Work Text:
June
Severus only recalls one scene clearly: a sharp, tearing pain in his neck after Nagini's bite. Before that, the battle raging on the grounds of Hogwarts feels confusing, almost surreal to him. And after the snake's attack, he can't remember much either. If he thinks hard enough, he might understand that someone stood by his side. Potter, perhaps? It must have been the boy, for he felt that, with the little strength he had left, he (Severus) was urging Harry to look into his eyes and shared some of his memories.
But the truth is, he wasn't so sure, because after that snake's attack, everything became hazy and painful. Painful? How was he feeling pain if he was supposed to be dead? Or should be, at least.
Dying was a sequence of simple steps. The first was to stop living (perhaps the easiest of all). With this new "status," all sensations were lost, including pain—or so said the ghosts who had died painful deaths. Then, without any sense of how much time had passed, one would "awaken" in a hallway so white that it was hard to understand, at first, what was happening. In that place, there was always someone who knew the newly deceased and guided them to the end of that long hallway, bringing that life to its close. Few were offered the chance to return as ghosts, and even fewer accepted, knowing their soul would never find rest.
Severus knew he was going to die. Living beyond the war was unthinkable. Besides, what for? As the years went by, he accrued more enemies than friends. His family had perished (and he was partly responsible for that), and after Dumbledore's death, all who had once been his allies ended up believing in his guilt. His portrayal as a villainous headmaster didn't help his popularity either; it didn't matter that he had secretly helped the students, as no one would ever find out about that. Because of all this, he had already decided that even if he were one of the few chosen to have the chance to return as a ghost, he wouldn't do it.
He would take the opportunity for one last moment of defiance, raising a slender, elongated middle finger in the direction of Albus - for he was more than certain that it would be Dumbledore who awaited him to guide him through the tunnel - in a gesture he had long learned Muggles made. And he would tell the old wizard that he could go to hell with all his ghostly existence; Severus only wanted to rest.
And Albus couldn't complain or feel insulted, no. In the end, the burden that the former headmaster had placed on Severus's shoulders was too heavy, and Severus knew it. He complained, yes, constantly, because it would be very un-Slytherin not to complain or argue about all the absurd ideas that crossed Dumbledore's mind, but in the end, he fulfilled everything.
Being Voldemort's spy, enduring Cruciatus Curse, burns, and diminishing his soul every day while being forced to torture and brew potions with malicious intent? Done. Ensuring that every step Dumbledore planned, including the members of the Order, was heading in the right direction? Done. Killing Dumbledore, even at the cost of his mental health, and replacing him as headmaster, causing Voldemort to believe he had absolute control over Hogwarts but thus avoiding the greatest possible harm to the students? Done. Watching over Harry Potter since he was deposited at his aunt and uncle's house, making sure no Death Eater found a way to enter the house? Done. Making sure the Gryffindor brat didn't end his life in one of his reckless antics during his school years? Done. Ensuring Potter was capable of defeating Voldemort and, thereby, dying in the process? He didn't know the answer to that.
Severus wasn't sure how the battle had ended —if it had ended at all—, so he didn't know if Potter was still alive. Perhaps the boy had died, and he too was waiting in the famous white hallway for someone to guide him to death. He hoped it wouldn't be Dumbledore who had to guide him, as Snape didn't want to wait too long, nor did he want to share the hallway with Potter, far from it. Each one needed their own hallway.
But he couldn't understand why it was taking so long. Or was he imagining it? No, he doubted that. It was as if... he hadn't died. And that was impossible, it had to be impossible. He had been bleeding out on the greenhouse floor, with one of the most potent snake venoms coursing through his body. There was no way he could still be alive.
He tried to focus, feeling as though his mind was scattered, drifting somewhere far from his body, and he struggled to make sense of what was happening. Voldemort, Nagini, the bite; that much was clear. After that, Potter had come to his side, and he’d given him his thoughts—he was certain of that now. Then everything had turned to pain and darkness. Now that he thought about it, he was still in the dark, but the pain was gone. Only a vague discomfort lingered, one he couldn’t quite place.
Did the dead feel vague discomfort? He cursed himself internally for not having studied the topic more deeply. One tends to take death for granted until it arrives, and then has no idea what to do when there’s still doubt about whether one is actually dead.
He couldn't feel the position of his body, nor his limbs, not even the rhythm of his breath. Was he still breathing, then? If he could have emitted a groan, he would have, but he couldn't even find his voice.
The memory of feeling like this once crossed his mind, many years ago. On the anniversary of Lily's death, a sense of sorrow overwhelmed him to such an extent that, at one in the morning, he left the castle and immersed himself in the waters of the lake. Floating in those waters in complete darkness, he couldn't feel his feet or his arms. On that occasion, he didn't wish to die; if he drowned as collateral damage, he wouldn't fight against fate, but he just needed to stop feeling, and it worked.
But at that moment, he wasn't submerged in the lake of Hogwarts, or so he believed. So he concentrated as much as he could, searching for sounds, sensations, anything that would help him understand.
He was lying down.
He understood this when he managed to feel his legs and arms slightly, as well as the position of his head. Lying down where? Perhaps he was still lying where Voldemort left him to bleed out, poison corroding his body. But no, if he concentrated hard enough, he could feel the comfortable surface he was on. Perhaps a coffin? Coffins were padded. No, no, it seemed to be more like a bed.
Why was he in a bed?
He kept focusing, pushing his senses beyond his limits. He couldn’t move his arms or legs; he couldn’t even open his eyes. But he could feel. He sensed something soft on his body—perhaps a fabric?—and the smell of cleaning products reached his nose, coming from wherever he was lying.
He could also hear.
He understood that something nearby was emitting a low, sharp sound; a beep that lasted just a second and took about a minute to reappear. After that, there was only silence.
The silence and the inability to move frightened him. Was he in the hands of Death Eaters? He wished to die, yes, but he didn't want to be tortured in the process.
But he dismissed that idea when he thought that few Death Eater hideouts smelled clean.
He didn’t know how much time passed between the moments when he was able to recognize one thing or another, but he felt he understood little about his situation. Until a change in the room alerted him. He noticed the sound of a door opening as the hinges creaked slightly, followed by footsteps approaching. The rustling of fabric—robes, perhaps?—also filled the space until whoever had arrived stopped next to him.
“What is the patient’s condition?” It was a deep, mechanical voice, like someone repeating words they had said too many times in a lifetime. By the tone, Severus was sure it was an old man. “Any updates?”
"No changes," said a woman's voice, sounding unsure. "We've managed to halt the progression of the poison, but he's not responding as well as he should be. Healer McLaren says we’ve been wasting our time in these three weeks.”
There was a heavy silence in the room before the other one spoke again.
“I must tell Healer McLaren to save his comments if he has nothing academic to contribute. Now, Miss Lewis, detail the patient’s last week. As a second-year practitioner, I expect you not to make the same mistakes as your colleague."
St. Mungo, Severus thought upon hearing the word 'Healer.' He listened to the practitioner's words while thinking. If he had been in that state for three weeks, and supposedly in St. Mungo's, did that mean Voldemort had been dead all that time? He didn't believe any Healer would waste time with him if Voldemort were still alive, destroying everything in his path.
The healer and the practitioner moved— he heard their footsteps— to the side of the room where the beep was coming from, and they seemed to touch something that tinkled lightly. Although he couldn't see it, he knew the healer had passed his wand over him as healers did, for he felt magic coursing through him for a second.
He focused intently to catch every detail, allowing him to perceive what sounded like a quill scratching against paper. Severus noticed that the healer was talking about his state of consciousness and, somehow, he didn’t seem to realize that he had awakened. Waking up was a way of saying it, as he couldn’t open his eyes or move his limbs. But hadn’t his magic undergone some change that the stupid healer should notice in his examination?
If he could have mentally berated himself, he would have done so upon remembering that perhaps the venom of a snake as powerful as Nagini interfered with his magic. For the healers, there was no change in Severus's state of consciousness; the venom must still be wreaking havoc.
The visitors seemed to finish their check-up, and their footsteps echoed towards where the door apparently was. But before they completely left the room, the practitioner's voice, hesitant, was heard.
"Can I ask you a question, Healer Johnson?" There was no audible response, but the practitioner continued, perhaps after receiving an affirmative nod. "Snap... the patient, he's a... Death Eater. Why...?"
The girl's voice faltered, fearful of finishing what was on her mind. Severus didn't need any more context to understand what she meant. The healer paused before speaking again.
"We are healers, Miss Lewis. Our job is neither to judge nor to condemn. That is the responsibility of the Aurors and the Ministry."
The girl uttered a brief apology that was barely audible to Snape, and both of them left the room, leaving him alone.
Severus was an intelligent man—too intelligent, perhaps. It didn't take him long to understand the conversation between the Healer and the practitioner. He grasped that at some point, he had been quickly transferred to St. Mungo's and, for a month, had managed to elude the clutches of death.
What he didn't understand was why.
Who had brought him to St. Mungo’s, and why? After all, he assumed everyone saw him as scum who deserved to die. Why would anyone bother putting in the effort to save him? Because, no matter how much the Healer went on about duty and righteousness, Severus knew something didn’t quite add up.
Perhaps they wanted him to wake up and talk about possible hiding places or Death Eaters working under the radar? He doubted it. They wouldn't expend so much effort on him for something they could find out from anyone else with a little dose of torture. It must be something else, surely.
It had been two days since the visit from the healer and the practitioner, or so he believed. The truth was that in those two days, he had exerted himself so much to find a way to wake up that he thought he had almost succeeded.
It was like practicing Legilimancy/Occlumancy; it was all about mastering the mind. And he was an expert at that. Bending the body using the mind or, in that case, lifting it. He focused on creating a detailed mental map of his body, and with the help of his magic, he went through every pore and every cell, as if he were trying to flip a switch that would turn on his senses and help him stand up. His fingers were numb, and he felt his left leg different from the right. He understood better the gravity of the snake's wound, which seemed to extend from the base of his left ear to a few centimeters above his left collarbone. By concentrating in that way, the pain was more noticeable, but he endured it in pursuit of making progress and not having to remain in that vegetative state for much longer.
When he thought he was aware of every cell, he focused so much on rising that he began to feel a strange sensation. He could feel a prickling sensation in the middle of his forehead, as if someone were sticking a pin between his eyebrows.
Suddenly, he opened his eyes.
He had done it!
He had to close his eyes again for a moment when the light streaming through the window blinded him. But he opened them again, slowly this time. Getting used to the light, he glanced around the room: a typical St. Mungo's room. A small room with a bed in the center. If he turned his head to the right—just a bit, as his neck hurt like hell—he could see a chair next to the bed and a door a few steps away. In front of the bed, a few steps ahead, there was a wide closed window, but with the curtains open. Near the window, there was a slightly ajar door that, following the logic of St. Mungo's rooms, Severus inferred was the bathroom. Just to his left—and he could hardly see it, as he couldn't turn his neck that much in that direction—there was a machine that Severus knew was used to dilute and administer potions at certain intervals, so he had discovered where the beeping was coming from. And, if he concentrated well, he could feel right where the tube entered through his left arm, connecting him to the machine.
Thinking about his arms made him feel the urge to move them. He should take advantage of being alone, as he knew someone would enter (he assumed to replenish the potions in the machine and check his status); they had done so twice since the Healer's visit, and that was how he calculated two days had passed. He didn't want to be caught in such a humiliating moment as trying to lift his arms.
The problem was that no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. Not an arm, not a hand, not a finger. Not a leg, not a foot, not even a toe. Apart from slightly turning his head, he couldn't move the rest of his body.
Terror engulfed him when he had a thought. Was he quadriplegic?
At that moment, the door opened and a young woman entered, wearing a uniform with her hair tightly pulled back into a bun. She carried a small box with vials inside. Severus imagined she would react upon seeing him awake, but the young woman barely spared him a glance before restocking the potions tinkling in the box before leaving.
He could have thought he was dreaming.
He could have thought the girl simply didn't care if he woke up.
He could have thought of a thousand things.
But one minute later, he felt the small prick between his eyebrows intensify, and everything turned black. It wasn't that he closed his eyes, nor did he lose consciousness, for he remained awake, but he could no longer see anything. After a few minutes, the pain in his forehead subsided.
He tried again, but it wasn't until nearly five hours later that he managed to "open" his eyes once more. That simple action seemed to drain him because he felt as tired as if he had returned to the battlefield and was fighting to the death again. Frustrated, he decided to try again. What else could he do? He preferred to manage to get up from that bed and, in the solitude of his home, accomplish his goal of dying. But staying in that room with no possibilities of anything was more than torture.
He focused harder, drawing on all the energy and magic he could feel coursing through his body. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but at last, he made progress.
He raised his arms.
A self-satisfied smile crossed his face—until he noticed something was wrong. He was holding his arms up in front of his face, but if he looked closely, his arms were still lying on the bed.
Since when did he have four arms?
With a bit more effort, he felt he could move his feet. Nearly twelve hours later—he estimated the time based on the young woman earlier visit, when the soft sunlight had filtered gently through the window, the day passed, the sun set, and darkness had long since claimed the world outside—he managed to stand up from the bed, dressed in his Hogwarts attire and black robes.
Although he was still lying in bed.
And then Severus, with a furrowed brow and lips drawn into a thin line, stood next to the bed and observed his own body lying on it, connected to the potion infusion machine.
Had he become a ghost?
That's ridiculous , he told himself.
Just two minutes later, everything turned dark again, and being a smart man, he understood that he had "re-entered" his body.
Muggles called it astral projection, though they truly had no idea of everything it entailed. It was often associated with meditation or cases of individuals falling into a coma. However, what Muggles achieved was merely a dissociation of thought. True astral projection required magic.
Beyond simply transporting consciousness, it demanded the ability to concentrate a significant amount of magic and project oneself outside the body.
Though, truth be told, being able to accomplish such a feat was almost a myth.
He had read little about it, almost as little as he had about death. How ironic that, despite his vast knowledge, what he didn’t know was exactly what he needed most. Though, at that moment, he didn’t need to project himself in that way. He needed to wake up and get out of that hospital, for whatever reason it might be.
Severus tried to calm himself when a sense of unease began to envelop him, reminding himself that he was not a man who let emotions dominate him. He had only recently regained consciousness; perhaps he needed a little more time to fully wake up.
However, four days later, he still hadn’t succeeded. He had only managed to understand a bit more about that projection , which seemed to be the only thing he could do, and it came with many limitations.
- He needed to concentrate a lot to "see," and even more to be able to leave his body. This only lasted a few minutes; then, he felt a strong headache before fading away. Although each time he was able to take a little longer, even reaching up to half an hour.
