if trying to push words out but failing over and over again. Harry hesitantly hugs her back, hoping his touch won't kill her as well.

"You're safe."McGonagall finally breaks the silence, "And that's all he wanted." she whispers hoarsely.

"The professor is right Harry, we'd only want to see you safe and sound." Mr. Weasley puts a hand on Harry's arm, while the others hum in agreement. His best friends circles around him tighter, Harry is still mad at them, but can't find the energy to push them away either. In response, their head of house wraps them all together. It reminds the boy of one of those historic documentaries he watched in muggle Primary school, cement pillars holding up the shaking roof of a sanctuary, vibrating from the impact of bombs, alas, it collapsed and buried deep along with the dead under layers of debris.

Yes, he is safe now. At Hogwarts with his friends, family, and professors who have done nothing but support and look after him. But what about the others? Ron and Hermione were given information involving the war; the rest of the Weasleys, the professors, Sirius, Remus, and even some Aurors, are all here for him, which means Harry has already pulled them with him into Voldermort's radar. Even the Dursleys, the daily "Harry Hunting", the booming "FREAK" that wakes him up every day outside of the cupboard like an alarm clock. They, too, risk their lives against a powerful and insane wizard to provide shelter for him. Suddenly, the skillet to the head doesn't sound too bad.

He peeks at the Malfoys, who are sitting a couple of beds away from them. Grief and unease weighed over all three of them. Knowing Lucius Malfoy is a death eater, Voldermort must have summoned him when he is hiding in his bed, the aristocrat and his wife look resigned, still fiercely encasing their son in between, shielding him from any incoming threat. Draco Malfoy has his head buried in his hands, and Harry still remembers the scene of the arrogant and prideful year mate breaking down into anguish cries at the bloody scene early this morning, finally having a calming draught forced down into his throat and pulled away from the bedside.


"He's gone." Mrs. Malfoy said with a tone of finality, and Malfoy junior finally stopped struggling in her grasp, while that sentence keeps on replaying in Harry's brain like a broken vinyl record player, a mantra.


He looks over to the figure shrouded under a layer of white, its folds at the deathly pale landscape similar to that of a reassuring smile directed towards the boy; the only, and final gesture of kindness allowed to remain in this world. A single arm dangling by the bedside, uncovered, abandoned, as the hands that used to be cradling it, are now used to comfort Harry instead.

He's right, Harry stiffs, I am a spoilt brat.

The silence and coldness of the silver in his pocket don't rebuke it either.

His grand epiphany is broken off by a floo chime and distant voices, coming from within the school Matron's office.

"Hmm? No, Albus didn't call me. Is it something urgent?" a familiar voice that guides him through harder charms, ever so patient when he got stuck with wand movements. Professor McGonagall must have recognized Professor Flitwick's voice too, seeing how fast she toss her head up in the direction of the muffled conversation. She retracts her arms immediately, leaving Harry a bit bereft, and relieved, standing up as her knees creaks, and briskly walks towards the office past the covered form. Sirius immediately runs in front of him with another crushing hug.

"Poppy? Oh! Filius is here too. What is the matter? Do you need help?" Professor Spout's usual cheeriness rings like a bell throughout the tear-dampened air. "What's wrong? Minerva?" She says again after Madame muttered something illegible, her concern growing. Harry only hears a string of soothing words and gentle queries from both of the recently arrived and renewed sobbing sounds. The words of comfort aren't directed at him, yet Harry feels someone should deafen him so he doesn't get the privilege of listening to it.

He didn't notice when Sirius returned to his animagus form, but there he is now, a black dog slobbering all over his face, attempting to wipe his tears off. It manages to bring Harry into a tentative smile, but it is quickly squashed by the same sense of disgust and guilt.

Merlin, he hates it. He can see the pity around him, can hear people crying, can smile over someone's dead body, can feel his heart being shattered into shards only to have someone pick them up and stab him with it, he can still sodding imagine, while some others can't even fucking breathe anymore.

So he ignores the happenings in the infirmary, and retreats to the comforting memories of cramped days in the cupboard with his own freakishness.

---

"Poppy, where is the Headmaster?" Filius squeaks, who is feeling increasingly disturbed by Poppy's grave expression, and Minerva's breakdown, which has now subdued thanks to Pomona's honed ability to comfort anyone in need. He was engrossed with his research on older charms and wards before the matron asked him to come through the fireplace at his home office.

This summer so far has been rather fruitful in his opinion, when Albus warned them that He-who-must-not-be-named has returned at the end of the tournament, he had been skeptical at first, but after having heard about Mr. Potter's statement and the devastating cries of the Diggory's he decided to make some contributions regarding the school's protections despite declining Albus's offer to join the "Order" due to his inherited affiliation as goblin kin. He may the blood of ferocious goblins in his veins, but he fears what another war will bring, and even more so for the safety of the children, so he poured his heart out into recreating the best wards after he spent a couple of weeks staying at Hogwarts at the start of summer observing them before returning home, he was tempted to ask for assistance seeing the other head of houses.


Judging where he is now, alongside Poppy's reaction towards Albus's supposed floo call, things must be dire.


"That man…" Poppy fingers clutch at the corners of parchments sticking out from the file, she pauses to compose herself, in which Filius pats her hand supportingly, "frankly, I have no idea, in his office hiding perhaps." The barely concealed contempt must have been picked up by the professor, noting how his frown is deepened by her words

"There, there Minerva, it's alright." Pomona still has her arms around her old friend from the moment she stepped into the infirmary and started crying. She has never seen the formidable Deputy Headmistress break into tears like this when Minerva is usually the one lending the shoulder for her each time one of her Hufflepuffs, or any students in general were in harm. "What happened exactly? And why is Albus supposed to be calling us?"

Poppy straightens her back, and steels herself, "Are you both aware of the existence of the order?

The two exchange a quick look, "I assume you are talking about the Order of the Pheonix, yes?" Filius says, the Matron confirms with a jerk of her head, "I was invited to join, but I turned it down, it's a rather active group against You-know-who right?"

"Pomona?"

"Albus didn't talk to me about it, but I've walked into his conversation with Minnie once." She recalls the heated argument in the Headmaster's office when she was about to notify Albus of her leave for the summer. While both of her friends have occasional disagreements, she had yet to have seen Minerva scream at Albus, her face red with anger.


"You are sending him back! After all this mess! Back with those muggles!"


Poppy lightly scratches the corner of her eyes, and takes in a deep breath, "And about Mr. Potter?"

Filius's and Pomona's eyes went wide with alarm "Is the boy-"

"He is safe now, here in the school." Minerva offers them a small smile, but it quickly turns down, and she turns her head away to evade their questioning looks. After a moment or so, the Ravenclaw head of the house picks up something, looking at Pomona, then to Minerva, thinking about Albus, Poppy's questions about the Order, You-know-who, the exhaustion upon a certain friend's face, a blackened dark mark, Mr. Potter's kidnapping, and eventual rescue…


"...Where's he? Is he —?"


Pomona realizes whom and what they are implicating and immediately looks at the matron, visibly alarmed.

"I think…" Poppy briefly presses her hand against her mouth, and slowly breathes out, with a sorrowful glisten in her eyes, "... come with me."

She turns and moves towards the infirmary, face firmly out of their sight, uncaring if they are following behind her. While Pomona gives Minerva a hand with Filius straightening his coat, the two feel their hearts about to burst open from their chests with a terrible sense of foreboding. Noting how Minerva's expression falls even more from dread, they automatically flank her from the sides. Trailing Poppy, they walk past the Malfoys, who only nod their heads in greeting, while the younger Mr. Malfoy doesn't seem to notice their appearance, gazing intently at the tiles on the floor.

The further they trudge into the infirmary, the more Filius is aware of the abundance of cleaning charms used in the room before their arrival, the bitter smell, and a slight sheen on an area of tiles nearest to the obscured bed behind the partition. The two professors notice the crowd, presumably part of the Order, alongside a stricken Harry Potter, cramped in the middle, who looks white as a sheet. The Weasleys, and several others — aurors perhaps, greets them, the combined somber makes their guts churn doubly.


Poppy comes to a halt in front of the blue partition, delicately laying a hand on the edge of the fabric, forming a small gap between the frame. She's shaking, and the separator weighs like iron.


The room went silent, seemingly knowing what is to come, yet the Robins outside don't stop chuckling.


"They are here." She whispers in a steady tone, hoping the message can be heard beyond, and slowly pushes the partition aside

The soft creaks bring Filius back from his whirlwind of thoughts, while he can't exactly see much from his angle, two things made his mind stop:

One, the left hand is completely blackened, the marked arm.

Pomona covers her mouth with quivering hands, taking quick shuddering breaths, "Oh. Oh gods, Merlin you poor, poor —" she stumbles one step backward, gripping onto Minerva's arm for support, before rushing towards the prone figure and holding on for dear life, gently lifting it into her arms, like she usually did with one of her crying Hufflepuffs, tears flowing in torrents with a choked cry.

Two, now Filius can see it as the anguished professor lifts the figure, the white sheet is also covering its face.


Robins chuckle even harder


He moves to grasp onto the covered unmoving limb.


"You will still see me in the morning, Filius. And we will suffer the presence of insolent children at breakfast together." a hoarse voice, dripping with sarcasm, before disappearing in a flash of black robes.

"...How…why?" Streaks of tears flow down from his blurred eyes.

Poppy holds onto the white metallic pole, looking sick, with an audible gulp, she turns to Filius. "I don't know how much I'm allowed to divulge, but—" she lifts another hand to press against her nose. "He's a spy, and on his way back with Mr. Potter, he was cursed." She forces the last word out.

Filius closes his eyes and shakes his head, "Why… but, St. Mungo's?"

"Albus kept him here." Minerva interjects, red-rimmed eyes are cold as steel.

"Too late?" Pomona asks despondently.

"No," the Gryffindor head of house laughs bitterly "four days, this stubborn git was recovering and snarking, then last night…" Minerva fails to continue, overwhelmed with the memories of her friend's final moments.

Pomona carefully pulls the shroud away, the face looks at peace, merely asleep, she is half expecting a snide remark for her "Sickening amount of affection.", the icy surface of the skin tells her it's not possible, not now, not ever.

All the four can do is huddle together like they sometimes do in non-official staff gatherings, make an effort to pull the youngest along with them, not giving him a reason to excuse himself, as they struggle to come to terms with what has befallen them.

---

"So what happens now?" Alastor Moody grunts. Everyone, including those pompous purebloods, now gathered around in the middle of the room, uncharacteristically cooperative. He still can't get rid of the image of a blood-flooded floor upon entering the infirmary early this morning. Despite the things he has seen as working as an Auror, never has he witnessed a slow-acting curse that acts like this when he briefly examined the body.

He grudgingly repspected the spy, despite the obvious mistrust between them. Moody knows how much of a burden the agent carries, having to be a professor, potions master for both sides, and to be tortured almost every time in exchange for intel. Normal people would have gone mad under the pressure and terrible lifestyle, having to have heard tales from his seniors about old Ministry spies before they were disbanded and replaced by Unspeakables, with better systems and insurance. He may not trust the spy much, but there's no denying the hefty amount of contributions the former death eater made.


It's a great loss, as a young lad, and an important asset for the impending war.


"Should we contact his family? Friends?" Molly speaks up, she doesn't know the professor well, outside of what her kids speak of, which is mostly negative. Each meeting the spy is unwilling to talk to anyone outside of reports and retorts at Sirius Black. She herself naturally doesn't trust death eaters, remembering the early demise of Fabian and Gideon, yet Albus has always expressed his trust in him, so Molly did too. There are times when the Spy comes into the meeting looking worse for wear, but as the headmaster always said so, there's always roles sacrifices in war, and her role as a mother is to protect the children.

Looking at the shroud, she's unsure if she's should feel: Relieved, because even as a spy he is still a death eater who works under You-know-who, the same group of people who kills innocents, and torment students at school; worried, because now without a way to gain insight, they will have an even harder time to shield the kids out of harm's way. And without the Slytherin head of house who is supposedly on their side, more death eaters might rise from that house.


Molly knows that the spy must have given up a lot, but her family and friends must come first, she only hopes he understands it too.


"We will take him! He's my—" Before Draco can continue, Lucius grips onto his arm, pulling him back, his heart lurching at his son's confused and hurt expression, but this is a decision he must make for the sake of his family's safety.

"No, Draco." He says firmly, ignoring the questioning look of his wife."We do not associate with…this." he hesitates to even say his name, knowing if the Dark Lord found out the traitor is buried at Malfoy grounds, they would be next, worse, having nothing left to be dumped six feet under. Narcissa looks enraged, but upon seeing the pleading in his eyes, she too seems to understand what might follow if they do as they honestly wish to, she slowly hugs Draco, pulling him back.

"I'm sorry, my Dragon, we can't, the Dark Lord-"

"I DON'T CARE ABOUT THAT, WE ARE FRIENDS! HOW COULD YOU!"

"DRACONIS LUCIUS MALFOY!" His son flinches at his roar, and the throbbing ache only grows in his chest, "Son, please, he wants you safe too, he understands." He shakes the boy's shoulders, begging him to understand, begging the dead to understand. His son looks away and cries earnestly against his mother.

"How could you?" Lucius can feel the eyes under the shroud glaring at him. But the Godfather of Draco will know his father's priority — Familia Ante Omnia, and he had already accepted his fate the night he urged them to leave the Dark Lord's side.


He must understand.


"Both of his parents were unavailable before he graduated." Poppy states, gasps can be heard throughout the room. "His in loco parentis was Albus for a year, but changed to another person for… reasons." She looks at Malfoy Senior intently.

There was a pregnant pause, Minerva looks at the Malfoy Patriarch with disbelief and hatred, in which he has the decency to look away completely, the others turn their gazes away as well, and Mr. Potter is still staring at the covered form emptily.