- In his "ghostly" form, he couldn’t touch objects or people, nor could he feel anything at all. He confirmed this when he took advantage of the opportunity while they came to change his sheets to project himself. He felt every movement of the sheets, even the hand of the young woman who checked that he was still connected to the infusion machine. But in his incorporeal form, he couldn’t move an object or make himself known to the staff attending to him.
- He couldn't move away from his body. Or, at least, not too far. With much effort (and fatigue), he had managed to reach the door, but he couldn't open it or pass through it. He even tried to take advantage of the door being left open when they came to change his sheets, but he was stopped by a force he couldn't see or overcome.
- He couldn't perform magic. Technically, the state he entered was pure magic, but that didn't allow him to formulate any spells to help him at that moment. He didn't even know where his wand was! Although, truthfully, in that form, it wouldn't be of much help to him.
During those attempts, a week passed. A week in which he slept when darkness settled on the other side of the window, darkening the room, and woke up when the rays of the sun ascended once more. A week in which the only interruptions to his routine of projecting (and seeing if he could hang himself) were the hospital staff fulfilling their duty after casting him a disdainful glance for a few seconds.
But one day (he didn't know which day of the week it was), the door opened in the late afternoon —orange hues streaming through the window, heralding the imminent darkness—and the last person he expected to see entered: Harry Potter.
Snape was out of his body at that moment, standing by his bedside, so he had a good view of the other's actions.
The lion poked his head in and scanned the room, making sure it was empty. The boy entered, closing the door behind him, and Severus—he couldn't deny it—was surprised to see him. He was wearing a blue T-shirt that revealed a bandage wrapping his entire right arm, including his fingers. His face was adorned with prominent dark circles that were still visible behind the frame of his glasses, and what caught Severus's attention the most was seeing him limping on his right leg as he approached the bed.
Dark magi c, he thought, observing the state of the boy. In that moment, he realized he hadn't thought much about Potter beyond the first day he woke up. It's not that he needed to dwell on the boy in his current state, but, truthfully, he believed Potter was as buried as he should be himself.
Potter took the chair next to the bed and, with difficulty, pushed it back a little and sat down, facing Snape. The boy stared at him—his body lying on the bed—for a long time without saying a word. There seemed to be confusion or hatred, or a mixture of both, on his face. Five minutes passed, perhaps 10, at most 15, before Potter decided to speak.
"Professor Snape," he said, dragging out the words. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands, hiding himself. He rubbed his face roughly, almost causing his glasses to fall off, and a full minute passed before he raised his gaze again and spoke once more. "I really don't know why I'm here, but Hermione said I should talk to you. I didn't understand why, but she mentioned something about an obsession with you. And Ron supported her! Can you believe it? Of course, I'm not obsessed with you, it's just that there are too many things I still don't understand and…"
Always so eloquent, Potter , Snape said, clicking his tongue, knowing he wouldn't be heard.
Potter took a deep breath. Snape made every possible effort to understand what he was saying, as sometimes he spoke too softly and, truth be told, Snape couldn't get any closer to the Gryffindor. He had been practicing projecting himself in the morning so much that he could barely stay out of his body.
Harry continued after a sigh.
"I saw your memories, you know? I saw them all. I suppose there were some you didn't want me to see, but I don't think you were in your best moment to decide which memories to give me while you were bleeding out…" Potter brought his hand to his neck, but then let out a dry laugh, realizing he was mimicking something for someone who couldn't see him. "Don't expect me to apologize for what my father and Sirius did, because you also attacked. But I guess that explains a lot about why you hated me so much." Another pause, and the boy pinned his eyes on the door. "This is stupid, the healers said you probably can't hear me, or even wake up. They said something about the poison reaching your central nervous system or something like that."
Or something like that? Snape almost roared, infuriated. Potter, you attended almost seven years of education at one of the best wizarding schools, and your intellect only expands enough for you to express yourself with a 'something like that'?
The room fell into silence as the Gryffindor focused his gaze back on the body in the bed, furrowing his brow. Severus felt exasperated, not understanding why the boy wouldn't leave him alone. Suddenly, and to his surprise, the boy stood up, and with a tremendous effort due to his limp, he approached the bed with a changed look in his eyes. There was no longer mist in his eyes, nor doubt. All feelings had been replaced by an immeasurable hatred that Severus had never seen on the Gryffindor's face before.
“I hated you, Snape, you have no idea how much I hated you. Every time I saw your face after Sirius’s death, I wanted to kill you. I thought you were a Death Eater, and I couldn’t accept that my godfather was gone while you were still alive.” Harry finished closing the little distance that separated him from Snape's bed, and in a surprising act for the potion master, the boy placed both hands on the neck of the inert body, his face filling with even more hatred. "Every day that you made my life miserable only intensified my desire to end yours. And when you killed Dumbledore, I swear, I hated you more than I hated Voldemort."
Severus stood motionless. Harry Potter was going to kill him! He could only watch as the boy's hands began to exert pressure on his injured neck. He felt the pressure in his ghostly form, and the pain intensified on the side of Nagini's bite. In that form, he couldn't do anything, but then again, wasn't that what he wanted? He wished to die, and Potter, true to the values of bravery of his house, would grant his last wish even without knowing it.
But the boy released his grip on his neck as if it burned him and returned to his place in the chair with slow steps and a grimace of pain.
Stupid Potter, are you suddenly becoming moral now? Kill me now!
The Gryffindor furrowed his brow again, but he didn't seem to have heard him. There was a space of perhaps a minute where he didn't say anything, appearing to be lost in his thoughts.
"But then Fawkes brought me a note from Dumbledore." Severus watched as the boy reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled and almost destroyed piece of paper. "Trust him." Snape barely understood what the boy had said, and it took him a while to realize it was because he was holding back tears. "Dumbledore could have explained so many things to me, told me so many things… and all he wrote was 'Trust him'."
The potion master watched as the other wiped away a rebellious tear roughly, almost scratching his cheek in the process.
"He asked me to trust you. I had told him the night before that I suspected you were up to something. He told me to trust, just as he did. I didn't want to, but then so many things happened together: the Horcruxes, your help in finding the Sword of Gryffindor…”
How did Potter know he had interfered in the Dean Forest to help him find the sword?! That was impossible; he had been as cautious as always. Severus furrowed his brow. Had Dumbledore told the brat more than he should have? He didn’t believe the old wizard would be so reckless.
"...And then your memories. My parents… Sirius, Remus… Even me through your eyes…”
Potter?!
What had he put in his thoughts about Potter beyond disdain?
"It was so... No one had ever seen me in such a human way," the boy said with a slight, almost melancholic smile. "Hermione stayed by your side, applying pressure to your wound and casting every healing spell she knew. And after seeing those memories, I... I almost begged her not to let you die. To do more than she could. I think she understood it was something I needed, and I truly don't know what she did, but it was strong enough to bring you here. If she wanted, she could be the best healer, but she says she doesn't like blood, and after what happened at Malfoy Manor, I understand her."
Severus, on his part, seemed to be thinking of nothing else but understanding what the hell could have prompted Potter to speak in that manner.
Surely the brat was hallucinating on the battlefield due to all the spells he received and mixed my memories with something else , he said through gritted teeth. It's foolish of you to think there was anything more than disdain in my memories, Potter.
Potter seemed to focus his eyes on Severus and narrowed them. But not on the Severus lying in the bed, no. On the Severus standing beside it. But that couldn't be possible. Or could it?
Perhaps it was just a coincidence, because that action didn't last more than a few seconds.
He watched as Harry shook his head and got up from the chair, placing it back where he found it with difficulty, using the hand that wasn't bandaged. And without adding anything else, he left, leaving behind many questions and few answers in that room.
July
Harry Potter returned two days later, coinciding with the arrival of the first days of July. Night had already settled through the window by the time the lion poked his head inside. The room was usually cloaked in shadows after sundown until the warm orange lights flickered on to welcome a visitor.
If the first visit had been unexpected, the second was even more so. Severus had assumed the boy had satisfied his desire to “talk” and would no longer feel the need to see him. Though, perhaps he had returned to finish what he hadn’t dared to that day.
But no. He merely took the chair next to the bed, dragged it over to the side of the window, and sat down. He settled as best as he could with his obviously injured leg on that wooden chair, his gaze vacant as he stared at Severus’s body.
This time, Severus managed to get closer to the boy and observe him properly. And the truth was, he looked dreadful. Up close, he seemed even paler and thinner. His hair had grown slightly since the last time Severus had seen him (while not trapped in that coma) and looked wilder than ever. The bandage on his arm had changed; his fingers were now visible, and the skin was reddened, as though burned. By now, Severus was certain it was a dark magic burn, given that it still hadn’t healed.
Snape stepped back and settled at the end of the bed, waiting, mildly curious to see what else the boy would say, but the lion remained silent. Hours passed, and in that room, the only sounds were the steady beep of the infusion machine and the soft squeak of the wooden chair whenever the younger man shifted or adjusted his position. At some point, he stopped looking at Severus and turned to gaze out the window, though he said nothing. Occasionally, he let out small sighs, the only indication that he hadn't fallen asleep with his eyes wide open.
After three hours (by Severus' estimation), Potter stood up, grabbed the chair, and placed it back by the bed before leaving.
The windows of St. Mungo’s were enchanted, though not in the usual way. It wasn’t the kind of enchantment that confined the view to a single season, nor one that concealed the weather during storms. The building was circular in design, with an open space at the center. St. Mungo’s had always been known for its beautiful enchanted garden (decent, by Severus’ standards), where there were always benches to sit on, no matter how many people were around.
The garden had something peculiar about it: it wasn’t truly protected by magic. If a storm hit, the reinforced walls of the hospital would hold firm, but the flowers and trees in the garden could suffer. If the sun was too harsh and the grass wasn’t watered regularly, it might wither. Sometimes, the song of birds could be heard among the branches; other times, there was silence, if they weren’t around.
But the windows always faced the park. It didn’t matter from which angle you looked, or if logic suggested you were on the complete opposite side, the park was always visible.
After Harry left, Severus lingered by the window for a while. It was quite dark, and only the faint light of the waxing crescent moon filtered through. He returned to himself as soon as he felt the pain in his forehead.
“Remus is dead.”
The boy had entered the room and leaned against the window sill. He only stayed in that position for a few minutes before pointing his wand at the chair and moving it over to where he was sitting.
Severus didn’t know exactly what day or time it was. He had been doing an excellent job counting the minutes in his mind and calculating time based on how the sun rose and set through his window, and by the arrival of the Healers. But to do that, he had to stay awake, and he was certain he had slept (or been in a coma) for quite a while. Days, he dared to say.
At least the day before, he had woken up with that feeling. To him, every day felt the same, yes, but he hated not knowing what day it was. It made him lose the little control over his life that he had left. Life? Did he still have a life? The kind of potions they were using on him gave him the answer about his medical condition. Not to mention that he had made a decision. But, while in that state, it didn’t matter to him; he simply couldn’t care.
Anyway, he no longer felt the tearing pain in his neck. The wound from Nagini still hurt, yes, but not as much as it had the first time he woke up.
“I suppose you didn’t know. I mean, you were busy being bitten by Nagini, weren’t you? Tonks is dead too.”
Severus couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit of pity for the Metamorphmagus. She had been a smart girl. Perhaps her mistake was getting involved with the last of the Marauders left to die.
“Do you remember Teddy? I’m not sure if you heard, but I’m his godfather, though I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”
I share that opinion as well, Potter. Seems like it’s the first thing we agree on.
He had remained sitting at the end of the bed, looking at Harry with his legs crossed. The boy no longer had a bandage on his arm, and though the skin hadn’t fully regained its original color, it looked much less red and burned than before. He wore a blue t-shirt and jeans that seemed to have seen better days. He was still disheveled, thin, and with dark circles under his eyes.
“At least I know he’ll be fine with Andromeda.” The boy didn’t even look at him. Sometimes his gaze was fixed on a nearby wall, other times on the floor, as if the white tiles were the most interesting thing. “Colin, Austen, and Madame Hooch also died.”
“Many, Potter. In a war, many die.”
“And Lucius Malfoy.” He glanced at the body on the bed before continuing. “You were friends, weren’t you?”
Severus straightened slowly. He had believed that Lucius had managed to escape with his family in the end. He couldn’t consider him a friend—perhaps an ally, but nothing more. He had always known that Lucius' acts of "camaraderie" were nothing more than carefully calculated opportunities to take advantage of him later, though Severus had played the same game himself. Even so, it was hard for him to think of anyone else who had helped him on certain occasions.
He reminded himself once again that in war, many die.
"Did you know?" Harry began, his voice almost distant. "There was a time when I was sure I would die. In fact, it was a constant thought throughout almost all my years at Hogwarts. But it was in the final battle when I truly believed it was inevitable." A melancholic smile tugged at his lips. "I saw Voldemort fall and thought, 'Well, now it's my turn.' I closed my eyes, and I swear I saw a white tunnel. Isn't that what they say happens when you die? But then, I heard voices, and I was confused, because they weren't voices I recognized. Then I woke up. I was unconscious for two days, which is quite something." He glanced at Severus, lying in the bed, then shrugged before adding, "Though I think you beat me, Snape. You're still asleep."
Severus clicked his tongue. Couldn’t he find some way to strangle Potter in his spectral form?
"I fought the darkest wizard in history, and it wasn’t until I spent two weeks unable to stand that I truly understood how powerful dark magic is."
Potter, Severus thought with a scowl, if you’d bothered to study a bit more, you would’ve realized how dangerous dark magic is ages ago.
“I suppose, in a way, it was better for me. When I woke up, there was nothing left to do. At least I had Ron and Hermione by my side, though they were recovering too, and the rest of the Weasleys—except Percy, who wants nothing to do with me. But Percy never really liked me much anyway.” He shrugged, as if that detail no longer mattered to him. “A couple of days passed before Hermione and Ron convinced me to come and talk to you, to try and get something off my chest… though, to be honest, I’m not even sure what it was that I was supposed to let out, because in the end, I think I feel the same as before.”
Severus himself wondered what Potter wanted from him. He imagined the boy must have letters from admirers to sign or interviews to give. And, though it seemed he still couldn’t leave the hospital, surely he had plenty of company to keep him occupied. Didn’t he at least have a girlfriend? Wasn’t he supposed to be with the youngest Weasley? Perhaps they had broken up now that he’d defeated the Dark Lord and could have anyone he wanted. Many women—and Merlin knew, many men as well—would surely throw themselves at the lion’s feet. He would have his pick. Perhaps he simply didn’t want to be seen in such a pitiful state while he healed.