"There's a small island, near the shore of the lake." Pomona finally finds her voice, "he sometimes goes there for ingredients he planted, having no creatures around, gave me some of them too." She lets out wet chuckle, "He would have liked it, near his own work, and no one to disturb him."

There was a collective sigh, silently agreeing that it would be the best decision, but it was broken off by a loud creak at the infirmary with multiple footsteps.

"I'm afraid this isn't our decision to make, Pomona." Dumbledore walks towards them, his face is grave, but there's an unmistakable twinkle in his eyes.

"Albus? What do you mean?" Filius jumps down from the edge of his bed at the entrance of the headmaster. "I understand it may be a bit unorthodox, but it should be something he deserves, having no other family, and after years of service —"

"No, Filius. I understand that we are all friends, but burial on Hogwarts grounds around young students is inadequate." bending over, he puts a hand onto the part goblin's shoulder. "He may not admit it, but he certainly does not want his Slytherins to see him this way."

Minerva might be starting to get a bit faint, but she thinks she sees Molly nodding vehemently at Albus's reasoning from the corner of her eye

"Please, Albus, the island is away from Hogwarts grounds, almost at the far end of the Great lake. But he can still be near here at Hogwarts, his home."

"I'm sorry, but I really cannot allow that, as much as I am with you." The headmaster replies, placatingly.

Just when Minerva walks in front of the bed to stop Dumbledore from walking toward it, another person walks into the infirmary.

"This better be important, Dumbledore." Everyone immediately turns their focus onto Cornelius Fudge, who marches into the infirmary, visibly annoyed. He takes the lime-green bowler hat off and scans the crowd, "What is going on here!".

The moment Harry recognises the Minister of Magic, whom he tried to give proof of Voldermort's return, yet got discredited and proclaimed him merely traumatised and untrustworthy flinches against Remus who is holding him from behind.

"Auror Shacklebolt, Auror Tonks, Mr. Weasley. Lord Malfoy?" Fudge turns his eyes on Harry, narrow and scrutinizing, "Mr. Potter."

"Sir." He greets back, trying to control the wobble in his voice.

"What are you all doing here? What are you planning Dumbledore?" Fudge sounds increasingly angry, or agitated. His chest puffs up with his hands perching at his rounded waist, looking a lot like a penguin. A golden pocket watch dangles at his waistcoat, glinting mockingly at everyone in the room.

"Calm, I did not plan anything." Dumbledore raises both of his hands as a harmless gesture. He turns to the covered figure, and before anyone around the bed has the time to react, he pulls the shroud off roughly, revealing the body beneath.

"Goodness! This…this gain!" Fudge immediately pulls out the handkerchief from his suit pocket, covering his nose and mouth, his eyebrows pulled down as if he is looking at a piece of rotten meat. He knows that face, the same one sneering and barking at him while shoving the dreaded mark in front of him to prove You-Know-Who's return. Minerva immediately walks in front of the bed, shielding it from the man, the other head of houses alongside Poppy follows not far behind.

"Now, Cornelius as you can see," Dumbledore slightly levitates the soot-colored arm behind the staff with his wand, making sure it is visible to the other man. "Such damage can only be sustained through the Dark Mark, with Voldermort's magic channeling through it."

"Albus!"

"This is preposterous!" Fudge rushes past the professor and grabs the limp arm, but immediately lets it go the moment it came in contact with it, dropping it to the side of the bed. He recoils at the heaviness of the lingering residue of a curse.

"Aurors…Aurors!" the minister snap his head back towards the two young Order members, he points a shaky finger at them, then back to the one on the bed. "Cut that arm and take this thing away! My orders! Now!"

"NO!" Both Harry and Draco yell, and the others too look enraged by Fudge's words.

"Do not interfere, boy!" He turns to Harry, breathing heavily, looking panicked to the brink of madness, "That thing shouldn't be here, it belongs to the dumps in Azkaban!"


The robins outdoors chuckle like there's no tomorrow.


Suddenly, there is a surge of magic that pushes the Minister away from the figure, falling down onto his bottom. He looks up and immediately blanches at the absolutely incensed faces of four staff members.

"Still trying to hide the undeniable truth? Cornelius? Even after the breakout of the inner circle?" Dumbledore looks down at the man, eyes twinkling.

"Shut ye mouth o' I'll blast you out of dis place ye bastard!" Minerva roars at the bearded man, tears of hurt and betrayal falling.

"I'm the Minister! How dare—"

"How dare you! Calling him a thing!" Minerva stabs her wand in the air while using the other arm to shield who she cares behind her, "He's a man! Not some animal to be cut down and thrown aside!"

"My girl—"

"And you!" The wand now pointing closely at the bearded man's chest "Don't tell me, you left him to die, just to prove a sodding point?!"

"I do not—"

"DON'T YOU DARE, DUMBLEDORE!" The Gryffindor screams, "This man, spied for you, for more than a decade! Risking his life! His sanity! To be Crucioed every other day just to keep the whole lot of us safe. And you dare, you dare bring this into your schemes?"

"Minerva, I did not, nor ever do such a cruel thing to him, he understands the price."

Lucius Malfoy lets out a disgusted snort at the statement.

"Don't tell me he understands, Because he never does! He didn't care whatever price he had to pay, do you know why? His last words, were nothing about You-Know-Who, nothing for himself! He begged for others! Pick a competent Head of house and keep the Slytherins safe! Keep the Malfoys safe! AND EVEN HE KNOWS, HE BEGGED ME TO KEEP HARRY AWAY FROM THOSE AWFUL MUGGLES YOU DUMPED HIM WITH! And what were you doing? Take his wand, let him lie here for days, let him bleed himself to death, keeping us from sending him to St Mungo's. Using Slytherins as an excuse to not let him rest in his home, and use him, even as a lifeless body."

Harry breaks into tears all over again, why would he help him? They hated each other, what is going on anymore?

"I held him, you know?" Minerva's wand starts to lower, legs struggling to keep herself up "This proud man, who hated anyone that even dared to hug him, he was in my arms, struggling to breathe, because his ribs are being snapped by the curse. One. By. One."

There are horrified gasps all around the room, some breaking into tears again. Pomona and Filius tend to a weeping Poppy.


"He couldn't grow up properly, couldn't live properly, and now you tell me you're going deny his right to even die properly?"


Dumbledore breathes in, shuddering, and stayed quiet.

Harry can't take anymore, he bolts towards where the professors are, ignoring the calls behind him, and stands in front of his mother's friend.

"Please, sir," Harry fights back a choke, "He healed me, he saved me from them, and he– he died because of…" before he could finish, Professor Sprout pulls him into a tight embrace, burying him into the soft apron, "It's okay, it's okay." Pomona comforts the fragile boy, Filius too pats him on the back, Hermione and Ron too run towards their best friend to join them.

"If you won't do it for him, at least do it for Harry." Minerva pleads, looking both comforted by the children's actions, and sorrowful, using the headmaster's own words against himself.

There's something indecipherable in Dumbledore's blue eyes, he folds his hand in front of his robes, recognising the stance, Minerva looks away, finding it too painful to even look at the man as he gives the ultimatum.


The Robins go silent, waiting for the death's fate.


A booming croak explodes within the infirmary like a canon.


"What the-"

"Who are you!"

"How did they get in?"

The crowd around the bed turns to where the commotion is. A woman, in a dark grey coat dress, hanging onto an almost unhealthily thin frame, she's wearing a plain black veiled hat, every side of her face well-hidden and unseen behind the seemingly thin fabric, leaving only the tied bun and some strands of curled hair out of the mist. Her hands are covered with long stygian silk gloves. Her entire being stands out from the rest of the place as if her existence killed the color of that part of the room. The white collar reaches halfway to her neck, leaving the only visible segment of porcelain skin under her chin, which has a nasty scar all slashing across her throat, as if it is intentionally put on display. The healed skin stretched and wrinkled as she pants, perhaps she rushed to be here. She is standing very still, and no one dares to make a noise or move, even Dumbledore seems shocked by the stranger's appearance in his wards without any forewarning.

There, perching on the woman's right shoulder, stands a bird, a raven. With the confidence of a royal, looking straight ahead, the silver eyes staring straight into Harry's, and the boy recognises it, the same one back in the forest


The woman mutely raises her trembling arm, and points at the unmoving body on the bed.


The Raven croaks again, thick black smoke streams out of its black beak while the bird slowly turns into a stark white from head to toe, the smoke sinks onto the ground, builds up into a rough silhouette of a man, finally dissipating, revealing a tall gentleman around his 70s with frosty long hair in a low ponytail, wearing a long gray coat on top of deep steel blue shirt. Both of his eyes clouded but seeing, his features have a romanesque quality, making him as imperial looking as a marble statue of a Greek God. He blinks calmly at the rest of their aimed wands, then at the woman, then back to the figure she is pointing at.

Gazing straight into every soul of those who are present in the room at once, he smiles serenely, then simply gestured with a movement at his chin.


"He is Severus, correct?"

“a4;ρα να ξυπνήσεις, Σεβέρους.”

Soft white light leaks through the gloved fingers that are covering Snape’s eyes as if the flesh within the fabric is translucent. Harry peaks from behind, having to have heard what the man said about the professor’s odd condition, a glimmer of hope that he doesn’t know still existed rekindled within him, especially seeing how the black veins were miraculously healed with another song-like chant.

The boy catches a glimpse at the woman in the veiled hat, who is standing silently at the bedside, the cut that was made on her hand was no longer bleeding, but leaving a deep red scar, similar to the ones showing on her still bare forearm which she has yet bother to cover. The edges look jagged, yet the position looks intentional, with one long slice straight in the middle crossing the shorter cuts as if it’s carved into her arm as a ruler of some sort.

The man shifts the prone figure in his arms and briefly takes the hand off his face, trying to check if he has regained consciousness perhaps? Harry hopes it’s working, he can tell the other head of houses, alongside the Malfoys are yearning to see the cantankerous teacher up and snarking again.

The man, Decimus Prince? Cocks his head to the side and taps his chin with a finger, deep in thought.

“Madame? May I know all the potions Severus had taken over the week?” Prince’s clouded eyes never lose their sharpness as he focuses on the prone figure, Scanning his other hand across the bare scar-littered torso, stopping at certain points as the same light pulsing at the contact. It’s the first time Harry witness a healer in action, other than Madame Pomfrey of course, but never has he seen them revive a person, let alone do it wandlessly.

“Blood replenishers, energy replenishers, enhanced painkillers, general repairers for internal damages.” Madame Pomfrey rattles out the list of potions she has been pouring into her patient, she walks next to the man, raises her wand, and scans Snape in a similar motion while allowing Prince to take the conjured parchment, the two working in tandem.

The older man briefly moves his sight away from the body onto the text, eyes moving across names and dosages, stopping at the final row of runes.

“Hm.”

“Yes?” The noncommittal sound effectively catches everyone’s attention amidst the tense silence.

Gray gaze pierces into Harry’s eyes, sending an involuntary shiver down the boy’s spine. Seeing this, Dumbledore immediately shields him from Prince’s view, wand outstretched, in which said man merely chuckles in amusement, unbothered by the presence of one of the most powerful wizards in the world.



“You are the one he brought back, child?”



Despite the tightening hold, the headmaster has on his arm, Harry nods, hoping to contribute something, anything.

“Professor Snape,” he stills himself under looks of warning and concern, “gave me a potion to drink, and so did himself and the other death eaters. And when we came back-”

“Ah! He asked me to brew this for Mr. Potter.” Madame intercepts, and quickly takes the folded recipe out of her dress pocket, handing it over to Prince, some purplish stains dotting the edge of the text, perhaps it is from when the matron brewed the antidote for him. “Severus said he was the one who made up the formula, then perhaps…”

The man’s eyes smile at Harry reassuringly and dip his head in thanks, ignores the blatant distrustful look upon Dumbledore’s face, and turns to Pomfrey, “Approximately how much was Mr. Potter’s intake of this?” he points at the boy with the corner of the parchment.



Harry is internally thankful that the man didn’t start making a fuss over him being Harry Potter.



“Three size two vials per day, four days straight, a dose of energy replenishers yesterday morning.”

“And Severus?”

“But he– he said-” Madame Pomfrey stutters, “But he said the antidote won’t work on himself? And I-” Terrified by the implication, she once again reduce to bitter tears at her inability to save a patient, and angry to be easily tricked by the man’s habit of self-neglect. The professors once again pull her into their embraces, having to know about the man’s antics all too well, their expressions of sorrow mixed with frustration.

Prince unhurriedly stands up front the kneeling position, looking at Snape’s brewing instructions fondly like it’s a profound piece of poetry, his eyes glitter under sunlight, replacing the gray haze over the dark spot of the iris with an iridescent sheen. “Ingenious.” He shakes his head in exasperation, the quirk at its lips more prominent, “But also a reckless one, this lad.”

The man begins his way toward Harry, then, a chorus of “Stupefy!” rings around the boy as the Aurors and Dumbledore raise their wands at the outsider. Brilliant flashes of red hurl towards the target, its velocity creating a surge of wind, but the stunners slowly reduce into wisps of glowing silk as it reaches the man, his expression remains placid, and the smile is ever a sealed envelope, it’s genuine and tender, though the lack of mockery or vexation or more twinkling is oddly creeping the boy out a little.

“Had Severus given you anything else, child?” He looks at Harry knowingly.

“My boy, don—”

“He’s tricking the boy! He’s trying to turn him into one of them!” The minister looks like he’s just got chased by the nesting dragon from the tournament, his bowler hat toppling out of his ruffled hair. Fudge stumbles backward and attempts to hide behind the line of Order members while pushing them forward, “Get on and arrest him! This is insubordination!”

Prince raises his eyebrows, and lets out a mirthful chuckle, his eyes shimmering orbs of mercury. “I thought I said I’m not one of them, minister, I am no fool to walk into a room full of Aurors even if I am a… Death eater? Is that what they are called?” He looks at the mute woman, who is still standing dutifully next to him. Eileen, Harry remembers how Mrs. Weasley reacted at the name, gave the man a curt nod, then her hands methodically gesture something, fingers doing an elaborate dance, then it occurred to him that she is signing.