There was a silence that stretched on for quite some time, and Severus couldn’t help but think he had never seen Harry ponder so deeply. Perhaps , he mused, dark magic had affected his brain as well as his leg.
Harry stood and returned the chair to its original spot by the bed.
“Today’s my last day here. The Healers say I’m free of anything that might pose an immediate threat to my health,” he said with a short, dry laugh. “It’s a nice way of saying my wounds will keep hurting, but at least they won’t kill me.”
He turned to leave but stopped just before reaching the door, glancing back.
“Oh, before I forget—tomorrow’s my birthday. You should wish me a happy birthday now.”
It was July 30th! He knew several days had passed, but he hadn’t imagined it had been that many. He must have been in a coma for over 25 days if his calculations were correct, given that the last time he’d seen Potter was at the beginning of July.
Had the boy come to visit him during those days? It didn’t seem likely. Even so, the thought unsettled him—believing that instead of improving, he might slip back into a coma for extended periods.
“Molly asked me if I’d like a birthday party,” Potter said suddenly. “I think she only asked out of courtesy. She already knew my answer. What exactly would I be celebrating? That I killed someone?”
Potter, don’t tell me you’re going to get all melancholic now about getting rid of the Dark Lord. That would be absurd!
“Would I celebrate that so many people died in the battle?”
In wars, people die—it’s the most logical outcome!
“Or that I’m feeling so… lonely?”
Severus raised an eyebrow.
Lonely? Potter, snap your fingers, and you’ll have a crowd at your feet. Don’t come to me looking for pity you don’t deserve.
But Harry didn’t hear him; he simply walked toward the door. Before opening it, he glanced in Severus’s direction. For a moment, he thought he was looking at him, at his spectral form, until he dismissed the idea, realizing he was only staring at the infusion machine. Harry shook his head before speaking his last words and leaving the room.
"Anyway, I guess I should thank you for listening, even though the Healers say you can’t. You won’t have to put up with me anymore. I won’t be back."
August
Three days later, Harry came back. Severus was inside his body, once again pondering all the spells and rituals he knew, wondering if any of them might help him. He felt the door open and made an effort to "open his eyes." When he saw that it was Harry, he tried to frown — though it had no effect on his real body — and waited.
"I suppose you don’t mind if I study here," Harry said as he closed the door.
Severus projected himself quickly —improving with each passing day— before remembering that he couldn’t curse the brat in his current state. But that didn’t make his anger wane; quite the opposite.
Of course it bothers me, Potter, a lot! And if your small brain can't grasp that, it seems you're even more stupid than I thought.
Harry glanced around for a few seconds, biting his lower lip, looking uncertain. Then, he pulled what appeared to be a small bag from his pocket, pointed his wand at it, and enlarged it, along with its contents. He moved the chair into position next to the window and sat down as comfortably as he could. He took the books from the bag and stacked them on the floor.
He carefully picked one and pulled a blank piece of parchment from inside. From somewhere in his jacket, he took out a fluorescent-colored quill, which Severus recognized as one of those with infinite ink. The boy then proceeded to begin his reading, occasionally pausing to rest the piece of parchment on the book and make a note.
Although Severus had initially thought it best to ignore the boy's presence, to return to his own body and conserve his strength for another attempt to wake up when he was alone, he eventually gave in to his curiosity and approached Harry. After all, it wasn’t as though he had much else to occupy himself with. The hospital staff barely lingered in his room, leaving as quickly as they arrived—not that any of them were remotely intriguing—so they hardly held his interest.
He studied the infusion machine as carefully as he could. While he couldn’t touch anything, the potion-infused liquids were visible through small glass chambers, allowing him to discern their color and consistency. Considering the intervals at which the machine administered the next dose, he could even deduce what types of potions they were giving him. But it took him little time to analyze these details, and once again, he was left with nothing to do.
And Snape disliked having nothing to occupy himself with, nothing specific to think about. In such moments, his mind wandered too far—down paths he knew existed even with the barriers of his Occlumency. Memories that, out of cowardice, he had never dared to extract from his mind. Now, trapped in this monotony, flashes of those memories surfaced more often than he wanted, and he despised it.
For now, Harry Potter was his best distraction. Even after the boy left, he could reflect on what he had observed him doing and avoid thinking about anything else for quite some time.
Positioning himself beside him, Snape’s inspection revealed several things. First, Harry had brought books from various subjects—but none on Potions.
It’s hardly something that should surprise me.
The second thing he noticed was that the boy was still just as thin and pale. However, there was something different about his appearance—his arm. The bandage he now wore only extended halfway down his palm, and his fingers looked less red than the last time Snape had seen them, though it was clear they were still healing.
Third, his handwriting was atrocious. Absolutely dreadful! Snape had already been familiar with it from the countless essays he’d been forced to grade, but it seemed to have worsened during the year Potter hadn’t attended Hogwarts.
Potter, is it truly so difficult for you to write in a proper, legible manner?
The fourth thing was Harry’s horrendous posture—he hunched over scandalously while jotting down notes on the parchment. Snape supposed the boy probably needed a new prescription for his glasses; after all, when he read, he had the habit of holding the book far closer to his face than what could be considered normal.
Potter, is it truly so difficult for you to consider using a self-writing quill?
Perhaps the lion hadn’t planned to study in his hospital room and hadn’t brought enough to make himself comfortable. That thought unsettled Severus, prompting him to retreat from the boy and move back toward the bed.
What in Merlin’s name was Harry Potter doing there? The notion that the Great Boy Who Lived had chosen to study in the presence of his former, much-despised Potions professor was illogical, absurd, and entirely incongruous.
But after half an hour of nothing but the sound of parchment being scratched by the self-writing quill, Harry spoke, as though he had read the mind of the unconscious—or projected—Snape.
“Wow, I finally managed to finish an entire chapter,” he said, looking up. “Don’t go thinking I enjoy your company—I hate you.”
Not for a moment did that thought cross my mind, Potter. Moreover, the sentiment is mutual. But what are you doing here?
“It’s just that there’s too much noise at the Burrow. Fred and George are always working on something new for their shop, causing explosions in the yard. Ginny keeps pestering me to recount the hunt for the Horcruxes over and over, but she didn’t skip an entire year like I did—even if it wasn’t exactly a normal one—so she doesn’t need to study as much before classes start. And Mrs. Weasley... well, she’s been a bit maternal ? She won’t go more than ten minutes without asking if I’m hungry, thirsty, or warm enough.”
He frowned as he marked a page in his book. “It’s not even winter!”
With a deep sigh, he seemed to scan for the next chapter to read. “I know she does it out of pity, even if she denies it. I overheard her talking to Mr. Weasley when they thought they were alone. They said they were afraid I’d try to kill myself after Sirius’s death.”
Severus raised an eyebrow at that revelation, noting the peculiar expression on Potter’s face. But the boy didn’t linger on that train of thought.
“Ron and Hermione decided to study at her house. Her parents work, so it’s usually quiet enough. Did I mention we managed to restore their memories? They still have a few gaps, but they’re regaining everything bit by bit.”
Severus hadn’t even known the Grangers’ memories had been erased, but, much like before, Harry didn’t seem inclined to elaborate further.
“They invited me to study with them, but, you know, I figured they might appreciate a bit of space. They’re always looking out for me, so I guess the best thing I can do for them is step back a little, right?”
I fail to see why I would need to know anything about your friends’ love lives, Potter.
But Severus reminded himself that Harry wasn’t exactly speaking to him. It seemed more like the boy was venting aloud.
“McGonagall told me I could study at Hogwarts. The library was destroyed during the battle, but she said she could find me a space where no repairs are needed. Neville’s been helping Professor Sprout rebuild the greenhouse, and he told me McGonagall is doing a great job. He says the castle is already starting to look even better than before.”
So Minerva has taken up the position of headmistress. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised—it was, admittedly, one of the most sensible choices. Still, it’s unfortunate. No doubt Gryffindors will continue to receive preferential treatment for the House Cup.
"But I can't go back to Hogwarts. Not yet. I mean, I plan to return on September first, but I still have a month left, and I’d like to forget many things before I have to go back to the castle. Grimmauld Place is just rubble now,” he said, his expression briefly clouding with sadness before he returned his gaze to the book. “So you were my last option.”
You shouldn't have used me as an option.
“I realized that here it's quiet..."
Not anymore, not with your presence.
"...And that’s a new feeling for me."
Harry bit his lip again and refocused on his Transfiguration book. Severus felt weary from being out of his body and decided to return, opting to sleep and regain his strength rather than continue watching Harry Potter. The boy left a couple of hours — and chapters — later, when the orange glow of the sunset began to filter through the window.
Four more days passed, and Harry went to study every afternoon. On the second day, he studied Charms; on the third, Divination; on the fourth, History (he read slower than on the previous days); but on the final day, the fifth consecutive day of studying in that room, he studied Potions.
And it was clear he was struggling immensely.
Severus realized that the notes Harry was taking focused on the points he didn’t understand. Unlike the other subjects, where he usually filled half a parchment, in Potions he needed two full sheets just to cover a single chapter.
“This is impossible,” Harry muttered, covering his face with his hands.
I think that’s something neither of us finds surprising.
He left the Potions book on the floor, uncaring whether it was closed or not, and picked up the Herbology one instead. He sighed and settled into the chair, a grimace of pain crossing his face before he resumed reading.
Severus saw the book lying on the floor and cursed under his breath—though no one could hear him—as his curiosity pulled him closer. For the past four days, he had been reluctant to approach the boy, staying near the bed. But he hadn’t stopped leaving his body either, feeling vulnerable while lying on the bed with Potter present. And, while in this form he could do nothing, his Slytherin pride wouldn’t allow him to remain entirely passive. Yet, he couldn’t deny that he wanted to get closer and read a few paragraphs of those books, to break the apathy with something more stimulating. Now, in addition to that, he wanted to know what subject was causing the brat so much trouble.
Oh, by no means is this mere curiosity. What compels me to look at that volume is simply the unbearable languor that surrounds me.
Or so he told himself. He had to bend slightly to read the contents of the chapter in the book on the floor.
Mandrake Restorative Draught? He frowned as he straightened up, looking at Potter as if he had three heads. Do you find it impossible to study a potion as simple as the Mandrake Restorative Draught?
The worst part of the situation was that Potter didn’t even get angry at the things Snape said, because, of course, he couldn’t hear him. Snape let out a scoff and leaned over to see what he was reading. This time, he couldn’t claim it wasn’t out of curiosity, because it clearly was. As he read the Herbology book, Potter emitted small sounds of “Ah” and “That’s why,” nodding several times and taking notes.
Because the boy had the book so close to his face, Snape had to lean in to read it. It didn’t take him long to realize it was the chapter on Mandrakes. He also noticed it wasn’t the standard Herbology textbook assigned at Hogwarts. Apparently, Potter had managed to get his hands on an advanced guide that detailed the possible uses of the plants it described.
He had to admit, much to his dismay, that it was quite clever on Potter’s part. Potions were an art, and like any art, they were not linear. To learn how to make a potion—really make it well—required much more than knowing a list of ingredients and steps to follow. Creating a potion meant understanding all the aspects that surrounded it in depth; that was where perfection came from. For example, when using a flower in a potion, it made a huge difference whether it was picked during the day or at night (or at a more specific time). It also mattered whether the flower had been grown in a greenhouse or out in the open, as the factors of sun, rain, and wind direction could vary. Furthermore, it was important to know whether the flower was young or had bloomed for some time. The time passed since it was picked and its proper storage were also crucial.
The points to consider were far more numerous, and one also had to remember that a potion didn’t rely on a single ingredient. On the other hand, the tools used in its preparation mattered immensely. Take the knife, for instance—was it properly sharpened, or did it have traces of rust? Then there was the material of the mortar, the alloy of the cauldron, the temperature of the fire… And it didn’t stop there, oh no. Because after that came bottling the potion, and a poorly bottled potion was as good as a poorly brewed one. Then there was the matter of storage, and the cycle repeated itself.
The students’ curriculum only covered the basics of potion-making: learning to prepare a potion to a satisfactory standard. Typically, these potions fell into the “acceptable” category—not good, certainly not excellent, merely adequate. Throughout his career, Severus had only seen a handful of potions from students that surpassed the acceptable standard, and for one simple reason: those students read beyond the potion-making textbook. They studied every detail in depth, learning far more than what was strictly required.
And there it was, the heart of the matter: to pass the subject—much to Severus’s disapproval—all the students needed to do was memorize the potion-making textbook and follow its instructions. That was all that was required of them.
There was no need to analyze ingredients in such depth, but Potter seemed to be doing just that.
You can’t even concentrate on the simple instructions in the potion-making textbook, Potter. Are you planning to study twice as much when you can’t even manage the basics?
Still, Severus had to admit that studying in this way made the reasoning a bit clearer. In truth, it was studying twice as much—it required reading additional materials rather than simply sticking to one.
“It’s easier when I understand the why, ” Harry said without looking up. “Sometimes it’s hard to follow a bunch of instructions that seem ridiculous just because they say so.”
Severus narrowed his eyes. Had Potter actually heard his question?
Doubtful. It must be another case of ego. Potter enjoys the sound of his own voice so much that he simply assumes everyone is speaking to him.
With a huff, Severus walked toward the bed, feeling tired and nursing a headache. Turning his back, he missed Harry’s subtle movement as the boy glanced toward where Severus had been a moment earlier. Harry frowned, shrugged, and returned to his reading.
Even so, he didn’t get past the middle of the chapter on the Restorative Draught before leaving.
The next two days, there was no presence in his room beyond the hospital staff. Severus briefly felt a sense of relief, thinking that perhaps the Gryffindor had decided to stop studying in his room and had chosen better options. But the momentary relaxation was short-lived when he realized that those two days had been Saturday and Sunday.
He hoped Monday wouldn’t bring another unwanted visit and that he could continue focusing on finding a way to wake himself up. He didn’t want to “practice” waking up in front of Potter; he didn’t care if the boy didn’t see it.
September
But Harry returned. Four times a week, for a couple of hours in the afternoons, he came to study with a diligence Severus couldn’t remember ever seeing in him, not even during all the years they spent together at Hogwarts. He had to admit, even if just to himself, that he was impressed. Only a little.
The boy seemed to be making progress, and every now and then, he let slip surprisingly insightful comments about what he was reading. At other times, however, he came up with simple, unoriginal ideas, almost trivial. But Snape hadn’t expected much.
A month passed, and without warning, Harry stopped coming for a week. Although during that time Severus had taken the opportunity to read some of the books Harry had been reading—and even though he knew all of it, it was always nice to have something to read—he felt that he had fallen behind in his attempts to wake himself up. He spent all his energy while Harry was in the room, so in the mornings, he couldn’t leave too much to avoid draining his magic.
So, when the boy didn’t show up, Severus thought it was time to continue with his efforts. He told himself that he was glad for the other's absence, even though it meant falling back into silence and an excess of thoughts.
However, when the next weekend arrived, Harry returned as usual, placing his chair by the window and setting the bag he carried on the floor. This time, though, he didn’t take out any books or parchment.
“The classes started on Tuesday.”
And shouldn’t you be at the castle instead of annoying me with your presence?
Though, Severus had to admit, in a way, Harry’s presence helped him keep track of time. He was surprised to realize it was already the fifth of September. Time was slipping by quickly, even for him, trapped in that situation. The final battle had been behind him since June, almost at the threshold of the summer holidays, and two months had passed in the blink of an eye, fading away without leaving a trace.
He preferred not to imagine Hogwarts, nor the students returning with the hope of finding something of what they had lost. He didn’t think about his former colleagues, who, no doubt, still muttered curses every time someone dared to speak his name.
He didn’t care about any of that, no. And that was precisely why he didn’t want to think about it.
"The 'repeaters,'" Harry continued, making air quotes with his fingers, "only have to go three days a week. It's a relief, really. I didn't think I could ever feel like a normal student again… not after everything that happened."
To be honest, I didn’t expect you to be one of the ones to return, Potter.
"Almost all of us are eighteen now and getting our apparition license, so we're allowed to stay at Hogwarts or in Hogsmeade if anyone prefers. Ron, Hermione, and I will stay at the castle."
Potter fell silent, displaying a discomfort that contrasted sharply with the ease and lack of shame he had shown in previous days. He pressed his lips together and fiddled with his hands while looking at Snape, who was lying in the bed. The Potions Master wondered if the desire to kill him had resurfaced, if Potter was gathering the courage to carry it out.
Contrary to what Severus had imagined, Potter took the bag and rummaged through it until he pulled something out. Severus had to wait for him to enlarge the items in his hands to shape them, and he frowned so deeply that his eyebrows almost met. The Gryffindor now held a bouquet of flowers and a glass vase, which he was inspecting carefully.
"I was afraid I’d break it, but I didn’t want to walk around with this in my hands and have everyone see it, you know. But it seems the spell I put on it to protect both the vase and the flowers worked wonderfully."
The boy took out his wand, pointed it at the vase, and cast the Aguamenti charm. Then he carefully placed the flowers inside it. He made a move to stand but a grimace of pain crossed his face, and with the hand holding his wand, he grabbed his right leg tightly around the hip. A bead of sweat slid down his forehead as he took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.
"I guess the new potions are not working better," he whispered so softly that Severus almost didn’t hear.
Instead of trying to stand again, he quickly cast a spell on the vase, making it levitate gently to the small table by the bed.
What is this about, Potter? Severus, who had remained sitting on the edge of the bed, looked at the flowers with disdain. What are you trying to accomplish with this nonsense?
“The flowers are a thank-you gift,” Harry replied, and Severus had to remind himself once again that the boy couldn’t hear him. “On the first day of classes, we had a test to see how much we remembered and I did great, thanks to having a great place to study.”
If Snape had the strength to hurl the vase at Potter’s head, he would have done it. If he could insult the boy until he cried or seethed in fury, he wouldn’t have hesitated. And if he could, in that very moment, wake up and leave for a place where Potter could never disturb him again, he would have done so without a second thought. But he was trapped, unable to do any of that.
He had to endure a stupid boy with a hero complex who thought he could bother others whenever he pleased. Potter was exactly like his father in every way (at least in Snape’s view), always so sure that everything he did deserved applause and convinced that everyone should follow him without question.
Snape didn’t want those damn flowers, if only because he wanted nothing to do with Harry Potter.
“I didn’t really know what to bring, and I thought some flowers might brighten up the room.”
They weren’t necessary. Neither is your presence. Get out!
Harry bit his lip, and for a few seconds, his eyes wandered aimlessly around the room.
“I don’t think you like flowers, but I didn’t know what you would like, and I doubt bringing you a potion would’ve been a better option. I didn’t know which flowers you might prefer. I didn’t think you’d like roses, and I don’t know much about flowers in general. But I saw these at the florist and thought…”
The boy paused, looking as if he did not want to continue, and Severus didn’t care to know. He was too focused on glaring at the flowers, trying to summon hate into his heart. But he couldn’t. They weren’t roses. But neither were they sunflowers, lilies, or tulips.
“...I thought the flowers reminded me of you.”
They were marigolds—Eileen Prince’s favorite flowers.
The boy mumbled something about meeting up with his friends and left after a moment.
Snape stared at the flowers for so long that they began to blur before his eyes.
Eileen Prince had loved marigolds. They were the same flowers Severus had brought to the cemetery one summer more than twenty years ago.
He had tried to bury the memories of his mother deep inside him, and now a handful of blasted flowers had brought them flooding back.
Eileen had been a thin, frail woman, yet she always wore a constant smile. She smiled even as she gave Severus her food so he wouldn’t go hungry, though she herself hadn’t eaten. She smiled while mending her worn dresses over and over again. And, above all else, she smiled even when Tobias hit her.
Those blasted flowers brought back memories of screams, tears, and pleas. His own desperate pleas to his father not to hit his mother. They reminded him of the day he returned home after his sixth year at Hogwarts, carrying a bouquet of marigolds in his hand. It had become a tradition to bring them to his mother whenever he came back. During his first year, he had brought her a single flower he had plucked on his way out of the station, but by his second year, he had learned to transfigure a bouquet of any flower he desired.
But that day, when he opened the door, he found Eileen on the floor, surrounded by blood. Tobias was kneeling beside her, begging for forgiveness, pleading that he wouldn’t do it again. But Eileen didn’t move.
Severus realized what he had done hours later. The story was that Eileen had tried to defend herself from the blows with a kitchen knife, and the Snapes had killed each other.
Even though it was Snape who had driven the knife into his father’s heart.
Thanks to Occlumency, he could sleep without reliving that scene over and over again.
He took the marigolds he couldn’t give to his mother to her grave. Perhaps that’s why, when he finished his final year—without family, without his friend Lily, with nothing—it wasn’t so difficult for him to find refuge in Voldemort.
That night, he dreamed of his mother vividly. But it wasn’t the memory of her death—it was the day she had walked beside him, holding his hand, to catch the train that would take him to Hogwarts.
Damn Potter, and damn his flowers.
Harry didn’t come the next day, Sunday, or the days after that. By Thursday, the flowers had begun to lose a few petals, starting to look less than fresh. The staff who had come in to do their work didn’t hide their frowns or puzzled expressions when they saw the bouquet in the room of such a well-known Death Eater. In any case, none of them realized they were being watched, so they didn’t feel the need to conceal their curiosity.
Had he been able to, Severus would have gotten rid of the flowers the very day Harry brought them.
The weekend came, and some of the flowers had already wilted. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday passed as he continued practicing even more, managing to stay out of his body for longer periods.
The following Saturday, two weeks after his last visit, the Gryffindor opened the door in the afternoon. He scanned the room before limping in, more so than he had on his previous visits. His arm, on the other hand, seemed completely healed. He pointed his wand at the chair, placed it by the window, and pulled something from his pocket before enlarging it. It was a cushion, which he placed down before sitting.
Did Potter not remember that with his magic he could transfigure that chair into a more comfortable armchair? It should be a piece of cake for someone who had defeated the Dark Lord.
The Gryffindor glanced at the now wilted flowers and grimaced. “I thought I had put a charm on them to keep them from wilting."
With a flick of his wand, he made them disappear without replacing them, and Severus felt a strange sense of satisfaction. Though he still didn’t understand why the boy kept coming. If he’d already entered Hogwarts, he must have had a place to study, didn’t he?
But the boy didn’t seem to have come to study, as he still hadn’t taken out any books or study materials.
It shouldn’t surprise me, Potter isn’t capable of studying for long periods.
The younger man didn’t say anything for a few minutes as he turned to look out the window.
Why are you here, Potter?
“I don’t know why I’m here,” he sighed, turning his face to look at the body in the bed. “I truly don’t know why I’m here.”
Snape narrowed his eyes. That comment had been too specific, too precise in response to what he had asked.
Can you hear me?
“I thought I wouldn’t have to come back, that I could study in the library whenever I needed. I had so many things to do at Hogwarts that I didn’t think about you again. But on Thursday and Friday, I was alone in my room… and I thought about coming back here.”
Severus approached Harry; those words were a clear answer to his question.
“I thought I was going crazy and spent the whole weekend helping Molly in the kitchen. She was delighted. I went back to Hogwarts, and on Thursday and Friday, I was with my friends, but I still feel like I needed to tell you something.”
Severus stretched out his hand and touched Harry's shoulder. The boy paused for a long moment but didn’t look in his direction. Harry turned his attention back to the window and didn’t react when the professor called his last name. No, Harry couldn’t hear him, just like the others. It was only a coincidence, like all the others. Severus moved back toward the infusion machine, once again reviewing the potions he was being administered as a means to ignore the presence of the Gryffindor.
"Your trial started yesterday."
Severus stood lost in thought. Of course, there had to be a trial. All of Voldemort’s supporters would have one. But he had assumed that it had already happened, and they were just waiting for him to show signs of life so they could lock him away forever.
“They’ve been holding trials since the week after the final battle. But things have been dragging on quite a bit. Many Death Eaters were dead, but many managed to hide. Yours started yesterday. They kept postponing it to see if you’d wake up, but, well, you know.”
If Severus were to count the number of times Potter said "you know," he would probably have more than enough reasons to fail him in any subject. But he chose to ignore the poor vocabulary of his former student and focus on the news that came to him like a distant echo: his trial had started. He knew exactly what the verdict would be; in his mind, Azkaban was already a done deal. But did it even matter? In the end, he thought the only option for him would be death. Even imprisoned, all it would take was a sheet around his neck and...
"McGonagall told me it’s likely we’ll win."
He turned, surprised.
Minerva? But she thinks I killed Albus.
"She mentioned she always suspected something. And that Dumbledore was too clever, even for his own good."
That response made Severus narrow his eyes. Could it be...? But no. He had already confirmed that Potter couldn’t hear him; they were simply following a very similar train of thought.
“She wasn’t entirely sure until I told her everything that had happened the day after I woke up, when she came to see me here. She was really surprised that it was us who brought you to St. Mungo, and she helped me make everyone swear they would treat you like a war hero.” The boy paused, a smile adorning his face. “You should’ve seen her. I couldn’t get out of bed, remember? But she was so determined, like she had Voldemort himself in front of her. I also admit I did threaten a little anyone who didn’t treat you decently. You should’ve seen everyone’s faces.” He let out a loud laugh but grimaced in pain as he grabbed his sore hip. “But when we win the trial, everyone will see you’re a real hero. I promise.”
Snape didn’t want Potter’s promises.
Snape didn’t want to win any trial.
Snape didn’t want Potter in his room.
He just wanted to die, to rest.
The boy rummaged through his pocket before enlarging something. This time, it was a Quidditch magazine. Severus wasn’t tired, but suddenly, he felt the urge to return to his body, almost as if it could serve as a shield. It didn’t matter that he actually felt more vulnerable in his body, facing Potter, than in that projected form.
And so he did. He closed his eyes, and at some point, lost consciousness to the slow rustling of magazine pages and the steady beep of the infusion machine. When he opened his eyes, it was dark outside, and Potter was gone.
He hadn’t expected Potter to return the next day. He truly hadn’t anticipated it. He imagined the boy’s impulse to share something with him would gradually fade, day by day, not that he’d have to face his presence so soon—barely the following day.
That day, Potter seemed a little livelier. He was limping less and had a smile on his lips. He enlarged a bouquet of flowers he’d shrunken in his pocket and placed it in the vase with fresh water: a bundle of violets. He pointed his wand at them but bit his lip without uttering any spell, then sat down in the chair by the window.
Severus chose to ignore the flowers.
Harry, meanwhile, pulled a Quidditch magazine from inside his jacket and began reading.
I suppose it was too much to expect someone like him to study so diligently for so long.
“Don’t judge me, Snape. Everyone needs a break after studying so much.”
Snape turned his head so quickly that, had he not been in his spectral form, he might have snapped his neck. There were far too many instances now where Potter seemed to respond to his words, as if he could somehow hear him, and it no longer felt like a coincidence. Uneasy, he strode toward the boy with long steps.
Potter, don’t play the fool. I know you can hear me.
He tried to shake his shoulder. As expected, his hands touched Harry but he could not move him even a fraction of an inch. Yet this time, the boy lowered the magazine and glanced quickly at the body lying on the bed.
“Snape?”
No, Potter, the bloody Dumbledore. Of course, it’s me!
Harry frowned and turned his head, his eyes landing directly on the spot where Snape’s magic had materialized beside him. He really seemed to be looking at him! Then, the younger man glanced back at the bed and stood up from the chair, leaving the magazine forgotten. He approached the bed cautiously, almost as if afraid.
I’m calling you from this side, Potter. Snape moved closer behind him and grabbed his shoulder with the intention of yanking him roughly. Didn’t all those years at Hogwarts teach you how to locate a sound by its position!?
Harry stopped just short of reaching the bed and turned halfway around. He hadn’t done it because of Severus—Snape couldn’t make him. But he had felt it. The boy began glancing over his shoulder and behind his back, his eyes darting rapidly.
He looked at the body on the bed again, running a hand through his hair.
“Professor Snape, are you really talking to me?” He glanced back once more, scanning the room. Then, so quietly that even standing beside him, Severus struggled to hear, he whispered, “I felt you insulting me, but that can’t be...”
Severus focused on those words. Harry had said felt, not heard. Still, there was only one thing he could do at that moment. He placed both hands firmly on Harry’s shoulders, gripping tightly, and spoke.
Potter, find a bloody Healer before I figure out a way to kill you.
Harry's eyes widened, and he gaped, unable to produce a coherent sound. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, glancing between the Severus lying on the bed and the one holding onto him. Though it was obvious he couldn’t see him, he could certainly feel him.
“I’ll go get help,” he said, and he left as quickly as his limp would allow.
He had seen the Healer who entered about three times since waking up in June. He hadn’t recognized him because, always coming in alone, the man never uttered a single word. On those occasions, he would simply conduct a check-up by raising his wand and murmuring a spell so softly that Severus couldn’t catch it, though he was certain he knew which spell it was.