“It’s– There’s no way, all the Princes are, you’re supposed to be–” Fudge stammers, looking like he’s about to faint, “Dumbledore! You ensured–”

“That we are missing? Exiled? Dead? Assassinated, perhaps?” the man looks straight at the minister, the gentleness in his voice makes everyone’s hair stand up at their backs. To Harry, if what the man is implying doesn’t prove his point, then what he shows next probably does the job.

“Decimus Prince” loosens his neatly tied cravat with a finger, and lightly pulls down the collar of his white shirt. A series of darkened flesh rimmed with a sickly pale green comes into view, each decaying matter is in various sizes, of a rough marquise shape, all across the collarbone like an arc, judging by more dark points pointing out under the white layer, the inflicted wound might have been radiated outwards from the chest, almost like a fully blossomed lotus. Harry hears gasps around him, as well as mutterings of confusion, Hermione and Ron, who are still sandwiching him huddle closer, visibly upset by the display. It was brief, but the bookish girl’s eyes light up for one second when she spots the pin. If it weren’t for this tense moment, Harry and Ron would have been begging for answers from their friend.

If anyone knows something, it would be ‘Mione.


“Who are you?” Dumbledore grills, stepping forward and raises a hand, signaling the people to back down, and acts as a human shield for Harry. Never has anyone seen the benevolent and indomitable headmaster stiffen in such a way, not even in the face of the greatest dangers, say, You-Know-Who himself.

“I’m the Overseer of the Prince’s Assemblage.” He puts a hand over his heart, and does a light bow, “Ah, I think in terms of a House, my position would be ‘Lord to the House of Prince’. If you believe me that is.”

“The Princes have ever only bore the title of an heir out of tradition…” Dumbledore frowns, while the others look expectantly at him for answers, but Hermione beats him to it, Brown eyes sparkling with curiosity and wonder.

“That would mean, the myth is real?” She gasps before Mrs. Weasley flies her way next to Hermione, clutching her by the shoulder and holding her back, hysterically saying something about “dangerous” and “don’t associate” in a hushed tone at the brim of a breakdown, which the rest of Weasleys try to pull her away while keep sending questioning looks at the older witch.

“Unfortunately, little miss, the myth happens to be real. I am cursed to live, for Hecate knows how long.” the Lord smiles, albeit with a hint of wryness. “Well minister, knowing your doubts, how would you like me to prove myself?” he turns to the portly man who flinches at the switch of attention.

Malfoy senior glances at the cowering Minister of Magic, then at his wife and son, hoping what he does next can earn favor from the mysterious man and save his family in its entirety.

“The third branch of the Prince Assemblage, also known as the House of Prince, is first founded in Italy. Unlike the rest of the truly magical, there were no strict rules regarding naming heirs based on kinship prior to their arrival amongst the English Wiccans, but intellect and capabilities. No Prince has reached beyond the status of heir since its founding due to no confirmed death of the Lord. As such, the Head to the House of Prince has always been Heir Prince caused by the will of magic and the descendants’ respect.” He recites, as all the contents of “ History of Blood and Power–113th edition ” were engraved into his mind at the age of six as a part of pureblood education, Abraxas made sure to quiz him every hour each day, back when he still cared.

At Lord Prince’s encouraging smile, Fudge’s suddenly eager look, and the vein that is starting to pop on Dumbledore’s temple, Lucius Malfoy continues.

“The Prince heirs, regardless of their blood or gender, will undergo a different blood adoption procedure and become an heir or heirs-in-line, hence it is believed all descendants can inherit the same magical power as their predecessors. During their time in Britain, the house of Prince is mostly known for Alchemy, Mind Arts, Healing Arts, and Warding. Which made them be recognized as the 29th House to be listed amongst the old Sacred Bloods despite not being truly pureblood. The first Heir Prince rose within the English isles — Grania Aerlis Prince, born, a known sole Addolimens practitioner within England— a subcategory of mind arts, used said practice as a mind healing method. It is rumored that Lord Prince was the one to invent the illusion—projection ability, but the method was soon lost to both time and the Prince’s exile. The author of Pure-blood Directory — Cantankerus Nott, did not include the House due to their departure from the British Wizarding Society before the editing of the book. ”

Malfoy pauses to catch his breath, as the others look ardently at him for more. Hermione in particular looks like a man in the desert spotting an oasis.

“In 1740, Eldritch Diggory, the Minister of Magic at the time, commissioned the Assemblage for stronger warding around Azkaban to prevent muggles from discovering the Prison’s location. It is unknown whether the wards are still intact after the Ministry denounces the House due to an heir in line’s actions in 1945, namely escaping the arranged bonding between the house and a High ranked Ministry Official and, discovered to be married to Muggleborn or Muggle man, and the subsequent birth of their child.” the man says the last word with a sneer.

Lord Prince nods his head in thanks, while Fudge’s paling face makes him look even more constipated, Dumbledore’s magic is starting to heat the air around him, and Harry immediately takes a step back to where Professor Sprout is upon seeing the irate face.

“How did you know that?”

Malfoy senior elegantly crosses his arms in front of his robes and huffs at the indignant tone, “Just because you deemed certain history books about old families written by us purebloods are ‘too dark’ and ‘biased’ for the public masses, it does not mean we would let our children grow ignorant of their lineage and alliances, without those, the Wizenmagot shall be in ruins.” He drawls, one eyebrow raised challengingly.

“It already is.” Moody mutters, shooting a glare at the aristocrat.

Harry forces himself not to smirk at the minister’s dropped jaw, who instantly straightens himself at everyone’s stares with a cough, shaking hand rubbing his chin.

“Ah, L- Lord Prince, if you could…?”

“Oh?” The man is having fun, Harry thinks, “I thought you considered me a threat?”

“That– That is because…”

“While you have decided to eradicate most of my hiers in line, I have no desire to wreak havoc upon this place, I have seen dementors, and they are decidedly unpleasant.”

“But what about, the failed alliance, and the dark?” Fudge inquires in a quivering voice.

Prince blinks a couple of times before chortling, his eyes narrowing with merriment “My, such narrative you have spun Dumbledore!” He glides a finger up and down at the bridge of his nose. “While we were quite distraught by your predecessors’ decisions to hunt down the missing child as a bargaining chip for our services, the failed forced bonding would not have denied the assistance the ministry asked for.” the man pauses for a second, “that is until people decided we have betrayed them and would soon become a threat if the ‘other side’ requested for the Assemblage,” he says, dropping the voice to a low tenor, looking intently at the headmaster.

“There’s a reason we don’t name ourselves ‘Kings’, but despite being Princes, we don’t bow easily either, we will give our services and work for a cause…” Mercury eyes now look intently at the man hiding behind the crowd, “A worthy one of course.”

The minister lets out an undignified “eek!” at the piercing gaze, Mrs. Weasley tries to puff up defiantly, but deflates at the mention of “hunting down the missing child”.

“As for the alleged cooperation with Tom Riddle, or Lord Voldermort—”


There’s a collective flinch in the room.


“Don’t!” Fudge raises a hand, “He’s dead already! There’s no need to say—”

“Then there is no need to fear a dead man’s name, let alone a taboo.” Prince says casually, then cocks his head, “Unless?” the encouraging smile once again makes its appearance.

Seeing the trembling man has nothing to say, Lord Prince shakes his head exasperatingly, he raises three fingers and speaks, “Hear me, oh Lady of Magic. I, Ydragyros Agnolo Principe, youngest of the three Principals, Overseer of the Prince Assemblage, and Lord to the Third Branch, swear on my magic that I had not directed my former heir, Decimus Prince, and her granddaughter Eileen to provide any information or services toward forces opposing the British Ministry of Magic, nor do I have given them myself. My current purpose within these lands means no harm to the Ministry, but to seek out a solution to a problem. So mote it be.” A soft light encircles the man, slowly swirling upwards to the tip of his index finger, forming into a bright golden orb, almost like a mini Sun.

“Does that satisfy you, Minister?” The Lord extinguishes the light with the snap of his fingers, calmly looking at all of the bewildered faces, even Dumbledore has his eyes wide open like saucers, his mouth slightly agape at the truthful revelation, and the hand that has been clutching Harry’s arm goes slack momentarily.

“T– The mind arts… do… do it now.” Yep, Fudge is fainting any moment now.

“You look quite overwhelmed already, Minister. Do you really wish me to do so?” Prince uses the same concerned tone that Madame Pomfrey has, a caring one, but also very suggestive.

At Fudge’s frantic nodding, Lord Prince complies.

He cleans the cut around his bare hand with a wave, then puts on the black glove once more. He raises both of his hands, and with a thundering clap, the Prince intones:

"Addolimens."

It sounded like a harmony of people, of thousands of languages, accents, at different ages all at once, then…


A flare of light, glowing apparitions comes forth behind the man, hands outreached to the crowd witnessing. The infirmary becomes crowded with golden phantoms, some of them wearing the same sets of robes with different insignias, their hoods overshadowing half of their faces, while the others are in all kinds of clothing from different countries, Harry recognizes some in the same uniform as Viktor Krum at the Yule Ball, these people wear glowing rings of different shades light. Some of them are looking at different directions, four particular figures that has the same scars on Lord Prince’s body are looking at some of the order members. Two brighter figures are standing behind Lord Prince, a man in garments that of Middle-east origins, and a woman with a gold crown and long robes, her hand holding a bundle of plants.

Then Harry noticed, that he is beginning to feel a familiar pulsing warmth radiating from the sphere that is still in his pocket, when he looks down, a small, glowing and blurry apparition standing close next to him, his small hands in holding onto harry's larger one. The same boy from those dreams. Looking around, no one seems to notice the little boy that is holding onto him though, he meets the ever-changing colors in Lord Prince’s eyes, who seems to see the same thing as Harry. He nods in confirmation.

Lord Prince calls off the phantoms with another clap of his hands, and the little boy is gone. He then asks, “If I may? Mr. Potter?”

That breaks everyone out of their trances, with the silver in Harry’s outreached hand, calls of “Harry! No!” and “Mr. Potter!” are ignored, just before Dumbledore manages to yank his hand away, the sphere in his palm comes alive, thin silvery wings extend from the middle of it, engraving surfacing from the reflective surface, exactly like a snitch, after a few tentative flaps, it circles above them just like a real one would in at the pitch. Despite the abundance of questions he has in his mind, Harry can’t help but look at the silver snitch in wonder as it unknowingly gives him a sense of hope, and true joy ever since the end of the tournament.

The small object landed on Prince’s shoulder, he delicately picks it up and inspects, rotating it in his fingers.

“Intricate, completely functional, and work as intended… you must really enjoy being a quidditch seeker, do you?” The older man queries, then grins at Harry's flushed face.

“It was kind of a wand, when the professor gave it to me.” He admits, ignoring the mystified faces around him.

“It is a self–procured focus stone, instead of an induced one.” the man cups the sphere between his palm and presses it tightly, “While it’s usually used for meditations, amateur Alchemists use it for guidance to achieve better intent or energy flow, there are also more creative uses to it, as long as the wielder has the resolve to do so, it can be of any shape.”

“But, why a snitch?” Harry asks.

“When Severus gave you this in wand form, I assume it was for self-defense? You may think of this as a part of the lad, it has its own memory and magic and depending on how he created this, even low levels of sentience. His objective is imbued into this object, and it will accompany the wielder’s needs, in this case, yours.”

There is a muffled crack between the gloved hands, and something drips out of its creases, Lord Prince smiles in satisfaction.

“Here is my hypothesis, in a situation where he is either trying to protect you and get you out of danger, Severus would will it into an offensive weapon, while try to keep your mind collected at precarious situations for an easier rescue, as such, based on his own memory and what he may know about you, the focus stone itself will create imagery or change physically to remind you of something pleasant, giving you a sense of security.”

“Does it… include voices too?” Harry’s mind is completely blown off by the exact description of his experience, “Snape” and “Comforting”, oh Merlin.

“I am correct then,” he chuckles, hovering near the potion master, prying the bloodless lips open, then pours the liquid down his throat. “It is a good thing that he did not ask it back, now we can use it to revitalize his bodily functions.”

“What does that mean?” Professor McGonagall suddenly asks, desperate to know what will happen to her colleague.

“The potion Severus, Mr. Potter, and the rest of Mr. Riddle’s followers drank is called ‘Draft of Transference’, which has to do with both draining and refilling what most people like to call ‘Magical energy', in other words— how fast your magical core can regenerate. In short, the antidote Severus came up with allowed Mr. Potter to regenerate his own core faster by draining the others. The draft itself allows all of their magical cores to be linked for a short period amount of time. Said headache is a common reaction to a depleted or yet to be fully recovered magical core, hence the lad ordered the boy to take more doses for a faster recovery, which should be before the Death eater’s found the solution.”

“...That would mean…” Lady Malfoy gasps, shivering in her place, and remembers going through the headquarters to give each affected follower potions.

“If by the time the link between those people and Mr. Potter’s are closed off, then the boy would have been continuously taking the regenerative energy from the lad, which would also mean he reopened a link, and judging by the results, he most certainly did, and understood the consequences of doing so.”

Harry retches on an empty stomach as the others rush to help him. He did it, he actually killed the professor, he killed—

“Ah, while his core would be depleted, it simply takes a month or two to fully recuperate its effects in normal circumstances, but then again, he was affected by a soul-binding curse from whatever Black Family artifact he was attacked with, alongside the connection between his mark and Mr. Riddle. The two factors are enough to keep most of his system and consciousness barely functioning, but enough to experience the torture in his mind, and the deterioration of his own body.”

That didn’t mean Harry is blameless either, tears once again drenched the boy’s face, Lady Malfoy too weeps silently against Malfoy Senior’s chest.

Giving the boy a sympathetic look, he does one final scan and beckons him to come forward. “I think the lad can use your help, child.”