This time, however, the Healer brought along an assistant, speaking to her and reciting the incantations aloud. From the tone of his voice, Severus realized it was the same Healer he had heard the first time he was conscious. If he wasn’t mistaken, the man’s surname was Johnson, and he was fairly certain the young woman assisting him was named Lewis, though Severus couldn’t have cared less.
During the first part of the examination, Severus projected himself, observing from a distance. However, seeing that they weren’t finding anything, he decided to return to his body; perhaps his magic would remain undetectable if he stayed outside.
After nearly half an hour of incantations and spells recited by the Healer, with the young woman repeating them as reinforcement, Severus watched as the man shook his head in a negative gesture. The assistant lowered her wand, her hope fading with the motion.
“Would you like me to tell him?” she asked.
“I’ll handle it,” Johnson replied.
Severus left his body just as the young assistant exited the room. Harry wasted no time stepping inside.
“Well? What did you find?”
The boy looked anxious, almost hopeful for some positive news. The Healer fixed his gaze on Harry. He appeared to be around thirty-five, perhaps a little older, with short hair, dark skin, and light-colored eyes. Pocketing his wand, he adopted his most solemn expression before speaking.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Potter, but there’s no change in Mr. Severus Snape’s condition.”
“Are you sure? Did you check carefully?”
The Healer grimaced, but his expression suggested he was used to having his skills questioned, so he said nothing in response. Severus, for his part, possessed a deep knowledge of healing magic; he had worked side by side with Poppy in the Hogwarts infirmary and with Dark wizards under Voldemort’s command, who tried to heal Death Eaters wounded in clashes with Aurors. Unfortunately, deep down, he knew the Healer had done a good job; he hadn’t made any mistakes. It was simply that his magic was undetectable.
The Healer continued, unaware that he was speaking to both Harry and Snape.
“When you brought Mr. Snape in, there was very little to be done. His organs were failing, and his magic had already become imperceptible. We managed to stabilize him with life support. Do you know what that means?”
Harry nodded slowly.
“I asked another doctor,” Harry replied. “She told me it’s when someone is dead and kept alive with potions.”
The Healer nodded.
“Not dead in the full sense of the word, because in that case, there would be nothing more to be done. Mr. Snape's heart and brain were still functioning,which allowed us to take action.. But the poison corroded him so quickly that his brain ceased functioning, and his magic disappeared. What keeps him alive now are the potions we administer. He not only has potions for pain, revitalizers, and antidotes” he paused, making sure Harry understood “he also has a potion to keep his blood circulating, another to make his lungs inhale and exhale, and so on for every organ. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?”
“But I felt his magic…”
Johnson fell silent for a moment.
“Sometimes people can feel the magic of others they’ve been around for a while. Like a scent that clings to your clothes after being with someone for a long time. Over time, it just fades away.”
I was never around Potter that long! Severus muttered irritably, though the Healer couldn’t hear him.
“I was never like that with Snape!” Harry shouted, drawing Severus’s attention.
The boy was blushing, his hands clenched, and his gaze fixed on the floor. Severus’s eyes widened when he realized the younger man had taken those words much more literally than intended.
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” the Healer cleared his throat, visibly embarrassed. “I just mentioned the perfume as an example, nothing more.”
At that moment, he wished he could die and take Potter with him. He hadn’t thought about it. How could he have, when there were more important things to focus on? But undeniably, it was strange, very strange, that Potter visited him almost every damn day. To the magical world, he was still a Death Eater. A trial to prove his innocence? It was more than likely that would never happen. From the outside, the situation looked like this: the savior of the magical world, who had only just come of age a few months ago, was in the room of a Death Eater who had been his professor during his time at Hogwarts. There was no family connection, no history of them getting along. Not just the visits—those damn flowers must have been a hot topic in the hallways! There was no way everyone at the hospital could keep that information a secret. Severus could already imagine the sensationalist headlines, the speculations…
He had never cared about what others thought of him. But Merlin, this was...
“Don’t believe what Witch Weekly says,” Harry said, confirming Severus’s suspicions. He still hadn’t lifted his gaze from the floor.
“I don’t, Mr. Potter,” the Medi-Wizard’s gaze briefly shifted to the flowers on the small table before he continued. “I treated you. I know there’s no potion or spell that could make you act against your will.”
It’s worse to hear that! Severus thought. I’d rather the idiot be under an Imperius curse!
Those words hinted at far too much.
Harry looked to his right, where Snape had been shouting at him, but there was nothing but empty space.
“I’m sorry,” the Healer spoke again after clearing his throat. “Mr. Snape is medically dead. We followed the three-month protocol and have been monitoring his magic to be sure. His brain shows no signs of activity, and his magic has disappeared. We only keep him alive because you've requested to take charge of him”
What?
What had that Healer just said?
Harry pressed his lips into a thin line before looking back at Severus’s body on the bed.
“Are you asking me if I want…?”
"No. We are aware that after July 31st, Minerva McGonagall transferred all decisions regarding the patient's welfare to your hands. And you've made it very clear that your intention is to keep him this way."
Severus clenched his jaw so tightly that, had he been in his real body, he might have broken a tooth. Of the last things he would have wanted for his life was to belong to Potter. Although, it didn't surprise him. His parents were dead, and he had no siblings. He never married, had no children, and was very sure there was no uncle or cousin who could take responsibility for him. And if there had been, he doubted they would have wanted to take on such a burden. If no one had been alive to care for him, they would have disconnected him after three months under the criteria of brain death—magical core gone. So, he had to wonder why that hadn't happened.
When they brought him to the hospital and saw that he had no family, Minerva had taken responsibility for him, most likely at Potter's request. And now that he was of age, he took responsibility himself.
Since Potter wasn't family, he couldn't make decisions that, if Severus had any chance of survival, would compromise his life. But by that point, he was already dead, and the only choice Harry had was whether to keep him on life support or disconnect the one machine keeping him alive.
But Potter was too much of a Gryffindor to do something like that.
"I don't want him to be disconnected. I'll continue covering the costs."
Providing that kind of support with spells was very unstable. They had to be exceptionally powerful medi-wizards to cast them, and they usually lasted only 12 hours before needing to be renewed. The potion infusion machine had changed that. The potions were more stable and effective. They were renewed every 24 hours, yes, but they didn’t require an exceptional wizard to place the special vials into the machine, which pumped the potion through a tube connected to the patient at intervals.
But the kind of potions Snape needed were expensive. That’s why, if a person in that state doesn't have someone to cover the costs, the patient will be disconnected from life support. There was no sense in continuing to spend resources on someone who was already dead.
He didn’t want Potter's money.
He didn’t want Potter’s pity.
He didn’t want anything from Potter.
Potter's voice brought him back to reality. Now the young man was looking at Johnson.
"When I went to speak to someone about having you come and check on him, they asked me if I wanted to disconnect him. It's the third time the same healer has asked me that. Tell him I've already said no."
"Do you know his name?"
Harry shook his head.
"He has blue eyes and short blonde hair. He gets too close when he talks, too."
"I’ll inform Healer McLaren that he should no longer be involved in the case." He paused for a moment before adding, "How are the new potions working?"
"They help," Harry affirmed. "Though I suppose I need more time to get used to them."
The healer nodded and said something else about keeping an eye on any changes, but there wasn’t much conviction in his voice. He left after a few seconds, and Harry sat in the chair without moving it away from the bedside.
Severus positioned himself beside him, crouching slightly.
Potter, tell them to disconnect me.
Harry remained still, as if he hadn't heard. He closed his eyes and sighed.
"Am I going crazy? I could swear I was really feeling it..."
Wasn’t he able to hear him now?!
Snape tried to push him, hoping to make him feel it again like before, but nothing happened. Harry rubbed his face, stood up, and left the room, leaving him alone.
He had just turned ten the first time he saw Lily Evans. Severus used to walk away from his house, wandering through the streets and parks, hoping that, if he went far enough, maybe when he returned, he'd find that his parents were no longer arguing. But that never happened.
But at least he met Lily. It was in a park near her house, almost at dusk. There were two girls around Severus's age who seemed to be arguing about something. One, the one with black hair, pushed the redhead and ran off.
The girl, sitting on the ground, remained lost in thought for a moment. Severus emerged from behind the tree where he had been, and she looked at him. She smiled at him—at him, who was always teased by the other children because of the oversized, worn clothes he wore, and because he always looked dirty and untidy. She gave him a sincere, kind smile. He approached and helped her stand up. She told him her name, but from a distance, her mother's voice called her, and she had to leave.
He returned to the park the following days, but four days passed before he saw Lily again. She and her sister were together once more. This time, Lily was playing with the leaves that had fallen to the ground, lifting a few and making them take longer than they should to fall.
Petunia yelled at her, calling her a freak, and shoved her again, causing the leaves still floating to fall along with her sister. Severus approached them, and Petunia looked at him, frightened.
“Get lost!” he shouted, and Petunia ran off, hysterical.
He stayed there, looking at Lily. She was still sitting on the grass and smiled at him again.
“What’s your name?”
“Severus.”
“Severus? I’ve never heard that name before.”
He sat down next to her, the leaves she had been playing with surrounding them.
“Why do you let her push you?”
“She’s just sad,” Lily replied, picking up one of the leaves between her fingers. “She’d like to make them float too.”
Severus bit his lower lip. His mother had told him not to show his abilities in front of anyone, but he took one of the leaves and made it move slightly. It wasn’t anywhere near Lily’s demonstration, but the girl’s eyes widened in surprise, understanding.
“You too?”
He nodded.
“She’s not sad,” he said, referring to Petunia. “She’s afraid. Those who can’t do magic are afraid of us.”
Severus knew this very well. His father had loved them until he discovered what his wife and son could do. Then came the fear, and his way of making himself feel superior was through beatings and shouts.
But Lily didn’t believe that. Even when Petunia mistreated her, her parents loved both of them unconditionally. In her home, there were no shouts or reproaches. There was no cold in winter, no lack of food on the table. Neither of Lily’s parents turned to drink out of fear because they never felt it.
And maybe that’s why she never feared Severus.
She was his best and only friend. And perhaps, had he known what his future would be, Severus would have wished he’d never entered Hogwarts. They both ended up in different houses. She met James Potter and the other Marauders. An almost instant hatred developed between them and Severus.
Severus thought Lily had chosen them. But, looking back, she had tried many times not to distance herself from him, but it was he who pulled away the most. And the moment that ultimately buried their friendship was when, in sixth year, he called her a Mudblood. It was something he never forgave himself for.
When he entered his final year and she learned of the death of his parents, she tried to approach him, but he rejected her. And he never knew why he did it. In his heart, there was a room for her: his only friend. But his hatred for the Marauders overshadowed it. And what did he gain from that? Because when he realized the mistake he made by giving Voldemort the information about the prophecy, when he realized they would kill the only person who had shown him true kindness, he wished he could turn back time. Do things differently, but it was too late.
He cried when he held her lifeless body in his arms and asked for the forgiveness he should have asked for many years ago.
He had promised Albus he would take care of Harry, but he would have done so even if the headmaster hadn’t asked him. It was something he owed to Lily. The truth was, he never hated the boy. He loathed him for being James’s son and a reminder that his friend was gone, but he didn’t hate him. Though, he had to pretend to feel that way toward him so much that perhaps he began to actually feel it.
Severus woke from his dream, though it only took a moment for him to realize that he had merely woken as he had in the past few days, not for real. It was still quite dark, and the room was only dimly lit by the faint glow of the small light on the machine beside him. The pain in his neck was minimal, and taking advantage of this, he remained still within his body in the darkness, lost in thought.
Both the memories of his mother and of Lily had been blocked by Occlumency, so he was surprised to dream of them. Perhaps his practices of projecting required so much mental release that they ended up unlocking memories he would rather keep buried. Or maybe the state he was in prevented him from maintaining his Occlumency. He was screwed, whatever the case.
He closed his eyes and began to relive the death-in-life filter to avoid thinking about anything else.
October
“I moved,” Harry said. “It’s not the prettiest place in the world, but I guess it’s mine, and that’s something. I’d invite you, but I doubt you’d want to come. It’s not as fancy as all the things Slytherins seem to like. It’s in a pretty quiet Muggle neighborhood. Arthur helped me find it.”
After that day with Healer Johnson, Harry didn’t return the next day, which was Sunday. Nor did he go the following week. Or the first week of October. But on Sunday, October 4th, long after darkness had fallen, he finally stepped inside, pausing first to glance around the room.
He replaced the wilted flowers in the vase with a bouquet of gladiolus and orchids, carefully arranged. Moving the chair beneath the window, he placed his cushion on it and sat down. The moment the boy entered, Severus nearly shouted at him to turn off the machine. He even tried to push him away, though it accomplished nothing. The boy simply read a magazine, occasionally glancing up at the motionless body.
Two hours later, Severus sat at the edge of the bed, frustration seeping through him. Harry waited another hour before speaking, though it was nothing Severus wanted to hear. He didn’t want to listen to Potter rambling about his new place.
“The Weasleys assured me I didn’t have to move, that if I didn’t want to share with Ron anymore, I could take Bill’s old room. But I wanted something of my own, you know?”
Potter, you want everything! Am I not already at your mercy? Stop being selfish and let me go!
“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you. The Healer already told me you can’t hear me.”
Severus buried his face in his hands. Harry left twenty minutes later.
Six days later, Harry arrived in the late afternoon. He moved the chair beneath the window, glanced at the flowers—which, while no longer fresh, hadn’t yet wilted—and began speaking as he pulled a pamphlet from his backpack. The cover read: Future Plans: What to Do When You Don’t Know What You Want to Do.
“McGonagall asks about you,” he said. “I asked if she wanted to come see you, and she told me that you might not be too pleased if you found out. I think she was also trying to tell me that my presence isn’t exactly welcome either. But I’ve never heard you complain, have I?”
Severus bit his tongue. He was sitting at the edge of the bed, and if he could have, he would have set the entire room ablaze.
“Anyway,” Harry added, “I’m glad she didn’t come.”
Harry lingered, looking at him a second longer than he should have, then began reading the pamphlet in his hands. Unlike other days, this time he read aloud. At first, it irritated Severus more. The Gryffindor’s inflection was dreadful, his pauses misplaced—too long where they shouldn’t be and nonexistent where they should. Silence would have been preferable.
About forty minutes passed before Harry stopped reading. He glanced at the unconscious Severus on the bed and smiled.
“I thought maybe you’re a bit bored while I just sit here reading.”
Severus said nothing, of course. Harry bit his lower lip, and his expression shifted suddenly, sadness etched plainly on his face.
“This is ridiculous, isn’t it?”
He gathered his things, pushed the chair back to the bedside, and walked toward the door.
“Last week, after I called the Healer, I thought I felt like you wanted me to... to disconnect you. But that can’t be right. You’re too brave to ask that of me. Aren’t you?”
Brave?
Harry rested his forehead against the wooden door for a moment and took a deep breath.
“I’m losing my mind.”
He left the room without another word. Severus remained seated, staring at the door.
Brave?
He didn’t believe himself brave. Quite the opposite—he felt like a coward.
A coward for never being able to defend his mother, and because, when he finally ended Tobias’s life, it was already too late.
A coward for not fighting for the friendship of the only person who had ever cared for him, for letting himself be intimidated by the Marauders.
A coward for joining Voldemort’s forces, thinking it was his only escape.
A coward for letting Lily die, for failing to protect her.
A coward for not opposing Dumbledore’s plans, for agreeing to kill him.
He had killed both his parents, and on both occasions, he had felt like a coward.
A coward for having wished for death for most of his life.
A coward for fortifying his mask beyond what his role demanded.
No, Potter was wrong. He wasn’t brave.
He had always been a coward.
A coward who now only wished to die because he didn’t know how—or was too afraid—to live.
For fourteen days, Potter didn’t return. The flowers had withered completely, their petals falling in ashen fragments onto the small table.
Each evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Severus’s eyes drifted toward the door, imagining the Gryffindor bursting in with his untamed hair and that characteristic lack of decorum. But as the darkness deepened, making it clear Potter wouldn’t arrive, Severus reassured himself that it was for the best—that the boy had finally moved past whatever had driven him to seek him out in the first place.
He would watch the door the next day, just to avoid being caught off guard if Potter decided to appear suddenly. He hated surprises—he always had. Not that he was waiting for him, no, of course not. It was just the uncertainty that unsettled him. But he was content with the absence.
So why did the room feel so unbearably silent?
Does Potter's absence bother me?
No, no. Anyone would lose their sanity locked away in that room. The hospital staff barely lingered longer than necessary to carry out their duties, leaving hurriedly as if something in the air repelled them. They weren’t company, nor did they offer a distraction that lasted more than a miserable fraction of his day.
At least Potter offered him an escape, even if it was just to get angry with him. That was all. Nothing more.
And then, the lion returned.
Harry opened the door again and glanced outside before closing it, a mix of urgency and caution in his movements. He took the chair and placed it by the window before pulling two books from his bag.
“I couldn’t bring more. You can’t just pick cursed books so easily.”
Severus approached him, intrigued by that last remark.
“Listen, I know you’re there.” Harry wasn’t looking at the body in the bed; his eyes seemed to search for something throughout the room. “I don’t know how, but I can feel something. I don’t imagine anything when I’m not in this room, I don’t feel you. But here... and I know it’s not my imagination, I’m sure of it. So give me a sign to let me know I’m not losing the little sanity I have left.”
Potter’s words came out in a rush, as though he feared the silence would swallow him before he could explain. Severus watched him in silence, evaluating. For a moment, he thought the best course of action would be to make him believe he was mistaken. He doubted very much that he could get out of this. The most sensible thing would be to make him leave, to disappear from his life once and for all and leave him in peace. If Potter wasn’t there to kill him, then he’d be of no use.
But instead of doing what was logical, what was right, his hand moved almost of its own accord. He stretched it out just slightly, brushing the young man’s shoulder with a softness he didn’t recognize in himself. He became aware of what he was doing too late and quickly withdrew his hand, as though it had burned him.
The contact, though brief, had already happened. Harry had felt it. And Severus, with the weight of that moment hanging between them, could only ask himself: Why had he done it?
“Oh God, I knew it.” Harry whispered, shuddering. His eyes fixed on where Severus was standing, almost as if he could see him. “I asked Hermione if she knew anything about it, but she told me that if the Healers had already checked you, I should forget about it. I feel McGonagall will tell me the same, so I went straight to the library. Let’s just say they haven’t noticed that the barriers to take books from the Restricted Section haven’t been reset.”
I’m not surprised you don’t like the rules being applied.
“You spoke to me, didn’t you? It’s strange. I can’t hear you, I just feel… I know you’re standing…. I brought two books.”
Harry cleared his throat, set one book on the floor, and took the other to read aloud. For some reason, Severus could tell that perhaps he had been too harsh on the lion’s reading. It wasn’t so terrible, and he pronounced the words correctly.
November
Nearly thirty books passed before them over the course of a month. Not all were read in full, as they realized their contents wouldn’t be of any use. Some titles were so absurd that they were impossible to take seriously, such as How to Die Without Dying or Conspiracy Theories: Death Is Actually Life . The dark magic books Harry had brought offered no insight either. None contained answers about a seemingly dead body with a non-existent magical core that, nevertheless, someone could still perceive. There was also the fact that Severus was in a strange state, with his magic “out” of his body, which involved very specific factors.
However, Harry focused on those readings far more than he ever had when studying for Hogwarts. It seemed that every page, every line, brought him more hope than the Potions master himself.
During those days, Severus realized that Harry truly wasn’t listening to him. It was more of a sensation. As if his words were a fleeting thought in the Gryffindor’s mind.
Still, he managed to suggest that it would be more efficient to use magic to levitate a book and cast a spell to turn the pages automatically every minute, so Snape could read on his own. Harry responded that he didn’t know anyone could read that quickly, to which Severus replied with a dry, almost exasperated tongue click.
And so they read together.
Harry would occasionally make comments about what he found, ideas that Severus dismissed as quickly as they came, since they offered no real answers to their situation. But the weight of each word, of each rejected book, seemed to settle more deeply between them, in that silence where the solution remained as intangible as Severus himself.
“Do you think it’s because of my connection to Voldemort?”
That’s what I said, Potter. Do you need to repeat what you hear to understand it?
Harry narrowed his eyes.
“I feel like you’re scolding me. But I suppose you’re right. You still have the mark on your arm...”
Harry paused and shifted his gaze to the body on the bed, but Severus was wearing the hospital’s long-sleeve pajamas, and covered by the blanket. Even so, they both knew the mark was still there. As for its manifestation, Severus tried to lift the sleeve of his arm, but he couldn’t. It was as if his clothing were drawn onto that body.
“…And I’ve always had a connection with Voldemort.” Harry continued after a few seconds of silence. “Although it’s not like I feel any connection to the remaining Death Eaters. How do you explain that?”
None of them have the poison of one of Voldemort’s Horcruxes running through their blood. That, in some way, must act as an amplifier.
Harry rubbed his face with both hands and sighed wearily. He placed the book on the floor and looked at the spot on the bed where he knew Severus was sitting. Snape, for his part, had rested his elbows on his thighs, leaning forward, massaging his head with his fingers.
What the hell was he supposed to do now? It was true he had improved his ability to maintain that form, but that didn’t seem to bring him any closer to waking from that “death.”
“Tomorrow, they will give the final verdict,” Harry said, interrupting the professor’s thoughts. “I know very well that they’ll declare you innocent and give you the recognition you deserve.”
During that month, in addition to his research, Harry hadn’t missed a chance to update him on the progress of his trial. Severus barely made any comments about it, or rather, he didn’t express any opinions on the matter. Still, Harry always sought to place his eyes wherever he felt Severus’ presence, telling him what he knew with eyes full of hope.
Severus didn’t care about that.
He didn’t need that.
He only wanted to be able to wake up.
When the boy left, he felt a sharp headache return and had to return to his body.
“You got the Order of Merlin!”
It was already November 28th.
Severus had spent the entire morning staring at the ceiling, without really leaving his body. It wasn’t something he thought about much, really, it was just that when you’re trapped in a limbo of unconsciousness like he was, it was easy to lose track of time. He told himself it wasn’t necessary to leave, that he could happily close his eyes and imagine that Potter wasn’t there. Sleep, even, if he wanted to. That the sensation he felt when he heard the Gryffindor’s voice had been imagined, and that he wasn’t genuinely curious about anything Potter might say.
He felt movement to his right and imagined the boy approaching the small table where the last flowers he had brought still rested, placing something beside them. Then he felt him move the chair to the window and sit down.
Harry no longer carried books on dark magic in an attempt to make sense of the situation, and Severus knew they didn’t need them—none of them would help.
“You should’ve seen the look on the Auror’s face when he took it to Hogwarts. He nearly threw up as he recited the commendation before handing it over to McGonagall. Officially, not only are you a free man, but a war hero.”
I have no need for a commendation, Potter.
Even so, he turned his face to the right. While outside his body, he could move freely, but when he was within it—despite not truly moving it—the pain from his wounds was overwhelming. It felt as though his body were a coffin lined with nails, trapping him in agony. Still, he managed to see it: a medal with a green ribbon. So they awarded him the first-class medal.
He also noticed that Potter had changed the flowers; now, bright sunflowers rested in the vase. It was as though those sunflowers were trying too hard to shine, more than ordinary flowers should, and they bothered his eyes.
“Someday, the entire wizarding world will have to accept that you’re a hero. And that you’ve done far more than I ever did. Professor McGonagall told me she’d speak to the press, so they’ll publish it, though I know none of that compares to what you’ve done.”
Severus left his body, furious.
I don’t need any of that, Potter! I don’t need you! Get out!
He knew his outburst had worked when Harry bit his lower lip and turned away. The young man gathered his things, stood up slowly, and, with his usual limp, walked toward the door.
“Maybe you don’t want or need it, Snape, but you deserve it. And that’s just as important.”
Snape was left alone, and when he looked back at the sunflowers, they seemed so bright that he had to turn his face away, telling himself the sensation was nothing but disgust.
December
When Harry returned the following Saturday, December had already arrived. For the first weeks of the month, he only came those two Saturdays, telling Severus that the final exams were approaching. It seemed that students repeating the year only needed half a year to complete the curriculum. Severus thought that wouldn't be nearly enough to educate so many ignorant students, especially those in their final year.
It was Sunday, December twentieth, when Harry arrived late into the night.
“I’ve officially finished Hogwarts.”
He walked up to the small table and pulled a slightly pinkish bouquet of gerberas from his pocket. He grimaced upon noticing they were a little squashed but placed them in the vase, discarding the wilted begonias.
Don’t you have some celebration to go to?
“I was at a party, but I wanted to come tell you. You helped me study, didn’t you? And I must say, I didn’t do so badly in Potions.”
With the low standards I imagine they’re demanding, even a Troll wouldn’t have done so badly. I’m not surprised.
“I know you’re doubting my intelligence, Snape. But you should know that I worked really hard.”
He moved the chair a bit and sat down next to the bed, not before casting a spell to make it more comfortable to sit. Then Severus noticed that Potter’s silly smile and flushed cheeks gave away the alcohol in his system.
Maybe that’s why he hadn’t moved the chair back to its place by the window. Severus, on the other hand, was still standing by the window, having spent the entire evening staring out of it.
“McGonagall says we can be part of the graduation at the end of June. But I don’t think I’ll go. Hermione and Ron say they’re not really sure either. The three of us felt a bit… old? during the whole semester.
Silence fell when Harry stopped speaking. The only sound was the intermittent beep of the infusion machine. Severus felt uncomfortable in that moment, with Harry drunk in the room.
"Are you asleep?" Harry asked, dragging his words. When Severus didn’t move, touch him, or make a comment, Harry couldn’t truly feel his presence.
You should go back to your party, Potter.
Harry shook his head, his hair flying in all directions. The young man looked toward the window where Snape was leaning on the sill and smiled at him with an expression that was too sincere.
Too expressive.
Too dangerous.
“I don’t have anyone to dance with,” he said slowly, as if struggling to speak.
Severus turned his gaze back to the window, barely able to see a tiny glimmer of the moon, as it had been a new moon three days earlier. Still, he focused on it as if trying to shelter himself from those eyes and that smile that seemed to settle upon him.
Harry left about ten minutes later, and Severus sought unconsciousness as soon as he could.
Harry returned four days later. As he usually visited when the sun set and the lights dimmed after those hours, Severus hadn’t seen him clearly. On that December 24th, he showed up before 10 in the morning, and the natural light from the window allowed Severus to see him properly. He looked radiant. He was wearing a red sweater with a large H on the front. There was no longer any trace of the shadow on his face from the first time Severus had seen him in that room. If it weren’t for the limp and the grimaces he made when his hip hurt, Severus could have said he hadn’t been through that war.
“I’ll be spending Christmas Eve at the Weasleys’.”
Potter, I should be surprised that you think this news will have any impact on me.
Still, Severus projected from his body. This time, he didn’t even question why he did it so quickly.
“I know it’s not a surprise, but I felt like telling you.” He spoke as he moved the chair back to its usual spot by the window. He frowned as he sat down, though it didn’t seem to be because of pain. “It’s not like I’m asking for your opinion or permission, anyway. I’m just saying it so you don’t get confused.”
Severus raised an eyebrow, a venomous response ready on the tip of his tongue.
“I thought about going to the Burrow in the morning to help Mrs. Weasley with the cooking, but I won’t come back at night, and I wanted to stay here for a while. If I’m being honest, I’d rather not go. It’s not that I don’t want to be with the Weasleys, not at all. But I’d like to… stay here,” he admitted, smiling faintly with sadness. “Or that you could come with us. Wouldn’t you like that? No, I suppose it’s not something you’d enjoy.”
Severus frowned. Was Potter delusional? The boy shouldn’t be growing attached to him. He understood—though he didn’t accept—that Potter might use him as a place to vent, but those words seemed to cross a line that Severus would rather not contemplate.
They weren’t friends.
What had happened four days ago could likely be attributed to the alcohol. Perhaps Potter had drunk too much of some cheap liquor, and his mind had clouded. He must have confused his latest act of charity with genuine affection. Why else would Snape be anything more than that to him—just another way to feel like the most important person in the room?
But at that moment, Potter seemed sober. He had to be sober.
So why did his words seem so disjointed and nonsensical?
Severus didn’t want to think too much about it. He couldn’t afford to.
Harry pulled out a crumpled Quidditch magazine from some pocket and read it while making random comments, until he left around noon.
Severus looked out the window. The snow fell unobstructed, blanketing the benches in such a way that people had to brush the snow off with their hands before they could sit down.
From where he stood, he could see people adjusting their coats and tightening their scarves to prevent the cold from freezing them. Still, those enjoying the small park seemed in no hurry to go inside.