“That is enough, Mr. Prince.” Dumbledore suddenly switches back to the grandfatherly, concerned tone, the wand already sheathed back into his sleeve. “Harry has been traumatised enough, allow this old man to offer some help in his stead, I hope you will accept it as my sincere apology.”

Harry is about to protest but finds his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, and his feet heavy like lead, he struggles against the invisible restraints to no avail, while hoping Lord Prince wouldn’t interpret his lack of reaction as reluctance, he’s not going to stand aside and do nothing this time.

Prince turns to the older wizard with a smile of feigned bemusement, “Hm? I thought you were quite content to have the lad choke on his own blood for he has outlived his usefulness? May I ask what changed your mind?” With another snap of his fingers, Harry is freed and the boy goes next to the man in a few determined strides, Madame Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall following close behind.

“Severus may be a spy, but our friendship is not forgotten to me.” the Headmaster says, ignoring the glares from certain people in the room, “Perhaps those eyes of yours aren’t perceiving things as well as they should?”

Lord Prince looks visibly amused at the jab but ignored him. “Eileen, if you will hold down Severus’s shoulders, and Mister Potter, release your hold from the focus stone when you are ready. Madames, use the reviving spell together after mine if you will.”

“Um, but how do I release it?”

“If there’s a person you can recognise from the imageries, simply focus on them in your mind and kindly urge them back to the original wielder.” The man explains as he places his hand over the professor’s eyes again.

Looking back at the school Matron and Professor’s hopeful look, Harry summons up his resolve and shuts his eyes tightly, trying to build up the same field of white and purple flowers, of a beautiful little girl, a boy in oversized clothes, a fuzzy ball of fur, the innocent joy. Then, he sees it—

---

A seam of light appears across the dark horizon, Harry breaks into a run towards the white field, skipping a step at the first lily, he looks around and spots the familiar figure.

“Mum!” He calls out to the red-haired girl, while carefully navigating his way towards her without trampling the ethereal flowers. The child snaps her head around, fiery hair spinning behind, her shock immediately transforms into a blinding beam. Putting down the wreath she has been weaving, his mother comes running and crashes into the open embrace, jumping excitedly.

This is happiness. Harry thought, bitter tears flooding, knowing that he may never see his parent’s in real life, let alone enjoy a blissful moment with them. “Mum, listen” He quickly wipes his tears away before the girl can spot them, “You need to go back to the Professor, he uh, he needs your help!”

The girl looks up to him with a pout, probably because he asked her to leave straight after their reunion, after a moment of consideration, she moves her head to one side, and mouths.


“Professor?”


Harry slightly panics at his mother’s confusion, perhaps back then she didn’t know that Snape got hired by Hogwarts. But weren’t they friends? “Professor Snape, you’re friends with him right?”

“Severus?” She mouths again, eyes brightening, she turns around to look across the field, then points at a black figure at the far end happily.

“Yes, you need to help him!” his mother seems to catch on that Harry won’t be going with her, while a bit deflated, she gives harry one final hug and runs towards the shade.

Harry can’t but reach out his hand as his mother runs away, hoping to be held by her just a little while longer, but as the girl reached the figure with ungodly speed, his concentration is broken by a voice next to him.

---

“Aktiraq. Safíneia.”

“Reenervate!”


He opens his eyes, panting heavily , the adults waiting in bated breath as Lord Prince frowns in concentration as he silently heals the professor.

Suddenly the limp body arches into the air, convulsing but immediately hold down by the woman with the veiled hat, until finally, a horrible sound that resembles a drowning man gasping for breath tears its way out from the professor mouth, followed by hacking coughs, but to Harry, it’s the best thing he has ever heard in months.

“Madame, the vitals.” the Prince inspects the man’s pupils again, while the woman her hand on top of the chest of the once again limp figure. Madame Pomfrey immediately whips out her wand and scans all across the professor.

“Oh Gods… thank Merlin!” Madame Pomfrey sobs at the rhythmically pulsing white light at the tip of her wand, Professor McGonagall, immediately pulls the matron into a tight embrace, eyes full of tears, and hope. “I… don’t know what to say, thank you, thank you so much.”

The room is filled with awed gasps, the head of houses and the Malfoys, even Lucius Malfoy broke into tears of relief. Professor Sprout and Flitwick join in the group hug, muttering words of comfort to the overwhelmed healer and Gryffindor's Head of House.

Lord Prince turns to Harry, then pats his shaking back, “Very well done, Mister Potter.” he says with a warm smile.

Such a simple sentence in a similar voice, yet it Makes Harry cry all over again, his words are almost like a balm over a deep cut, receiving the approval that he has been unknowingly yearning for.

“Sorry to break this wonderful moment, may I have your attention for a moment, please? It’s regarding what Severus might require during his recovery.” He lightly interrupts them.

That catches the group’s attention, while Poppy keenly conjures a self-inking quill and parchment, the woman dressed in dark monochrome is signing frantically at Lord Prince, possibly protesting.

Prince sighs, and rubs the woman’s shoulder comfortingly, “I know, dear Eileen, but there is no way for them to allow us to take the lad with us, it will be better to have him heal in the environment he is most familiar with.”

Miss Eileen makes a strangled noise, but ultimately nods at her Sire’s decision.

“Severus will stay unconscious for at least a day or two as he recovers both physically and magically, in case he wakes up within that period, do sedate him as he will be in a panic from the inner torment he was released from. When he fully regains consciousness, pain, nausea, and fatigue are inevitable, however, do use non-magical remedies, as the magical qualities in potions might make his magic spike even more from the initial core regenerative period. If the flesh around the sealed wound becomes inflamed, small amounts of dittany on the surface will help, medicine for external use will not affect his regeneration.”

“Noted.”

“As for this,” Lord Prince lifts the still blackened arm of the professor, “I’m afraid I can not decipher what link is between Tom Riddle and this mark as it seems…odd, and unlike other Death eater’s mark I have studied.”

He takes off his still wet glove and ties it around the darkened wrist, in a blink of an eye, it burns into cinders, leaving lines of whitened runes against the bare corrupted flesh.

“This should deactivate the mark for now, and whatever he insists, force him to rest in the hospital wing for a week, that is the bare minimum before the pain subsides a considerable amount. And judging by the stubbornness in the letters he sent me, I can tell he is a difficult patient.”

That significantly lightens the mood within the infirmary.

“I mean no offence Lord Prince, but where were you planning to take Severus? We’ve rarely heard anything about those he associates with.” Professor Flitwick speaks up with curiosity.

“To Italy. Since I have been commissioning the lad for some while, and himself being part of the International Potions Conference, which now works autonomously from the Assemblage, he’s an unofficial member under us, the scholars from the hall have been hoping he would be a part of their circle. Regardless, he will always have a place there.”

“Oh? But why not make it official? Wouldn’t a Death Eater stain your records?” Dumbledore asks, Harry thinks he might be taunting the Prince, but it was probably his own imagination.

“Well, I offered, but he was quite adamant at his refusal, the reason being his duty in Hogwarts. I was slightly confused at first though respected said decision, but now I understand the…complexity behind his position.” He eyes at the mark, then at the order members, finally landing his gaze on Dumbledore.

“Well, I think I shall stop overstaying my welcome, do ask Severus to write to me when he is well enough, I hope to visit him again when he has recovered if that is permissible?”

Dumbledore considers for a moment, “Of course, you are welcomed here.” he replies in his usual grandfatherly tone, blue eyes twinkling.

“Albus!” Mrs. Weasley shouts but immediately goes quiet seeing the man shaking his head.

“You have my thanks. Let us go, Eileen.”

Miss Eileen stands still for a moment, looking at the unconscious professor, before turning away to catch up with the man.

“Ah! Please Wait!” Fudge suddenly calls out, pushing his way through the crowd from the hiding.

“Is my proof not valid enough, Minister?” Lord Prince asks with a hint of humor, his eyebrow raised.

“No no no, it’s ah,” Minister Fudge wrings his hand together, flashing a flattering smile with teeth, “Would you like to reclaim your seat? I think the Wizenmagot and the Ministry can benefit from your experience and expertise. We will disperse any unwanted voices regarding your prestigious house.”

“Cornelius—” Dumbledore tries to interrupt.

Lord Prince looks at Miss Eileen as she gestures something resembling a house, crowds and people talking, with both hands with bent index and middle fingers moving up and down alternatively at the end of the silent sentence.

“Ah.” The Lord grimaces, turning back to the simpering Minister, “I am not particularly fond of politics, especially amidst another rise of conflict. But perhaps I will request an Assemblage member to stand in my place, or when we find the lost remaining heir, if our presence is truly necessary.”

“Of course! The Ministry shall provide a hand in finding your heir.” the shorter man deliberately ignores the “conflict part”.

“Oh?” He bows slightly to meet Fudge’s level, and his friendly expression drops to a cold, impassive one, much like a certain professor, Harry thought, “And kill them again?”

The Princes straightens back at the minister’s terrified face and chuckles amiably, “Merely joking. Have a nice day, ladies and gentlemen.”

Lord Prince turns and breathes out clouds of thick black smoke, slowly engulfing himself. The black smoke is then breathed in by the white Raven now landed on Miss Eileen’s shoulder, its snow-white feathers once again turning into their original shade of midnight. The woman looks back at the professor one more time, and with an explosive croak, they apparated away.

Harry is still trying to process whatever just happened, Ron and Hermione now next to him, watching their Head of House as she pulls the revived man into an embrace, the Malfoys too, making their way towards the bed.

“Bloody hell.” his two best friends mutter at the same time.


Yeah, bloody hell.

“It’s… Beautiful…”

Severus lifts his hefty arm to touch the warm golden sun rays from the top of the mountain through the window. Having to dwell in the dungeons for most of his life, the only indication of another day’s arrival is his own body clock from years of insomniac tendencies, and the pleasant lighter shade of pine green outside his bedroom window.

A long time ago when he met up with a friend on an early winter morning, they raced to the hilltop, and sat under the withered tree. Actually, she’s the one sitting right now, and insisting that he should lie down, Da had a particularly bad day.

Severus brush his fingers across the grass beneath, it’s silky, and a little damp, maybe someone started watering them again, clean water, not the ones with green bubbles on them.

“Indeed.” Minerva says. Minerva? Did they have too much of a drink? No wonder they can see the Sun, there are in her quarters. The man tries to look around the room, but is entranced by the welcoming light in front of him. Everything is the trees and towers outsides swirl together in a harmony outside the glass pane, cups and bottles flickering around him. He might— he might— he is definitely going to have the headache of the century tomorrow but his head feels lighter than ever, there is no instinctual urge to occlude himself, there is no need to hide anymore.

“Oh Sev, are you—” Lily giggles, oh her voice, they ring like the crystal chimes from the Yule orchestra, clear and enchanting, “are you getting drunk from butterbeer?” She covers her mouth with Mrs. Evans’s hand-knitted mittens, face flushed with laughter.

He wants to answer, and laugh along, but finds himself too tired to lift his head, it’s warm and comfortable, was he cold before?

“Come on!” She gets up from the bench and extends her hand while beckoning the waiter to help clear up the table. “Let’s go!”

“Thank you.” he says, as best as he can, then he holds onto her, not letting go.


The captivating light engulfs his sight…


…


“Rus.”


Severus startles awake by the presence behind.

“Why am ya on the floor.” a layer of mist in the shape of a man appears at the corner of his eye, Severus immediately tries to block his mind off, but his mind stays bare to the impending threat.

“The fan broke.” He finds himself answering, in the voice of a boy, and sounding… very northern. “An’ the floor’s cold.”

The man is now standing next to him, he doesn’t walk, just happens to be there like he apparated, torn worker boots covered by a sheen of tar fitting into the square floor tile next to him, back straight like a soldier, he lies down next to Severus as he attempts to make out the entity’s features. Straw-colored hair in a curtain cut, stained white shirt in worn-off suspender straps, the man’s stubble slightly scratching at his chin, the scent of alcohol and smoke filling the air.


No, it can’t be…


“Da!” He giggles despite being thoroughly sickened by his father’s oily and calloused finger brushing his cheek, “Yaw hands too warm! Ya makin’ me sweaty again!”.

“But I’m cold, Rus. Why y’am I so cold?”

Don’t look. DON’T LOOK DAMN IT! Severus fights against his body, trying to look anywhere into the white space but the man. His strands of unwashed hair briefly obscure his sight as his head involuntarily turns towards him.


“Da?”


His father’s gunmetal irises are half rolled to the back, saliva dripping from the corner of his blue lips, forming a small puddle onto the tile, a potent stench of beer and burnt sulfur coming out of his gaping mouth. A hole at his right temple, thick streaks of red and grey flowing and covering half of his face. A thick noose is tied loosely around the neck, showing a ring of purple skin underneath, its end reaching somewhere far above the unknown space’s ceiling, if there is one.

“Why, John,” the cadaver speaks without moving his mouth, raising his fleshless hand and clamping onto Severus’ chin with such force he can feel the white bones impaling his cheek.

“Why… John…” he repeats, despair evident in those unseeing eyes, “Why can’t ya just be John?”


A Surge of red overwhelms the younger’s senses, as he tries to fight his way out, someone is pulling his arms back while a hand holds his head down into the pool of blood.

“20 more seconds. The power of the Lord shall expel the evil within.” Someone says through the violent waves he is causing as he thrashes. The liquid starts to rush its way into his nose, his ears, his mouth. His stomach warms and fills up repulsively, the taste of copper dominates his rational thought. Severus keeps struggling for air, but he never drowns, nor do the people around him seem to bother with counting.


Mother’s dull eyes peers upon his pathetic form.


“We do not associate with… this.”

“He understands.”

“ I’m sorry, but I really cannot allow that.”


Voices, familiar voices around him, sends him sinking down to the endless bottom of crimson. Someone grips his left arm, holding onto the particularly painful spot.


“Take this thing away!”

“It belongs to the dumps in Azkaban!”

“He understands the price.”