And they seemed oblivious to the weight of reality, as though that snow-covered corner allowed them to escape, even if just for a moment, from the fact that they were in a hospital. After all, few things in those sterile hallways came without bad news.
Severus watched as the wind lifted some scarves, as it gently swayed the snowflakes.
When he was a child, perhaps eight or nine years old, his greatest joy was watching the snowfall and playing in it. He would lie down and make figures. He played for so many hours that his fingers went numb, his face turned red, and his mother would come outside, telling him to come inside and hugging him tightly, sharing her warmth with him.
When he arrived at Hogwarts, the snow felt like a refuge. Watching it fall brought him a calm he rarely knew, a silent pause amidst everything else. He could spend hours gazing at it through the window, mesmerized, or walking across its soft blanket, enjoying how his feet sank into it.
But then, as an adult, he barely had time to notice how it fell, and if he had to walk through it, all he felt was frustration over the delay it caused. He didn’t even remember the last time he let it melt between his fingers.
He saw himself touching the glass, imagining that if he stretched out his hand, his fingers would touch the snow. If he were out there, if...
Why did he want to touch it?
It had been so long since he had desired that. Though it had also been so long since he had thought about it.
He never had time to think about it.
But now, with nothing but time to think...
He wanted to touch the snow.
“Molly made cake!”
Those were the exact words that alerted him. It took only a second for Severus to recognize Harry’s voice, and he withdrew his magic from his body. Harry carried some bags, which he placed on the nightstand, and sat in the chair as close to the bed as he could. Wasn’t it Christmas Day? It must have been past noon.
Potter, you should be with your family.
“I don’t think you like cake; anyway, you can’t eat it.”
How perceptive.
Harry seemed to hesitate and glanced over his shoulder, apparently worried about some mischief he was planning. He reached out to the nightstand, rearranged the Order of Merlin in a corner, replaced the flowers with white roses, and pushed the vase so that there was more space in front.
“I have a Christmas gift for you.”
Severus moved closer to Harry to watch him pull something from one of the bags. It was a metal stand with a flat base, about the size of a hand. From the base rose a small, flattened pillar designed to hold a sculpture. The sculpture, also made of metal, depicted two outstretched hands, perfectly arranged to hold any object with elegance and strength. Harry placed it in the center of the nightstand and then proceeded to pull out a book from the same bag. He placed the book on the sculpture of the hands, and though they seemed much smaller, the book didn’t fall.
“You must get bored when I’m not around. I was looking for a spell to leave a book you could read, but most of them lose their effect after a few hours. I asked McGonagall, and she told me that with this, I can put any book in it, and it will start narrating itself and turning the pages on its own. I had to tell her it was for you when she asked why I wanted something like that.” He shrugged. “She gave me a strange look, but she helped me get it, so I guess it’s a gift from both of us.”
From another bag, he pulled out a container and removed the lid, revealing a chocolate cake with a vanilla frosting. He took out a fork and placed the container between his legs.
When Severus thought the reading assistant would be the most unexpected thing of the day, his eyes saw Harry uncover one of his hands from the blanket and intertwine their fingers. Then, he proceeded to eat cake with his other hand while balancing the container between his legs.
Severus felt the warmth of that hand over his.
What does this mean...?
“Mrs. Weasley has always made the best cake.”
He couldn’t even scream, because a sharp pain shot through his head, and he felt everything around him darken uncontrollably.
When he woke up, it was already night, and he thought it had all been a dream. A very bad dream.
But he was still in that bed at St. Mungo’s, where he could only leave through his magic. And he could still feel Potter’s hand, as if it were still holding his.
Potter had lost his mind.
He had completely gone mad. Maybe the dark magic Potter had been attacked with had affected his mind. Because this didn’t make sense.
The only explanation for what had happened...
But how had he not seen it coming?
The closeness every day… those flowers…
The glances.
Had he really seen it correctly?
Not only had he seen it, he had felt it.
If he could have, he would have pushed him away forcefully, even cast a spell.
How dared he take his hand?
That gesture, so detestable, so unnatural between them, so...
He looked at his hand, then at the hand of his body lying in the bed. He could still feel a tingling, the sensation of Potter’s hand on his.
And it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, nor detestable, nor did it feel unnatural…
Severus wondered if perhaps it was him who had been affected by the dark magic, his thoughts clouded.
In the following days, Potter would arrive as the sun was setting and leave as midnight approached. Severus tried not to pay him much attention.
At least during those days, the physical contact didn’t happen again. Potter stayed in his spot by the window, while his lifeless body remained on the bed.
The younger man simply had a book on connection spells he had found, reading it aloud and making occasional notes to which Severus didn’t respond. But on that December 30th, at noon, Harry entered and sat down without reaching for any book.
"I have a date."
Severus raised an eyebrow. He was sitting on the edge of the bed. He had been intently studying the reading assistant, which had been paused in the morning when he finished the book. He might have read the last page three times since Harry had arrived.
Did having a date mean he was wrong? He hoped so. Besides, he had to remind himself that Potter liked women. Hadn’t he once gone out with the youngest Weasley?
Still, realizing that such a stupid thought had crossed his mind irritated him. Even if Potter were attracted to men, he would never be attracted to him. Why would he be? The mere thought could almost bring a mocking smile to his lips.
It was unthinkable.
"It was Hermione’s idea," Harry continued. As Severus looked at him, he noticed he was nervously fiddling with his hands. "She belongs to a study group before university. Surprised? That’s how she spends her Thursday and Friday nights."
He rolled his eyes as if it were beyond belief to him.
You spend your time with me, Potter. It seems Miss Granger makes better use of her time.
Harry bit the inside of his cheek and lowered the magazine.
"I feel like you’re being sarcastic," he commented, but then shook his head before continuing. "Like I was saying, she’s in a study group for the March entrance exams. One of her classmates studied at another magic school, and they’ve been talking a lot. She says he’s been asking about me for weeks, and that he’s a pretty clever and funny guy. Ron was jealous of him until Hermione told him that he only talked to her so much to ask about me."
A guy?
"I’m gay, Snape. I hope that’s not a problem for you."
Even if it were a problem, what did he think he could do in that state? But he himself was attracted to men, though that wasn’t information he wanted to share with Potter.
He had known at some point during his years at Hogwarts, when he understood why he sometimes found himself discreetly staring at his male classmates.
He confirmed it after graduating, when he had his first time with a man who charged for his time. That day, he also realized that he preferred to be on top .
Although it hadn’t been the best first time, the man had been kind enough. Besides, nothing in his life had been particularly kind. He probably had a couple more furtive encounters, this time with strangers in some alley outside a bar who, like him, were just looking for a few hours of pleasure and, most likely like him, carried some glamours or perhaps a polyjuice potion.
He never had a relationship with anyone. His time at Hogwarts hadn’t been the best. Then, his responsibilities in the Order and as a spy for Voldemort. He never had time to fall in love.
Besides, who would he fall in love with? Flitwick? One of his fellow Death Eaters?
No, Severus knew for sure that the end of his life would come without having felt any of that. Anyway, it wasn’t something he needed in his life to fulfill his purpose.
"I’ve never been on a date, so I’m pretty nervous."
The great hero of the magical world has never been on a date? It wouldn’t be for lack of options.
"You don’t really feel like being with someone knowing that at any moment a maniac could show up to kill you. Don’t you think?"
I think a lot of things, Potter. You wouldn’t like to hear them.
Harry made a face that was almost a smile and continued talking about Granger’s plans and the other Weasleys, which didn’t really interest him.
He knew he was dreaming, he knew it very well.
Still, that didn’t explain why he was dreaming about this.
Him and Potter. But the other one was far away. How far? He didn’t know. It was hard to tell. He didn’t even know where they were. The place was dark, too dark. But he knew very well that the figure in the distance was Potter.
And he wanted to get closer, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t feel his legs. He couldn’t stretch his arms.
But he wanted to call out to Potter. His hand burned with the desire to feel him again.
If only… If only…
Someone called the Gryffindor.
A young voice, full of energy, that he didn’t recognize. And he knew that Harry smiled and turned his face. And walked toward that voice calling him, moving away from Severus.
And he woke up.
Woke up the way he had months ago, because his body still felt dead.
What had he dreamed? Why had he dreamed that? He didn’t want to reach Potter. He didn’t long to touch Potter.
He just... wanted peace.
It was past eight in the evening when, the next day, December 31st, Harry opened the door. Severus tried to bury all traces of the previous dream at the back of his mind, and he felt like he had succeeded.
Harry sat by the window and loosened the scarf he was wearing. His cheeks were flushed, and the tip of his tongue moistened his dry lips.
Severus wondered when he had started noticing those details.
"I had my date yesterday. His name is Justin, you might like him. He can hold a conversation for more than two seconds without needing to use the same vocabulary."
I highly doubt it, Potter. So, are wedding bells in your future?
"It wasn’t what I expected. Don’t get me wrong, it was... okay? I think the problem was that it was just okay."
As eloquent as always. We should give you an award for the most touching prose ever spoken.
"I know, I know," Harry said with a chuckle, "You must be laughing at how I can’t even express my emotions."
I’m not laughing, Potter. I’m annoyed.
"Maybe it’s because I don’t know him very well. Anyway, we agreed on a second date to see what happens. Hermione is happy, she says he’s a really good guy and would love to see us together. But I’m not sure."
This time, he didn’t take out any books or magazines, but a small wooden board that he returned to a size of about 50 x 50 cm. He made it float and took out a box that made a sound when shaken. He opened it and scattered what appeared to be puzzle pieces over the board floating in front of him.
Snape watched him, frowning.
What are you doing?
"A puzzle. Want to help me? I feel like I need a break from reading."
For a few seconds, he felt out of place in time. Wasn’t it New Year’s Eve? What was Harry Potter doing in the hospital room of a very much dead Severus Snape, doing a puzzle, instead of being anywhere else?
Don’t you have a party to go to? Don't you have friends to celebrate with? Don’t you have enough Weasleys to choose from to spend your time with? What about that Jones guy?
He felt an overwhelming sensation take over his body, whether it was anger or something else, he didn’t know. He clenched his fists and stepped so close to Harry that he looked up from the puzzle and stared at him.
"I feel like you mispronounced his name. His name is Justin. Also, we only went out once yesterday. One shouldn’t spend New Year’s Eve with a stranger."
And not with me!
Harry crossed his arms and looked at him seriously.
"I’m staying here. I don’t think anyone should spend New Year’s Eve alone, don't you think? It happened to me once when I lived with my aunt and uncle. Even though I hated them, feeling alone on that day was really sad."
I’m not sad! I’m furious because your stupid brain can’t understand that I don’t want your presence!
Harry bit his lower lip and forced a smile that clearly didn’t reach his eyes.
"Well, get rid of me, if you can."
He looked down again and, without saying another word, started rummaging through the pieces.
Severus’s face twisted into a grimace of rage. He wished he could smash that board over the Gryffindor’s head. He wished he could burn the damn flowers. He wished he could curse something and escape that damn room.
But he couldn’t do anything. So, he returned to his body and tried to sleep, to fall into unconsciousness, but he couldn’t.
The beep of the infusion machine annoyed him. The tiny, almost imperceptible click the pieces made when Harry fitted them together bothered him. The presence of his former student bothered him. The flowers, the reading assistant, and the Order of Merlin all irritated him.
But what bothered him the most was realizing that when he wished he could do so many things, he hadn’t wished for death.
He had wished to leave that room, but where to? He didn’t know. But he thought about it.
Hours passed. He couldn’t sleep, and Potter kept to his own business. He decided to get up again and sat at the foot of the bed, staring at the boy.
Potter .
Harry lifted his head so quickly that Severus almost jumped.
"Snape..."
What were they saying about us?
Even with the dimmed lights in the room, the blush that covered his face was evident. Harry shifted uncomfortably in the chair, and Severus imagined it wasn’t because of his injury.
"You don’t want to know."
If I’m asking you, it’s because I want to know.
Contrary to what he had thought, his voice didn’t come out as authoritatively as he intended. It was as if… he didn’t want to shout at him again.
"Stupid things. You know how the press is."
Show me. I want to see it.
Harry seemed like he wanted to refuse again, but nodded half-heartedly and cleared his throat.
"Tomorrow I’ll get you some magazines..."
Are the rumors still going?
The boy nodded again.
I want to see what they said and what they’re saying now.
Harry nodded again, as if that was the only thing he could do.
Suddenly, Severus sighed and stood up, placing himself next to the other. He looked at the puzzle and, although he knew the most logical thing was to return to his body, he spoke, leaning in.
You’ve had almost four hours, and you’re not even halfway through?
"It’s a photograph of a mountain," Harry said, shuddering. "All the pieces look the same."
Start by separating the edge pieces. It 's easier.
Harry stretched out his hand and began searching for those pieces. Suddenly, colored lights filtered through the window. They both looked to see the colors lighting up the night.
They were similar to Muggles’ fireworks, only these were through spells. Larger, more colorful, more beautiful.
Harry stood up from the chair and leaned against the window, his eyes wide open and a smile adorning his face. Severus couldn’t help but stare at him, with those colors bathing his face.
Suddenly, the younger man turned and looked at him, though he was really staring at nothing.
"Happy New Year, Snape."
Severus didn’t say anything, but it didn’t seem to bother Harry. He looked back at the spectacle until his eyes grew tired, and he left just before one in the morning.
January
Spell or Potion: Experts comment on Harry Potter’s remarkable enchantment.
Harry Potter under a powerful drug. Severus Snape the culprit.
Love as compensation for the lack of a father? Everything about the Potter-Snape situation.
Pedophilia at Hogwarts, Teachers with students?
The Savior of the Wizarding World with a former Death Eater.
The headlines were quite varied, although the articles almost all said the same thing. Harry had brought them, as he had promised, starting with the first article published in July, when surely someone had tipped off that the Savior of the wizarding world was entering the former Death Eater’s room every day. It was probably around that time they discovered Harry was taking care of Snape, including the costs of the treatment, and since by then he was still not free of charges, everything collapsed at once.
There were some that, at first, leaned more toward Potter’s goodwill and his inclination to be the Savior. He supposed that both the flowers and his likely impulsiveness in defending him in the Wizengamot had sparked the journalists' creativity.
It seemed that there were no longer as many publications, as the articles about them were shorter and less elaborate. Even so, they were still a nuisance.
Harry placed the magazines or articles that Severus requested in the reader, as he didn’t want the Gryffindor to read them. He was just sitting in his usual chair, looking down, biting his lip.
When he finished reading everything, Harry looked where he knew Severus was.
“Snape…”
Go away.