His knees knock onto something as his whole body follows down, lacking the strength to hold himself up.


“Her son is the proof of her treason to the light.”

“If it weren’t for you and that spawn !”

“That man is a danger to society!”


Somewhere at the corner of his eyes, a door opens and a woman tightens his grip around the leather suitcase, and turns around.


Mother’s dull eyes peers upon his pathetic form.


“This… everything… you…” Her usually impassive features now marred by a hate-filled grimace, her voice is hoarse and raspy, the faint handprint at her neck bold under the mocking sunlight beyond that dreaded door, she flinches at each word as it pains her physically even to talk, but she persists.


“It was a mistake.”


Her figure blends into the endless red alongside the door, and there’s only him left.


He screams and screams, but no one can hear him anyway, he curls into himself, as there isn’t a corner to back himself into, pulsing pain coursing from his side to all over his body, twisting and cramping. Accursed veins continue to coil around his body, dragging and slowly breaking it into pieces, like a vulture tearing the flesh of its prey by each fiber.

Severus can feel somewhere in his mind is starting to crumble, now with the absence of his impenetrable walls, the influx of imagery and heartaches starting to eat at his sanity.


[ a4;ρα να ξυπνήσεις, Σεβέρους ]


A voice calls down from the surface of the pool, but it stands out from the persistent gurgling surrounding him. The low voice booms like a war horn under the agonizing desolation, its warning clearing away the stabbing words. A Cascade of pale grey clears through the deep vermillion, like strands of satin, threads of mercury rain down and start to pile on the dim floor around him, slithering atop his shunned form and caressing his invisible wounds.

The silvery gray paints over the discombobulated red, he feels his body slowly freed from the restraints, and a new scenery builds up from the ruins.

His clothes hang onto his tiny from as he sits atop the hill under the withered orchard, the grass replaced with a field of lilies, and the moment he spots her across the white field, he is more shocked than joyful to know that he, of all people, deserves Heaven.


It’s finally over.


As he delicately plucks the lily from the small freckled hands, the young child dashed into his chest and hugs him tightly, the one thing that has kept him going. Beyond the blurry pools of tears, he spots another figure down at the edge of the slope. Another boy with a mop of ruffled dark hair, the torn and baggy t-shirt hanging by the seams, the boy’s face is clouded, but he can tell he’s looking at them with relief. The longer Severus’s gaze lingers on the boy, the more he is able to discern his features — slightly sunken cheeks, hunched narrow shoulders, heavy eyebags under the striking Avada green—

Suddenly, the little girl in his arms pushes him into the grass, but instead of landing on the ashen petals, he falls through floor, into an inverted world, and is pushed back into the abominable pool, albeit a deep forest color, much like the bottom of the black lake. He’s falling, but also reaching the surface


[Aktiraq. Safíneia.]

[Reenervate!]


A terrible throb runs across his body, a violent movement at his chest, air painfully forces its way into his relaxed lungs, his entire body flung out off the water, yet still falling through into the pale gray sky.

No, please, let it end. Remembering the spells he heard across the air, he pleads silently to whatever Merlin forsaken meddlers to stop bringing him back from the reprieve he has so coveted.

He lands harshly on something and wakes with a shout, a horrible bright light blue hue punctures his eyes as his body explodes in a new wave of pain. Severus can’t help but flinch at the birds’ high-pitched taunts.

“...pr’fesser… pr’fesser!”

A giant hand roughly grabs and shakes his right shoulder, making Severus curl up in agitation, his mental shields once again fail to erect at his command, and by now he could feel something all over him, things that are tying him down onto the unknown surface, his lungs continue to constrict achingly while he inhales desperately in an attempt to clear his head, unable to determine whether he is still in enemy territory.

“Madame! The pr’fesser!” The man shouts, which makes the ringing in his head even more thunderous, he pushes the threatening hand away pathetically to no avail, another figure dressed in white and red comes next to his bed and points something at him, “Hagrid hold him down.” the commanding voice of a woman, a lot like the sisters from the Cokeworth Catholic church, made him hold his breath instinctively to brace for another impact.

“Not again… please… I didn’t…” he hears himself begging shakily as he continues to attempt removing himself from the strong grips on his body, a bad move, they will most definitely hold him under it longer upon hearing the weak protests.

“Shhh… you’re safe Severus…. It’s alright.” She soothes, rubbing something along his lower abdomen that has an herbal scent to it, yet his mind is too jumbled to identify anything. The cool tip of metal pricked into his skin with the acute sensation of liquid injected into his veins. Soon enough his eyelids began to droop and his mind is losing the fight against the tempting sleep, his erratic breathing slowly evens out.

“Go to sleep Severus.” she encourages, pulling the warm sheets higher, and gently running a hand through his hair.

The large hand releases its firm grip and pats on his other arm, “Get well soon pr’fesser.”


His eyes fall shut, finding himself back in the fog gray space, in his younger mind and body, yet his heart is at peace, distant tapping noises of rain prove to be companionable as Severus traverses leisurely through the space. He spots a rectangular shadow ahead, curious, he tugs the torn coat tightly around himself, and wills his bare feet to carry him at top speed.

Approaching the spot, he sees a room with its interiors visible, as if the wall where the door is supposed to be simply vanished, leaving a five-faced cube. The room has pale yellow walls, layers of umber bricks lining the lower half, a set of wooden chair and desk with an antique oil lamp next to an opened leather-bound book, and a cupboard in flames standing against what is supposed to be the missing wall, and a petite boy sitting on top of the small metal-framed bed, looking out into the rain beyond a single green framed tall window, though Severus is certain that there is nothing beyond this room except the gray space.

The boy’s dark hair is neatly parted to one side, wearing a slate blue shirt under a dark green jacket, cotton knee-high socks, and polished black shoes hanging off the edge of the bed, almost touching the ground. Despite facing away from Severus, everything about this unknown child stands apart from the rest of the desolate space, perhaps it’s his posture, or the clothing that contrasts what is within the crude walls, his regal presence itself seems to be holding the under-furnitured space like a throne room.

“Ello.” Severus greets, carefully not to trespass the invisible border.

The boy jostles at his voice, snapping his head around at glares at him with his hand raised. Perhaps he was expecting something to take effect, there is a brief flash of confusion across his face.

“Who are you?” he asks, with a hint of hostility.

“John.” he replies, the answer he uses to give better impressions around town.

“Why are you here.” he demands.

John shrugs, his coat falling off his shoulders as he does, “I dunno, but I think I’m dreamin right now. Why ar’ ya in ma dream?”

“I have always been here, you suddenly came in.” he looks at the boy outside his room in with scrutiny, then scoffs “Are you wearing a blouse?”

“Not like I have anythin else to wear.”

The air falls silent as they continue to stare at each other, until the boy in the room growls in annoyance. “Just go away already, John, or I’ll make sure you never walk again.” with a wave of his hand, one of the pebbles sitting on the green windowsill shoots towards Severus, but stopped at the invisible wall, dropping onto the floor and splitting into halves. He looks visibly alarmed at that.

“Ya can do those things too?” Severus, now John asks.

The boy on the other side hesitates, then conceals his shock, “You are a wizard, like that man.” he spews the last word with all the disdain he can muster up.

Despite knowing that, yes, Severus Snape is indeed a wizard and has been for more than three decades, the young presence within himself can’t help but feel a mixture of confusion and understanding.

“Wizard?” he asks.

The boy stands up from the bed and takes a sheet of paper from the open book, holding it in front of “John”, the bold words “HOGWARTS SCHOOL LIST” shoving right at his face, noting that his hands couldn’t reach further than the transparent barrier, he raises an eyebrow and looks warily at the empty space.

John’s mouth forms into an “o” shape, “Why dun ya make’it stop burnin then?” he points at the dancing flames engulfing the cupboard, yet not burning it in the slightest.

“I tried!” the boy in the room yells, his cool facade breaking, “the man set my things on fire! It only stops when other people come in!”

John wrings his hands and shuffles at his feet. “C’n I try?”

“I doubt you can.” The boy settles down back onto the bed and turns his eyes back to the rainy streets.

Feeling challenged, Severus gathers all of his focus onto the bright orange fire, after a few seconds, the flicks of light slowly descend onto the floor, and it dies entirely soon after. The boy’s eyes widen, then turns angrily at “John”.

“How did you do that?”

“Erm, I kinda j’st imagine water pouren’ water on it, very hard.”

The boy stares intensely at the top of the cupboard, similar to “John”, small streams of water start to flow down, giving the wooden surface a reflective sheen, audibly gulps, and a sparkle of joy shines in his maroon eyes. It soon turns into vindictiveness as he turns towards “John”, the water did flow, but it merely spates from the invisible barrier, gushing down onto the tiled floor. They exchange a questioning look, before John takes a step forward and pokes a finger at the spot, water now flowing onto his hands as it went through the wall, he flips his palm up and collects the water, before letting it spill onto the floor.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

“Oh…”

Seeing the boy reading the book instead of acknowledging his presence, John turns away and sits on the floor outside the room.

“What’s yaw name?”

He snaps his book shut in a rude thud, “Give me something first, then I’ll tell.”

“But the’er is nothin I c’n give ya.”

“Then don’t ask.”

The two boys stay silent after the brief exchange, and Severus finally dozes off to a dreamless slumber within the realm moments later.

---

Knitting has always been one of the most calming activities for Albus Dumbledore, the rhythmic knick-knacking as the needles collide, the colourful repeats that slowly form with just a few simple twirls and knots, it’s soothing to watch how a single line of yarn slowly intertwine, forming into a beautiful canvas, it anchors him, as he is quite fond of the calmness the mechanical movements provides him, to zone out from his perpetually moving gears.

He wraps the string of yarn over the previous loop in a fluid motion and a swift pierce of the needle, then continues onto the next row.

He briefly looks away from the knitting magazine to the young man on the bed, Severus had always been a good friend, his best confidant, and the most important asset within the order, as well as the only barrier between Slytherins and Voldermort, even if there’s barely any protection the Head of House can provide. Knowing the number of dark supporters within the house, some students would certainly react badly to his treason, especially the ones who are lining up to be Tom’s underlings, yet there are undoubtedly students who stand neutral, would they rebel against the only one who actively supported them? Or will they keep silent?

It is true that he knew Severus was most likely not going to survive in order to rescue Harry, and having to have known the man for years he too would give anything to save the only remnant of the woman he loved so dearly, regardless of his views on the boy as it’s the almost the sole motivation the young man has in his life. Not that Albus didn’t plan something for the man in case he made it, his combative and potion skills will not go to waste, an overseas mission, then, an …accident should guarantee no further information will leak out from the order, and the Malfoys will take up his role, they have no reason to refuse after all.

Yet…

Just when he thought he had solved the puzzle, hidden pieces make their appearance in the wrong place, at the wrong time. Once Slytherin always a Slytherin as Severus likes to say, but Albus would not have thought he had hidden his correspondence with the Princes, the believed extinct line in Britain. Perhaps he is aware of the reason for the family’s exile, hence rather keep it to himself? Why would they have contacted Severus, who despite being the youngest Potions Master ever, had gone into near-complete anonymity after his achievement, and also a convicted Death Eater? And how did they come to his aid knowing when he needed it, able to remove a dark curse without using a wand, but blood arts?

The abilities that came within the House of Prince are something he does not understand, and it is a consensus that what Albus Dumbledore does not understand, is inherently dangerous, much like what pushed them into eradicating every possible member they can reach, and later on the fruitless search for the missing Prince child, which the original Order had carried on doing discreetly during the first war.

Lord Prince, if he is not just some well-trained doppelganger pretending to be immortal, vowed not to seek harm against the ministry, directly assuring Cornelius, but nothing regarding the light or the dark. The “Solution to the problem” he spoke of that may involve Severus’s assistance, is it about the heir?

Could Severus be the missing child? It is true that he is incredibly talented when it comes to mind arts, but Albus can tell from the core’s presence and the magical signature he copied from the spy when he resumed the espionage, that it is nothing like Prince, as the man suggested how heirs will inherit a similar power to their predecessors. Moreover, Albus would have recognized Eileen Prince’s face on Severus, even Decimus Prince, if he is truly the child.

His whirring thoughts are cut short by a weak groan, focusing back on the waking man, he lays his half-finished scarf and magazine on the nightstand.

“Severus, Severus can you hear me?”

The younger man’s eyes open a mere fraction and roll his head over with much effort, “H… m’ster…”

“Glad to have you back with us in the land of the living, my boy.” he chuckles, putting the cup of water near Severus’s chapped lips while gently lifting his head up. Slowly, the man empties the cup, leaving the ice chips at the bottom. He lays the man’s head back onto the pillow and pats the unblemished arm, and subtly cast a silencing charm and disillusionment spell around them.

“How are you feeling?”

Severus drags a shaking palm over his face, “L’ke shit.”

“Rest assured that Poppy is quite determined to keep you within these walls for a week or two this time.” Albus smiles at the professor’s disgruntled growl. He watches as the man notices the thin tube that travels down from a bag hanging on a pole next to him, following the tube, his eyes travel down and eventually reach the end of the plastic within his charcoal-colored arm, Severus’s eyes widen at the sight.

“Wha… happ’n’d…”

“What do you remember?”

The man frowns in concentration, “Is Potter—”

“Yes, thanks to you, Harry is safe and sound, he has recovered completely.” Albus reassures. Good, he is still dedicated to the cause.

“Malfoys?” Severus asks as he tries to sit up, before slumping against the headboard.

Hm. Albus did know that the young man maintained regular contact with Lucius it even after the first war, he knew from young Draco that he was apparently named Godfather of the Malfoy heir. An oversight on his part, as he presumed they were friends for benefits, but seeing how Severus trusts them enough to send them to Hogwarts, plus their reaction towards Severus’s condition, their friendship runs deeper than he thought. And since the Malfoys came out unscathed after the recent meeting, that implies Lucius Malfoy’s position among Tom’s elite stays firm.


The headmaster smiles, this shall benefit the order greatly.


“They are currently taking residence in your quarters. As for your arm, the combination of Voldermort’s wrath and the cursed blade that wounded you caused quite the damage.” He explains, ignoring the man flinching.

“Then how am I… unfortunately alive?” Severus drawls, seemingly more awake now with the return of his sarcasm.

“That is something I would like to inquire you about, Severus.” Albus smoothes the non-existent wrinkles on his robes, “I didn’t know you work with Lord Prince.”

Severus goes still for a moment, then narrows his eyes “What about him?” he said, with a hint of annoyance.

The Headmaster was not expecting that reaction, “We thought you were dead, Severus, just as we were planning what to do with the aftermath, Lord Prince came and healed you from the apparent curse, alongside the woman, Eileen Pr—”

Noting how his tongue seems to be stuck at the roof of his mouth, he looked to Severus, who answers “There is some kind of taboo on her name, as far as I’m told, it was set as a punishment.”

Albus glides his hand across his great beard, “Oh? How odd. Would you care to tell me more about them?”

Severus scoffs, “They offered me a place amongst the other Prince Scholars as they call it, I declined, and then they decided to commission me for monthly supplies of Draughts, as a hiring tactic, I presume.”

“No offense, my friend. But from what Mr. Prince had told us, I thought you two are on great terms.”

“For someone who does not know how to take a hint, of course.” Severus scowls, looks at the white runes on his tainted arm, and lets out a bitter laugh, “ Well, this might as well be another mark of ownership.”

If Severus feels forced by them, he would be compelled to help the search regarding the threat, which should take the burden out of Albus’s already full hands.

“Yet you still accept their commissions.”

“They pay me a good amount, Albus, I will not lie that I didn’t need the money, especially when most of my salary went to replacing my stocks each time anyone decides not to pay attention and ruin half a classroom’s worth of ingredients with a single explosion. In Longbottom’s case, on almost a daily basis. I have been taking commissions since my third year as a professor from the Potions Guild.” Severus rants.

“My boy, you know I have tried helping you in that regard, but with the war, we will have to pioritise the Order.”

The younger man sighs, “Apologies, I am… frustrated.”

Albus pats the man on the arm again, smiling at the scowl, “Even so, you stayed in Hogwarts.”

“It is unlikely that you will let me leave, I intend to keep my promises and vows. But now… I am of no use, a cell is eagerly waiting for me in Azkaban.”


Knowing that Severus still needs his protection, and not risking to move away from it in face of a possibly better offer puts his mind at ease.


“Do not say so, my friend, the order still needs your help.”

At the recovering man’s twitch at the lips, Albus is convinced that Severus will help him.


Till the very end.


Severus suddenly winced, wrapping an arm across his torso.

“Ah, I forgot about Poppy, I let her and the others know that you’ve woken up.”

“Must you announce my predicament to anyone, care to do it with a ‘Sonorus’ ?”

Albus laughs and shakes his head exasperatingly, he picks up the half-knitted vibrant yellow and purple scarf with the magazine and makes his way to the door. “Have some rest, Severus, everything shall be in order.”

Seeing the man lying back down on the bed, he quietly shuts the infirmary door with a click, and begins his journey back to his office.


“Oh dear.”


The purple rhombuses near the knots seem to have gone into disarray, the bright yellow mixing into the orderly shapes, perhaps he missed the thread by a row? Quite amazing, how one wrong step leads to this chaos.

“That will not do.” With a snap of his fingers, the one misplaced thread pulls itself out and reweaves back into its intended place, the extra piece of yarn burning away into ashes. Satisfied with his piece, he continues his walk, humming along the way.


Everything shall be in order.

---

The moment Albus’s footsteps fade into nothing, Severus lets out a breath that he didn’t know he was holding. He couldn’t believe it, that Lord Prince would actually travel to Britain just to convince him to return to the House, even having the audacity to bring her along.

Would Albus suspect him? Despite not having been asked about the heir, now that he knows the relationship between the Lord of the house and himself, he would be the prime suspect. Would they try to kill him? Or try to buy the Prince’s favor, and convince them into helping the order, just to turn the Wizarding population against them again, followed by a complete eradication.

The more he thinks about it, the more the healed stab wound burns, Severus curls onto his side, and tries to wait the pain out. He glares daggers at the ring of runes, in the slanted form he has read over the letters for years, all lords seem to have a pattern when it comes to getting underdogs, offer protection, pretend to care about them, and seal the deal with a blasted mark, physical or not.

With the pain starting to reach its peak, he wonders why Poppy still hasn’t arrived the moment his vitals starts to change at this rate, it should have alerted the monitoring wards system, turning around without moving his waist, he scans his eyes across the top of the nightstand — Albus didn’t return his wand.

The infirmary door creaks open, and just when Severus is about to sag in relief, he curses inwardly upon seeing that infernal face.


“Professor! You’re awake!”

“Yes, Potter, thank you for the keen observation.” he grinds out, and much to his dismay, he doesn’t leave, instead the boy comes closer.

“I… um… Just wanted–” the brat expression switched to that of… concern? What in the world? “Sir do you need Madame Pomfrey?”

Severus simply raises an eyebrow, and the boy’s posture slumped, with a sigh, he asks, “Why are you here Potter, I have been told you have fully recovered?”

“Oh, Madame Pomfrey is brewing for the infirmary, so I volunteered to pick things up for her… sir.”

The boy flinched under his elongated stare, peculiar, as he would normally just snap back at him, not that he has the energy to snarl at the boy either “Very well, get on with it.”

“Yes Professor.” Potter dashes towards the Matron’s office while leaving Severus in bewilderment at the title that the boy never bothered using.

Another wave of pain washes over, his body is starting to drench in cold sweat, he really should have called Poppy.

“Professor Snape!” Potter yells out from the office, “ Where can I find the… size 2 charmed crystal vials?”

Damn it Potter use your bloody eyes! Just the thought of talking feels painful as the muscles across his left side continue to cramp, he slowly pushes himself up, holding onto the IV pole for support.

“Cupboard at the… furthest left to the table… second row… third… rac—”

It feels like his stomach got carved out and someone poured a whole jar of Bundimun secretions on it, falling back onto the bed, he grips onto the pole like a lifeline as he tries to occlude the pain away.

“Sir, I should really call Madame Pomfrey.” Potter rushes towards him and stopping a few steps away, raising his wand.

“Potter… do not interrupt her… just take your things and leave…”

Not even bothering to let him finish, Potter summons a Patronus, a fully corporeal Patronus in the form of a stag, same as James Potter’s of course. “Go to Madame Pomfrey, lead her here.”

“Bloody Gryffindors.” Severus grunts, tearing his eyes from the glowing apparition, a painful reminder.”

Potter hesitates, and much to the older man’s mortification, he strides stiffly towards him and sits on the previously occupied chair.

“What the– Potter just leave. Or are you so determined to make me feel even more miserable?”

There is a flash of anger in those green eyes, but it died down in an instant.

“Look sir, I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave you alone at the moment—”

“You are not a healer Potter.”

“And there’s something I need to say.” once again, those green eyes stare at him with determination, a familiar sight.

A twinge of pain races up from his left side to his chest, “Spit it out.” he groans.

“I’d like to thank you again, professor, for saving me.”

“You already did.”

“I know, but you died, almost died for me, why?”

Severus suppresses another flinch, “Why, Potter, I’d think you would have been happy about it.” He scans across the boy, his expression pinched and haunted, oversized clothes barely hidden by an old jacket, his thin frame… what?

“Don’t say that… I… just don’t want anyone to die because of me.” the boy’s voice reduces into a whisper by the end of the sentence. What in the world gave him that idea?

“Mr. Potter,” Severus says as calmly as possible, “not everything is about you.”

“Yeah?” he abruptly shoots up, the vials caged tightly in his clenched fist, his eyes full of anger, “I killed Quirrel! Ginny almost died in the chamber because of me! Cedric died just because I told him to take the cup! And you hated me! You knew you were to going to die, yet… I just… even my own parents…”

Potter slumps back down onto the chair, breaking down into sobs, burying his face into his hands and babbling apologies. Great Merlin, where is Poppy when you need her?

“Mr. Potter, listen to me very carefully.” Severus uses his teaching voice, the one he uses when he had to explain the simple rules in making a basic healing draught to dunderheads, “Quirrel, from what I understand, died under the extended period of possession of the Dark Lord. Ms. Weasly as I recall is very much alive, Mr. Diggory’s death is a tragedy because we weren’t able to detect a polyjuiced death eater amongst the faculty, who even fooled the headmaster.”

The boy is now sniffling, his eyes tentatively raising to meet the professor’s.

“I took you away from the Dark Lord’s dungeons, that is something anyone would have done, yes, I allowed you to drain my core, because any sane person would be willing to, as much as I detest you, I would never have let you die. And as you can see, unfortunately for everyone including me, I am alive.”

Potter nods, his red-rimmed eyes filled with some kind of… relief?

“Your parents, James Potter, Lily Ev– Potter , they loved you more than anything, she would have done anything to keep you safe, and while there is nothing I can say about bloody James Potter, he most definitely treasured you above all, never forget that. You did not kill them, the Dark Lord did, and I—”


Severus hesitated, should he tell the boy now? Yet for some reason he could not bring himself to do so, the boy hates him anyways.


Later, when things settle down, then I shall.


He sighs, “Just… no, Mr. Potter, you did not murder anybody, not me, not Mr. Diggory, Ms. Weasley, Quirrel whatsoever, and most certainly not your parents. Understood?”

Potter nods again, raking his sleeve across his eyes and exhaled deeply.

“I need a verbal answer.”

“Yes sir.”

Severus deflates, comforting people is exhausting, let alone a Potter, “Rest assured that I will be taking points from you, Potter ”

“You can’t take points during summer, professor. ” he grins.

“Hmph, you will find that I am able to do so, ten points from Gryffindor for your cheek, Mr. Potter.” Severus turns his head away, the stabbing sensation is back again.

“Git.” Potter mutters under his breath.

Just then, Poppy walks into the infirmary, and immediately makes his way next to his bed checking on the IV bag and scanning her wand above his curled form in a sweeping motion. “Thank you for notifying me, Mr. Potter, you should head back to the lab. Severus are you still in pain?”

Severus gives her a curt nod, while feeling Potter’s gaze lingering at his back.

“I wasn’t alerted at all, how long has this been going? Mr. Potter, Off you go please.”

The boy must have broken out of his trance, as he hears him rushing to the exit, about to push the door.

“Potter.”

“Yes sir.”

Poppy gives them both a bemused look, Severus ignores it, and rolls his head over to face the boy.

“Regarding… your question a few days …ago… she likes to eat pasta… with a disgusting amount of Parmesan cheese on top.”

Potter looks puzzled for a moment, before breaking into a wide grin “Thanks professor!”, he shouts before running out of the room.

Poppy gives him a questioning look, which he glares back in response, after a moment, she chuckles in realisation, “My, Severus Snape, are you going soft?”

At his horrified face, the Matron laughs even harder as she continues her ministrations.

---

“You again.” the boy in the room asks, the puddle of water is no longer there, and the cupboard is completely dry, the lamp’s warm light showering onto the open book atop his desk, “Did you bring me anything?”

“Well,” John holds up a pretty hideous-looking piece of scarf “Ya wan’ this?”

“I don’t want that rubbish.” the boy’s nose scrunches up, “what else?”

John scours through the large pockets of his coat, and miraculously finds two large and rather fresh-looking blood-red apples. He sits down just outside the invisible wall, leaving the unfinished scarf next to the half piece of pebble, the boy looks at him suspiciously, before sitting right on the opposite, eyes looking straight at John.

John fishes out the two apples, showing the other boy, “D’ya wan’ an apple?”

The boy stares at him in a long silence, then shows his palm up, “Sure. Where did you get them?”

John puts the apple firmly onto the other boy’s hand noting he can in fact cross the barrier, “Dunno, maybe I stole em.”

The boy’s lips briefly quirk up, before returning to his impassive expression. They continue to eat in silence.

“So… what’s yaw name?"


The boy looks up from his meal, his eyes are red like the glimmering skin of the fruit, and answers.

“My lord.”

“Luciusss. You requested an audience.” The Dark Lord’s slitted pupils bear down on his kneeling form, there is a brief flash of emotion in his eyes, the deathly pale fingers tapping on the armrest of his throne rhythmically like the legs of a centipede. And having to serve under his master for over a decade as his second in command, Lucius understands — The Dark Lord is intrigued, and impatient.

For appearance’s sake, he went to the Ministry and had a long talk with the minister, not after carefully obliviating him of his witness, making sure no other unmarked followers will discover his visit to Hogwarts when prying into the simple-minded man’s mind. Sometimes Lucius has always wondered how exactly the man came to sit at the highest place within the Ministry, even more after said conversation.

“Lord Malfoy, if I— no, if the ministry gains the Princes’ support, perhaps the ministry will overpower Dumbledore’s influences, same as the faith of the public. I vaguely remember you mentioning that you are familiars with that… Snape, if he is well acquainted with the Princes, perhaps you can convince him to tell you more about them, and in turn…”

At Lucius’s raised eyebrow, Fudge foolishly believed that his plan is flawless. While Lord Prince, as implausible as it sounds, hardly ever raised his voice at the dimwitted man at the mention of his exiled and almost completely slaughtered family, and promised a seat proxy within the Wizenmagot, there is too much unknown regarding their stance in the current political climate. After years of trying to stay hidden, or at least being largely unheard of, why return to the place that decimated them, coincidentally at the return of the Dark Lord? The man may not have outright admitted it, but the look Prince gave him suggests that he already knew of the covered return, and most definitely his involvement as a death eater.

“Luciusss, your expression speaks of worry.” The Lord’s tone is that of concern, yet his irritation is clear.

“Apologies my Lord, the news I have heard, it’s rather unsettling, and I am unsure if it poses a threat or not to us.” The Malfoy patriarch dips his head lower, desperately trying to phrase what he is about to divulge carefully, “The Minister confided in me this morning, Dumbledore tried to use the traitor as proof of your return, my Lord. But then—”

A horrible grin splits across the serpentine face, then the man breaks into a maniacal laugh, the raspiness from his voice alongside the hissing of Nagini forms into a nightmarish sibilance, cutting off Lucius’s report

“Such is the faultss of Dumbledore, alwayss too ignorant. That swine of a minister is too cowardly to admit the peace he promised will fall to ruins, yet our dear headmaster is so confident that he is so easily swayed in the face of losing a high position.” The Dark Lord extends his arm as his familiar slithers across his shoulders. “Continue.”

“Then,” Lucius gulps, knowing what is to come, “Someone came by, and resurrected S- Snape.”

“CRUCIO!”

What was a red trickle of light that fell onto the floor days ago, now rams into Lucius full force, as a web of crimson covers his body, sending waves of unbearable pain down to his bones, barely able to hold his screams, he lets out a pathetic whimper.

“How. Is. That. Possible!” With a twist of his arm, the curse strengthens at the Lord’s rage.

“Fudge… said… P– Prince…!” Lucius bites, barely holding himself from collapsing onto the floor, while occluding fiercely.

The man’s twisted face is immediately washed over by surprise and interest, with a flick of his wand, the pain recedes from Lucius’s body, managing to face the Dark Lord as the man puts on his apathetic mask. “Speak.” he orders and beckons his follower to come closer.

Forcing his legs to move forward, which are now starting to cramp from the aftershock, Lucius glides his way as dignifiedly as possible to the Dark Lord’s side, the position that only he is allowed to seize, an honorable position amongst the ranks, yet…

“My Lord,” Lucius rasps, “ the minister confided in me this morning, regarding Lord Prince’s return, and his relations with the traitor.”

“Lord Prince… the heirss are the ones who had set foot in Britain, yet he was never seen.”

“The minister showed me a classified file, my Lord, Lord Prince once led a team of scholars to perform a warding ritual around the Azkaban Prison during Diggory’s tenant in office.”

The serpentine man grabs his chin, forcing blue eyes to face the crimson ones, as the oppressive presence pierces into Lucius’s mind like a rapier, his exchange with Fudge alongside the documents’ contents are brought up to the surface with a harsh pull as the Lord takes his time to inspect each detail, unfazed by the blood dripping out of his underdog’s nose.

After what seems like an hour, the Dark Lord releases Lucius, dropping him onto the cold floor. He leisurely stands up from his throne with Nagini still hanging across his shoulder, and paces near the edge of the raised platform.

“Luciuss.”
“My Lord.”
“This Lord Prince, who lived for centuries, he and his people are alchemistss, adept at warding and ritualss, and masters in mind artss.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Our traitor also works under thiss, foreign organization, which predates the four founders of Hogwarts, yet you…”

“M- my Lord?” Lucius isn’t sure where this is going, the man’s tone is dangerously unpredictable, his face obscured under the stark line of shadow under the torch, as the snake continues to hiss a string of undecipherable words as if trying to persuade the man of something. Were his shields not enough? Did the Dark Lord break through his defense and discover his visit to the infirmary, what about Draco and Narcissa, and what will become of them? But just as Lucius continues go spiraling down into his fearful thoughts, a sharp pain snaps his attention back to the choking atmosphere, something warm trickles down his left cheek where the Dark Lord’s nails grazed over with a slap.

“Useless carrion!” The man roars as Nagini peers down on the cowering form, whose nose is touching the cool wooden plank with flakes of dried blood, “You have been around Snape the moment he stepped into the wizarding world! Yet you knew not one thing about his exchanges with the Princes?!” The pale wand, the sentence to a painful death now stabbing straight at Lucius’s head, as the patriarch shivers in dread.

“Please forgive me of my incompetence my Lord! I truly know nothing of Snape’s doing! Not even Dumbledore –”

“Dumbledore? Dumbledore does not know of it?”

Lucius hurriedly grovels his way to the hem of the man’s robes, keeping his head bowed, “I saw Dumbledore’s reaction in the minister’s mind, he only knew of the exile and the death of the Prince’s, and he seems displeased by Prince’s sudden appearance in his… territory, alongside his proclamation regarding his relationship with the traitor.” The hair on his back stands up as Lucius feels the Dark Lord’s wand tip slightly turning on his scalp, almost in a drilling motion, after a moment he lets out an ice-cold chuckle, “It seems our dear Severus does not trust the old fool completely either.” He kicks Lucius in the shoulder, “Get up, Luciuss.”

The Malfoy subtly relaxes, composing himself, he stands up with his head slightly raised. As if he did not just crawl on the floor like a whelp.

“We shall continue to work in the dark while the Ministry is ignorant of my rebirth, in the meantime, gain more insight about the inner workings of the Princes. The traitor had both of us fooled, you two are… closer.” The Dark Lord spits the word with distaste, “have his trust, I’m sure having to put up with his presence over two decades, your perseverance should already have earned it. Ah, and dear Draco–”

No…

“Severus always has a soft spot for our future elites, and with Draco and his friendss, we may observe any changes better without alerting the old fool, knowing how their head of house protectsss them.

“But my lord, Draco is not ready for such an important task!” Lucius fails to hold back the desperation in his voice.

“Mere observations and regular reports to you would be great practice for his future, Draco is a competent young man, you shan’t shield him from his aspirationss. Unlesss,” The Dark Lord narrows his eyes, “he has other decisionss after graduation?”

“Of course not, my Lord. He is most willing to serve under you.” Lucius feels his heart being washed by scalding hot water, burnt with fear, yet leaving it to be exposed by the chilling trepidation of what the Dark Lord expects of his son.

The man stares at him dispassionately, then breaks the silence, “Your son is no longer at the age to receive your needless pampering, Lucius, he is destined to be of great success. Abraxas let you in early, and look where you are,” the Dark Lord spreads his arms, gesturing at the wide platform with the throne at its center, then lays a hand on Lucius’s back as he circles around him. “You beside me, my most trusted lieutenant, your authority to order soldiers moving towards victory, one day dear Draco too will take up this honor, a bright continuation to the Malfoy legacy.”

“I’m flattered you think of him so highly, my Lord.” he replies, the reverence that automatically spits out of his mouth churns his stomach.

The ghostly lips turn upwards under the unsparing rubies, painting a juxtaposed omen of suffering, “Fear not, Luciuss. The traitor won’t escape his punishment, but for now, we shall keep a low profile in our planss. Notify the rest of the inner circle about what we’ve discussed, and tell Travers to begin his investigations on Prince, I expect a report next week from him.”

“Your wish is my command, my Lord.”

“Dismissed.”

The cursed blessings from the Dark Lord continue to linger on during his journey back to Malfoy Manor. The moment he steps into the brightly lit living room, Narcissa comes rushing to him, using her wand to scan for any injuries while patting across his robes for possible blood-soaked spots— she must have reinstalled the vital checking system at the gates. His wife raises a hand to cup his face but settles on a firm grip just above his wrist.

Lucius takes her hand and holds it in both of his, the familiar warmth saturates his haunted emotions, arms tangling together, as they take comfort from each other’s presence, pureblood decorum tossed aside.

Quick footsteps come closer from the end of the corridor. Raising his head reluctantly, Lucius spots Draco rushing into the living room, who stops just a couple of feet away to look at them, glacial eyes meet each other, and his son’s relieved expression immediately turns cold.

“Father.” he says, “Good to see you are well.” The spite in his tone is not lost on him.

“Draco-” Narcissa turns to their son.

“I am turning in,” Draco cuts her off, “Good night.” with that he stiffly turns with a straight back facing them and walks down the corridor.


“We will be heading to Hogwarts tomorrow, Draco.”

The young man stills before his shoulders start to raise and shake, he snaps his head back at them, the former frosty demeanour melts into that of belligerence, “What, betraying your Lord to sympathize with some half-blood traitor that you don’t associate with?”

Lucius feels his temper flaring, but upon spotting a familiar spark of fear in those eyes, he immediately clamps it down. “No, Draco. We are visiting your godfather, there is something we must discuss, together.”

Bullet-like tears hang stubbornly around those eyes, Lucius feels like he is facing a mirror. He watches as the boy disappears down to the hall as the heels click like hammering nails.

“Come, Lucius. It is getting late, you need rest.” His wife methodically wraps her arm around his elbow, back to being the perfect dutiful wife, and leads him to the relative safety of their rooms. Sinister shadows stretch and overlay each other as they walk past the chandeliers, the judging gaze of Abraxas Malfoy and the many former Malfoy Lords. A sharp turn to the right, Lucius’s platinum hair swings and shields him from the everpresent scrutiny.

Narcissa gently pushes him down to sit on the edge of the bed, magically removing his boots and summons a tray— the “usual”. He stays silent as his eyes follow the elegant hands of hers gently massaging salves onto the dark purple spot on his shoulder, in circles over and over. She increases her strength, circles become harsh, erratic, jagged lines, caresses turn painful, and the manicured hand that was holding him still is now crushing him.


She doesn’t stop, even when her face starts to transform from apathy to anger, to frustration, to fear, to concern.

At last, she breaks down without a sound, breaking him alongside in the process, she slowly bends to lay her head on his shoulder, hitting him, but not hard enough to worsen the bruise.

Lucius lets her.

The oil lamp dims despite its charmed properties, Narcissa straightens herself, dabbing her tears away, and lets out a shaking breath. She floats the tray away, and sits next to Lucius, he wraps around her and leans against each other, their fingers intertwined.

“What did he say?” Narcissa sighs.

Lucius pauses to think of the best way to reply without distressing her too much, “The Dark Lord wishes Draco and his housemates to provide reports regarding… their Head of house, the upcoming school year.”

“But–”
“Not in person, Draco will be reporting through me, same to those from the inner circle.”

“Still… after that, he might…”

One of the few things he is grateful of his father is his bonding with Narcissa — intelligent, capable, she can garner the attention of the entire room with just a simple gesture. Yet sometimes, Lucius cannot help but think how great it would be if she is a little less intuitive so that he can shield her a bit more.

“The portkey, is it with you?”

“You’re sending him out of the country?” Narcissa pulls away, red-rimmed eyes reflecting the golden speckles of the lamp.

“You will go with him.” Lucius looks away, mind far away.

“Lucius, no–”

“Listen to me, Cissa.” He holds onto his wife, “You know I never wanted our son to work under him, but now it’s merely a lesser evil compared to the old coot. I’ll find a way for him, and you need to be there for him, as he will to you.”

“What about you?” she breathes, “He will not let you go, nor Draco, you will get yourself tortured, killed.”

“That’s why you both have to go.”

“I vowed not to leave you no matter what we face, have you not done the same?”


“I…”


How can Lucius forget? It was one of the best days of his life, the sweetest of words like nectar he has ever heard, knowing someone will face the end of time by his side. But this is war, and sentiments come with a price, until there is no blood or flesh left to enact the payment. Abraxas eyed him sternly as he struggled not to weep during his mother’s funeral, who died during a conflict, imploring that it’s merely a trivial matter amidst the rise of the Dark Lord. He in turn taught his son that there are always sacrifices to be made in order to let others live, taught him to hold himself up as a pureblood heir, and even train him to become indifferent to someone else’s — the weaker’s suffering, there are always worthier objectives to focus on. Some things are meant to be let go of at times needed.


Lucius shakes his head, worn down by everything.


In truth, he can never let go of them, as deadly as it is.


Scenes of Draco taking unsteady steps towards him with a smile on his rosy cheeks. His first words, throwing a tantrum as a toddler. Laughing with friends at a birthday party, innocent games in a “play-date” organized by elites. His first broom ride, the proud look beaming in his way as he waves the toy snitch he just caught for the first time.

Picking up school supplies at Diagon Alley, formal greetings between him and the other young heirs at the station, a well-written letter in perfect cursive back home about the expected sorting results and his relationships with housemates. The hesitation to be around him after his lost of position as a board governor. A brief letter about his injury on his arm, a results card full of O’s, except an EE on transfiguration.

He stayed at school during Yule that year.

Things changed, and now Lucius understood why… Severus sent that note to ask about their family.

“We need sleep.” Lucius says. “Let’s discuss this tomorrow, hm?”

How many tomorrows do they still have?


He changes their clothes into nightclothes with a swish of his wand, untying Narcissa’s hair and setting the ribbon aside as they settle under the soft covers, still cradling her.

“Do you think… any of it… any of him, to us, to our son, is real?” She asks.

“Draco looks up to him, as do most of the house, it should be.”

“Draco knows him personally, the others trusted him for his position, and now…”

Can they even trust a man who lied to the Dark Lord, and possibly them for decades?

“I don’t know.” Lucius answers honestly.

The man he first met as a poverty-stricken, manner-lacking boy, is also the very same who can hold himself amongst the high-class wizards without fail after years of painstaking etiquette tutoring.

The man, a half-blood whom Lucius was taught not to even look at them at all, caught his eyes with his talents, later forming becoming friends-of-benefits, to later naming him as the godfather of their only child, softly vowing at the sleeping infant that he would protect and cherish him forever.

And the same man, who volunteered to help them, and one day brought a finalised potion that later on helped Narcissa conceive Draco to full-term safely after months of experiments and research. He almost collapsed through the floo upon hearing the news of her bearing a healthy baby, exhaustion evident upon the darkened spots under his eyes.

If it is all just a facade…


“Never trust someone fully, my son, or it will be your fault when they use it against you.”

Lucius nuzzles close to Narcissa’s smooth neck.


“But I trust him.”


At least till tomorrow.

---

A heavy fog settled over the high Scottish mountains early in the morning, faint outline of the stone bridge and unlit lamps showing through the shrouds, its ends fading into obscurity. The tall towers beyond the school gates loom over them as they walk closer, Lucius’s wand light guiding them through the sea of grey.

Narcissa hasn’t let go of Draco’s hand ever since they apparated to their destination, subtly pulling their son behind her as they march toward the gates, Draco’s hand trembled under her grasp, yet was unwilling to hold on, simply allowing them to pull him along. She dares not to look back and check on him, knowing that they all have the same doubts, she does not want her son to face a heartbreaking truth. So she leans a little closer to Lucius for reassurance, the few men he can truly rely on, or perhaps the only one now.

Upon approaching the gates, a soft chime rings a tug in their minds — they are at the edge of the wards.

Lucius beckons Draco forward, as the boy limply slips his hand from hers, dejectedly moving a few steps forward to feel and touch the invisible threads, he does not spare his father one look. Their son’s emotionless expressions switch into a surprised one as his hunched shoulders straighten up, a glint of hope returning to those dead eyes.

Lucius opens his mouth to inquire about their son’s reaction but quickly halts himself, turning his eyes back to the other side of the gates.

After a while, two figures — one tall and the other short from the brightened arc of the entrance begins to walk down the stone pavement, the sound of clicking boots echoing throughout the mist. Their footsteps slowed as they approached the iron bars, Lucius and Narcissa once again instinctively pushes their son behind him, who tries to hold his ground but relents after a look from her.

“Lord Malfoy, Lady Malfoy, Mister Malfoy.” Auror Shacklebolt, also an order member nods at them and looks back at the half-goblin Professor. Surprisingly, neither of them brandish their wands.

“May I ask if you have had an appointment with the headmaster?” The charms master asks, looking at Draco.

“We–”

“We are here for a visit,” Lucius cut him off, as Draco draws in a sharp breath, “An impromptu one, and extremely urgent, if I am honest. May we?”

It is rare to hear Lucius asking for permission, Malfoys don’t asks, don’t beg, and just as any other menage of a pure house, as the others would eagerly give what they have in face of an open palm with rings of prominence adorning its fingers. Not that she does not recognise the need in this situation, just an… unfamiliar sight.

Shacklebolt and the professor exchange glances, then promptly release the lock and the access in tandem, the gates creak wide open, like open arms, or a jaw. Narcissa is unsure which image is more apropos.

“Follow me.” The Auror says, he turns and leads them towards the lit entrance, with the professor tailing behind them, closing the gate with a resounding clank. She holds her son close again, feeling how the air gets heavier as they approach the wooden door, this time Draco leans closer.

Despite having been here just a few days ago, their trip to the is almost obscenely short, as if someone is either pushing them to have faith in a life-long friend or mocking them for their decision two decades ago to take a “no-good half-blood” under their wing. And the more Narcissa thinks about it, the more agitated she becomes, still encased under a mask of ice, she wills herself to face the truth — no matter what answer he gives, the end shall be the same.

“He is recovering well, there is no need to worry, Mister Malfoy.” She hears the professor whispering to Draco, catching a glimpse, her little boy is finally smiling a bit. He’s always the soft-hearted son no matter what Malfoys were supposed to feel, despite how he portrays himself, she will always see him as the boy who cried because he accidentally pulled a peacock talon off.

He will die. Narcissa hand clenches into a fist. If he lied to my son.

Reaching the bench next to the closed infirmary door, Shacklebolt raises his wand and with a “tempus” a blue mist rises from the tip, forming into the familiar Armillary sundial. “You said the headmaster is in Ministry, Professor?”

“Correct.” that answer makes Narcissa raise her eyebrows, as the wards would not have allowed them access without the headmaster’s approval, the old coot might have foreseen their visit, yet he would have to be present for them to even get through the school gates. She thinks back to her son’s reaction upon touching the invisible threads, and the arrival of the two members…

Upon realisation, the weight in Narcissa’s heart is lifted off completely as she breathes a sigh of relief, Thank Circe.

Hogwarts itself approved and granted their son access, he will be fully protected as a student.

And that, to a mother, is already enough.

The other four look at her questioningly, and she shakes her head. Shacklebolt continues, “While the headmaster is away, we are unsure when he may return to school grounds, so it’s best for you to finish quickly.”

Lucius narrows his eyes, “Your leader will certainly react badly for you to be this… lenient with their foes?”

Shacklebolt pauses and looks at Flitwick, “While we may not be on the best of terms, Mr. Malfoy, I assume we all care about Severus, he insisted to send a message to you three and has been inquiring about your family’s safety.” the half-goblin replies.

While her rationale continues to support the everpresent occlumency shields, somewhere deep down she feels alleviated by the statement. Still, Narcissa can not suppress a flinch at the mention of their “care about” a certain individual.

“Draco.” Lucius breaks the silence, “You may go first.”

In the blink of an eye, Draco disappeared from their sight, the only indication that he was ever there with them was the quick but soft click at the infirmary. The charms professor could not quite suppress a chuckle, but his expression returned to a neutral one quickly.

Lucius lead her to sit on the bench, they sat close without touching shoulders, her hand covering her husband’s atop the wooden surface as they both look straight ahead. Waiting until the auror and the professor look away and start murmuring by the corner does she dare to take a look at Lucius. Neither of them can hear the happenings beyond the closed doors, but his gloved right arm is clutching his knees, whereas the left one rubs her palm lovingly. Narcissa took the relaxed hand in both of hers and places it on her lap, resuming to let her thoughts wander out into the pale desolation beyond the stretched windows.

The fog dissipates slowly as time goes on, and thick clouds begin to rise from the valleys. Narcissa isn’t aware of how long has her son been inside the infirmary, what have they been talking about? What is Severus telling him? How would Draco react to everything? Would Severus see Draco as an enemy?

“Mother, Father.” Both of their heads immediately snap to the infirmary door, her son slowly spins his way around the gap of the half-opened door with grace. There is an envelope in his hand, she sees Lucius once again stop himself from asking anything else than how he is doing, Draco looks at both of them, and flashed a smile before covering it with a cough. And to both older Malfoys, that is more reassuring than a thousand words.

Shacklebolt turns to them, once again checking on the time, “Best to finish within 15 minutes. I suspect the minister won’t let him stay that long.”

They nodded in thanks, Lucius holds up a hand in front of her as she accepts it, steeling themselves, Lucius pushes the door open, and steps in with their masks in place, like how they always do when they present themselves.

---

Draco sits down on the bench after watching his parents glide through the entrance, silently shrinking the envelope into his pocket, he looks out to the window where the fog surrounding the school continues to disperse.

“Tell me your thoughts, and I shall answer your questions.” His godfather was straightforward as ever, his face remained stern, but having known him since birth, he can see the apprehension in Severus’s eyes.

Are you a death eater? “Legally, yes.”

But you are not loyal to… him. “Correct.”

Since when? “Couple months before his first demise.”

Why? Severus stayed silent and shook his head.

So you are loyal to the headmaster? The man shook his head again.
You think muggle-borns are equal to us? “Depends.”

A muggle-lover. "I am half muggle, as you know, I do not love them, but I understand them to my advantage.”

Why did you save Potter? “"I am obligated, and ordered to."

But he is our enemy. “"He is the Dark Lord’s enemy."

He would have anyone kill us! Severus gave him a bemused look and huffed.

You know the so-called light families have been banning our traditions! “"I am aware, however, Potter will not kill you or your family, even if he has the power.”

They continued their conversation in that stiff manner, almost like an interrogation, but both of them knew the boy would not be satisfied until all his questions are answered — his views, his relationships with the fools, Potter, the blood traitors and all, sometimes he answered, sometimes he just shakes his head. And when Draco ask if Dumbledore orders to kill them would he follow the order, Severus made a horrified face and shook his head vehemently, while it was one of the rare moments where the man show that much emotion, he did not answer it verbally.

Finally, he braced himself:

Are you, being my godfather, my parents’ friend, the Slytherin head of house and all, everything that you’ve done and said, is it real?

Severus looked at him intently, until he felt a presence in his mind, not intrusive, but similar to a knock at the door, like when he checks up on his studies during summer. He slipped an envelope under the blanket into his hand, subtly glanced to the corner of the infirmary, and squeezed his hand. A hopeful warmth lingers within as the presence retreats.

“Perhaps.” He announced, after ruffling his hair and gesturing at him to let his parents in.


Does Draco still trust him? He certainly didn’t like some of Severus’s answers, but at the same time he never publicly talk about his views on those subjects. He is loyal to neither the Dark Lord nor Dumbledore, then again, a Slytherin will always keep his loyalties and motivations to himself. He cannot help but make excuses for Severus, his doubts regarding someone who technically lied to them for years are not quelled either.
v There have only ever been two paths for him, either join the cause or become one of those muggle-loving fools, the right or the wrong way. He’ll never acknowledge, hell even look at a muggle even he can help it, but would he eradicate them? Even the children? Perhaps he would have been eager to take up the job, but now?

“Some people are born to be less than.” But Draco doesn’t want to kill them.

“Muggles are a threat to Magicals.” They are, but he doesn’t want to kill them.

“It’s either killed or be killed in a war.”

The faces of his Father and godfather after each meeting, they are supposed to lead the Wizarding population to glory. Each retelling of muggles being burnt alive as retribution for the burning times, it’s a crusade to victory.

“She was having breakfast when we confringo-ed the house, and she just laid there with food still all over her face like a pig.” Draco was eating with his parents in the dining room that morning too.

“We froze him in the middle of the shower and his limbs snapped so easily like icicles.” The same night, Draco didn’t dare to stay in the bath for more than five minutes.

“We turned her mittens into black mambas, the kid frothed up a storm.” Draco has only worn gloves since then.

He doesn’t want to kill anyone, he can’t bear to see anyone close hurt, just thinking about Severus’s blackened arm makes fear well up from his stomach. But the other road would be even more miserable, well, because of Dumbledore.
I don’t want to die.

His train, no, trains of thought are suddenly broken up by a loud thump within the infirmary. The other men next to him turn their heads at the noise, then look at him, he shrugs in response.

“...my family, my son into this!”

“...down! …Draco…”

“...this mess… half-blood coward!” Another loud thump.

Draco flinches violently at the term, as well as the harsh exchanges from the three adults, he has never heard his father loose his temper like this. Professor Flitwick gently lays a hand at his knees, offering comfort, before looking at the Auror, “Should we go in?”

None of them notice that the three Gryffindors are currently hiding under an invisibility cloak at the end of the hallway.

“...work under him… all would have died.” The familiar levelled voice seeps through the wooden door. “...your son… three rounds a day?”

SLAP!

“Lucius!”

Draco feels like he’s suffocating, Shacklebolt strides towards the infirmary door, only to find it tightly lock, and stays stubbornly shut as both older man tries to open the door with a plethora of charms, along with brute force. Draco holds onto the shrank envelope with a shaking hand, but he thought… he thought…

“Severus open the door!” The Auror shouts.

The door does not budge, the infirmary becomes a stronghold that holds a war within.

Draco is still trembling when his parents push the infirmary door open. His father's glacial eyes blazing in barely controlled anger as wild magic rolls off his body in waves, while his mother looked sickened by everything. The three meet eyes, and Draco knows it’s time for them to leave, hastily getting up on his unsteady legs, he trails his parents as they storms their way to the school entrances, while the Auror and Professor rush past them into the infirmary.

They don’t speak when they apparated back within the Malfoy gates and march back into the manner with Draco finding it increasingly difficult to follow his father’s footsteps. Only when they reached the living room do both his parents slump down onto the sofa, himself tentatively moving to sit on the couch facing them.

During the pregnant silence, Draco continues to rephrase and practice his question until he builds up enough courage to ask.

“Father–”

It is immediately cut off, when the father holds onto mother’s face and kissed, in a rather heated manner, while she responded with the same amount of passion, uncaring for their son’s gaping mouth and face flushed like a tomato. The two continue until both go breathless, moments after they draw apart, both parents run to hug him, leaving a flabbergasted Draco.

“Wha- what?”

“Take out your letter Draco.” Mother pulls back and smiles, a tired but relieved one “Let us discuss.”

The letter within the envelope is addressed to a “Master Desjardins” — A potions master from France, an acquaintance of Severus from the International Potions Guild, who has her small group of researchers working in her apothecary that focuses on remedies that help with birth defects, a relatively new subject in across the magical world.

[“I think you would be interested to have him as an apprentice, Madame.”]

Being a potioneer that focuses on healing has always been Draco’s aspiration until he stopped thinking about it after the Tri-Wizard Tournament.

“So… I’m leaving?”

His parents' expressions drop slightly, “No, it is not safe for us to send you away currently.” Father breathes in deeply, “The coming year will be a hard one, especially for you, I understand that you… do not want to follow my path.”

Draco flinches and lowers his head, father must be disappointed.

“I will be honest,” Father grips his shaking hand, “I would rather that you do not.”

Draco snaps his head up, and sees the exhaustion upon the man’s face, but also a long lost hint of gentleness.

“But there is something you must do first, similar to your housemates, the inner circle knows of it, the Dark Lord requires regular reports just from us, listen Draco.” He forces himself back onto the couch instead of bolting away, “Everyone will be monitoring Severus, including people from the other side, creating any doubt will only spell our demise. You, and your housemates will be on observation duty, and only have to report to me, just providing a memory will do. I will handle the rest.”

“But… Severus?”

“Things will have to change, Dragon, Severus said the same.” Mother caresses his chin, “ We will have to keep a certain amount of distance, but he remains your uncle Severus, and our anti-social friend, he will be there until you are safe to leave.”

Why the sudden trust? They were arguing just now in the infirmary, did they somehow secretly—

Severus glanced at the corner of the infirmary, giving silent answers, legilimising him to get his attention to hand over the recommendation, the emotionless voice yet assuring smile.

Oh.

“I know this is a lot to take in Draco, will you help us? Just this once?”

Draco doesn’t say anything and melts into the hugs, he still fears for his future, maybe just a little less knowing that the adults do too, and he is not alone.

“Malfoys aren’t to be refuted, as they are always right.” is something grandfather taught father, then to Draco himself.

But for once, it is good to be proven wrong.

---

L,

You could have at least taken your Platinum rings off.

S