Harry nodded, gathered his things, and left.
Harry returned the next day, and for seven days, he would only come in, sit down, and read a Quidditch magazine or start a puzzle that he never finished.
He didn’t talk much, and Snape didn’t start any conversation. He was content with the books from the reader and would only mention the name of a book he wanted Harry to bring.
But on January 9th, Harry entered with his hair more tousled and a bag in his hand.
“You should have told me yesterday that today was your birthday. I had to bring whatever I could get as quickly as possible.”
Severus was by the window, and he could swear that Harry felt the weight of his gaze and lowered his eyes to his own hand, where he held the bag.
“I forgot to shrink it,” Harry commented, biting his lip. “But I guess it won’t spark more gossip about us than there already is.”
His birthday? Was it really January 9th already? Either way, he wouldn’t have been able to remind Hary, because he didn’t even remember it himself. How many years had it been since he last celebrated his birthday? Normally, teachers had the day off on their birthdays. Severus used to rent some rundown room and drink just enough to be able to work the next day.
He had never done anything else.
He had never needed anything else.
But Potter was pulling out decorations from the bags...
Decorations?
What the hell was the damn Gryffindor planning?
With a flick of his wand, he inflated a couple of balloons and scattered them around the room. He draped streamers over the bed and pulled out a small pink cake with blue lettering.
“Hagrid helped me bake it. I hope it’s not raw; we made it in a hurry.”
Severus wondered if they had burned down Hagrid’s hut in the process of baking something that didn’t even look edible.
“I didn’t bring you a gift because I had little time to think. So, I owe you one.”
Potter didn’t owe him any gift.
He didn’t want Potter to owe him anything.
And yet, there was Potter. Casually chatting about the mint-flavored cake he’d made with Hagrid. Smiling at him for no apparent reason.
“Your next birthday will be better.”
And the worst part was that Severus didn’t entirely dislike the idea of thinking about another birthday.
Harry stretched to straighten a streamer near the headboard, dissatisfied with how it hung. He had to grab his leg when a grimace of pain crossed his face. He sank onto the edge of the bed, unable to take even the single step separating him from the chair.
When the Gryffindor clenched his jaw and sweat began to bead down his forehead, Severus, without giving it much thought, stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. Harry lifted his head and made an effort to smile, though it barely came out as a grimace.
Didn’t you say you were following a treatment?
During a couple of those days, he had asked about Harry’s injury and the treatment he was receiving. The question had arisen because some days Harry seemed almost healed, while on others, he appeared to be much worse.
“I didn’t take the potions today,” Harry admitted, and it seemed the only reason he didn’t look embarrassed was that the pain was stronger. “I had so much to do, and those potions make me too drowsy and nauseous. Sometimes I only take half.”
Severus pressed his lips together. Harry had told him which potions he was supposed to take, so he knew the Gryffindor wasn’t exaggerating when he said the side effects were rather unpleasant. He thought that if he could brew Potter’s potions himself, the boy would likely be able to take the proper dose without suffering so many side effects.
He could brew them better, and since they wouldn’t need to be transported or stored for long, they would be more effective and…
What was he thinking?
“I’m fine now,” Harry said, snapping him out of those absurd thoughts.
The Gryffindor stood up with difficulty and continued with his decorations. Then, he insisted on singing a ridiculous birthday song and tossing streamers, which landed on a mediwizard who was opening the door at that moment.
Severus felt mortified, Harry turned red with embarrassment, and the woman replaced the necessary potions while keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the floor.
He truly wanted to kill Potter.
Severus couldn’t stop thinking about potions that night.
Not only was he excellent at them, but he could honestly say that he loved them. Locking himself away for hours on end in his laboratory, brewing some potion, felt as effortless as it was desirable.
Having the precise skill to handle the ingredients, attending to every tiny detail, creating something— it was an art, a respite for his soul from what was happening in the world.
It was the subject he had enjoyed most at Hogwarts, and it was the skill that had allowed him to play his role as a spy more effectively, earning the trust of Lord Voldemort and becoming one of his closest followers.
However, as the years passed, he began to see them as a burden: a burden when Poppy asked him to supply the infirmary, a burden when Voldemort ordered him to brew poisons. A burden teaching them to students, a burden grading and organizing them.
But potions in his life had never been a burden.
Just like the snow, he now saw the reality.
And it felt strange and amusing to have the desire to return to his laboratory and brew another potion.
“I talked to Justin, I told him I didn’t think anything between us would work.”
Harry took off his coat and draped it over the back of the chair, sitting down with a grimace of pain as he loosened his scarf.
Isn’t he good enough for the Golden Boy?
“I’m not a kid, Snape. Besides, I’m not sure. We kissed yesterday, but I didn’t feel anything. It was strange, I’m not saying it was horrible, but I just wanted it to end quickly.”
I don’t want to know the details of your dates, Potter.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, clearly embarrassed. “I said that without thinking.”
Severus knew the annoyance he was feeling came from imagining Harry kissing someone. But why did it bother him?
“Besides, I feel like I have too many things to think about. I don’t even know what to do with my life. I should decide already, shouldn’t I? Ron’s joining the academy in February, and Hermione is almost taking her exams in March, something about political mediation, from what I understood.”
Merlin saves us if she becomes the next Minister, Snape murmured more to himself.
Harry heard him and couldn’t help but chuckle.
“I don’t think it’s that bad, though once she told me that wizards should have to take an annual exam, no matter their age, so they’re not out of touch. Can you believe that?”
Severus thought it wasn’t such a bad idea, though he would never admit to Potter that he agreed with Granger.
“But I don’t know what to do,” Harry continued. “I can’t pursue professional Quidditch or become an Auror because of my injury, though I must admit it doesn’t bother me that much. I think I’m… tired? Of running and running. I’d like something peaceful. And whatever I do, it has to be something that doesn’t require me to be on my feet for too long.”
Didn’t the Ministry offer you some administrative position despite your lack of aptitude? I highly doubt the minister doesn’t have some position secured for you.
Harry nodded slowly, ignoring the clear implication of those words.
“Kingsley told me that if I want, I can study something administrative and he’d get me a position behind a desk. I don’t mind it, I actually like the idea. But I know that every day I’ll be working under the weight of defeating the Dark Lord, under everyone’s watchful gaze.”
That will happen in anything you do in the wizarding world.
“I know,” Harry nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve been thinking about that.”
Merlin helps us with whatever you might think, Potter.
February
“What do you think?”
This time, instead of a puzzle, there was a magical chess set on the 50x50 cm table.
Severus looked at Harry intently, both facing each other—one from the chair, the other at the foot of the bed. Harry hadn’t sat near the window, but as close as he could to where he felt Severus’s magic materializing.
Chess ...
“That’s right. I noticed you don’t care much for puzzles, and the truth is, I want a break from reading. I suppose we can play.”
You don’t know how to play, Potter. I saw you at Hogwarts, against Weasley.
Harry rummaged through the pockets of his jacket, pulling out several folded sheets of parchment and holding them up to his eyes.
“I have Ron’s notes. Besides, you can help me improve.”
I don’t think I have enough life to achieve that.
Harry laughed, though his intention was to look annoyed. Severus noticed that, over time, the other seemed to understand him more clearly.
He looked at the board between them, then raised his gaze to meet Harry’s.
I can’t move the pieces.
“You just tell me which one you want to move, and I’ll do it.”
Severus rubbed his forehead. Harry unfolded the parchments and held them with one hand. He began moving the first piece. Severus gave his order, and Harry followed it. When it was his turn, Harry would search through the parchments for the best way to attack. He focused, furrowed his brow, bitted his lip, and looked from the board to the parchment, as if wanting to make sure he was finding the right move.
Still, he lost quite quickly.
“Merlin, you’re really good, Snape,” he said, rubbing his face.
You’re absurdly bad, Potter.
Contrary to what his words should have provoked, Harry lowered his hands, looked at him with a smile, and asked, “Want another game?”
Severus, much to his dismay, noticed the corner of his lip twitch upward slightly. But instead of acknowledging it, he simply said: You need to pay attention to the sides too. You lose by only focusing on the center.
He placed some red carnations in the vase, discarding the wilted flowers and placing another book on the reader’s assistant so it would start turning the pages and reading once he left.
Severus had been waiting to see what Harry would pull out this time, not believing he would want to be defeated in chess so quickly, but his frown deepened when Harry pulled a comb from inside his jacket.
What the…
“I noticed you haven’t combed your hair in a while, have you? I know there’s a spell for that, but it doesn’t quite work the same. I’ve tried it on myself. Also, the Healers told me back in July that I shouldn’t cast any spells on your body.”
Severus could have made a comment about how Harry had never listened to anyone, but he was still too surprised by what his eyes were witnessing. In the space between the bed and the cluttered nightstand, Potter positioned himself and began to comb small locks of hair. He gently moved the man’s head from side to side when he needed more reach, and although the expression on his face showed that his leg bothered him, he didn’t hesitate to lean slightly over him to properly reach the other side.
Outside of his body, Severus could feel the discomfort in his neck as it turned, though it no longer hurt as much as before. He felt a slight tingling in his head, sensing—and seeing—Potter’s fingers moving gently through his hair.
Harry couldn’t hide a faint smile between his lips.
That night, Severus couldn’t sleep.
The following days of February passed in a strange way. Potter seemed to find an excuse to touch him. He trimmed his nails, adjusted his pillow, or said he seemed to have a fever and would touch his forehead.
And Severus thought that not even Voldemort’s return to life would have surprised him as much.
March
“Yesterday was Ron’s birthday.”
Harry cast a spell to clean the vase, filled it with fresh water, and placed some purple dahlias before sitting by the window. It was still early in the morning, and Severus was still in his body, so the visit took him by surprise.
When he left his body, he noticed that Potter had his arms crossed and his brow furrowed. His gaze was fixed on the floor, and he seemed to be having some internal diatribe against himself.
Angry for not being the center of attention for one night? he asked, intending to hurt. He had felt slightly vulnerable these days—vulnerable both physically and emotionally, because somewhere deep inside, he had to admit that he liked those touches.
“Don’t be an idiot, Snape.”
Harry had lifted his head and was staring intently at the source of the voice. Severus saw anger in his eyes that he hadn’t expected. It wasn’t the hate he had seen so many times at Hogwarts, or the first day the Gryffindor had come into that room.
It was an anger that resembled more of pain.
“I don’t understand their obsession with me being with someone. Do you know what they did? We were supposed to celebrate at the Three Broomsticks, just a night out with our group of friends. But there was someone else. It felt strange, but since Ron has made so many new friends at the Auror Academy, I thought maybe it was one of his friends. But no, Hermione and he spent the whole night talking endlessly about that… that… I don’t even remember his name! And making sure we sat together. When I finally realized, almost at the end of the night, they just said they were worried about me, that they wanted me to find someone special to… to…”
Severus looked at him, understanding. His world was confined to those four walls. He was still alive, and Harry, being who he was, wouldn’t turn his back on him. But how would the Gryffindor be seen out there? It was understandable that others acted that way.
They’re just worried about you, he said without thinking.
Harry stared at him.
“I’m fine here,” he said, his eyes so bright, so full of emotion, that Severus had no more doubts.
What did Harry see in him?
Severus looked at the body on the bed. His body. Him.
What did Harry see in him?
A broken man, shattered by life, who should have already been dead.
Dead. Buried. Forgotten.
A thin body, covered in scars, marked by Voldemort’s imprint that might never fade from his skin. A sallow complexion, years weighing heavily on him.
But Potter would visit him every day.
And those emerald eyes gazed at him, full of emotion.
It didn’t make sense.
Potter, who was so different from him: young, with a future ahead, full of vitality, surrounded by people who cared for him. With a future. He had no darkness in his heart.
What could Potter possibly see in him?
He must have been confused. It was that, just that. He was confused.
March passed by quickly—strange, tumultuous.
Harry continued his visits; he was never as angry as he had been that one time. Yet Severus could have sworn that, on occasion, he felt Harry crack the door open just slightly and linger a few seconds longer than necessary, as if catching his breath.
They played three more games of chess, but those times, Harry didn’t bring the scrolls Ron had made for him, and he lost even faster.
He changed the flowers twice—first, a bouquet of yellow poppies, and later, some very pale pink tulips.
He always made sure to ask which book was wanted next, and, perhaps without realizing it, moved the chair a little less far from the bed each time.
April
Outside, the sky was gray.
It had rained relentlessly all day. It wasn’t a fierce storm; the wind wouldn’t uproot trees, nor would the rain cause rivers to overflow. Yet the sky remained grim and impenetrable, refusing to yield even a single ray of light. It was a steady, silent rain, as if the day itself were trapped with him in that room.
It was Saturday. It was past seven in the afternoon, and Harry had been there for about twenty minutes. He had entered with small droplets on his hair and clothes, his gaze lost and his shoulders slumped. He changed the flowers in the vase, placing some forget-me-nots. Severus avoided looking at the bouquet for too long.
He was sitting at the side of the bed, his gaze fixed on the wall.
He didn’t want to look at Potter.
He didn’t want to hear Potter.
He didn’t want to be with Potter.
Although those desires didn’t match his feelings.
But the minutes passed, and the boy didn’t leave. He remained sitting in the chair, but didn’t speak, didn’t read. Like him, he stayed silent. Only, Potter kept his gaze fixed on the body on the bed.
The silence was only interrupted by the sound of the chair, when every now and then the Gryffindor shifted slightly, and the beep of the infusion machine. And nothing more.
Until Severus heard the other sigh and get up to stand by the side of the bed. Snape turned to look at him. Harry was now staring at the exact spot where Severus had been sitting.
"Do you think I...?" he almost whispered.
He didn’t need to say anything else for Severus to understand, but the worst of it all was that, even if he hadn’t understood, Severus didn’t feel in a position to deny him anything the other wanted. And not because of his physical state.
Those eyes that looked at him with so many emotions…
Severus clenched his jaw, stood up, and positioned himself on the other side. He placed his hand on Harry's back. The boy nodded at nothing, took off his shoes, stepping on them with his opposite foot, and carefully climbed onto the bed, making sure not to put too much weight on his injured leg. He lay on his left side, and had to drape his right arm over Snape since the space between them was very narrow.
In that position, Severus felt like a third party witnessing a scene that didn’t involve him. He returned to his own body, feeling more intensely the warmth of Harry enveloping him. It didn’t matter that the pain from his own injuries sharpened in this state. The boy buried his face in the crook of Severus’s neck, and his warm breath caused a "shudder" in the man, even though it wasn’t physically perceptible.
Harry moved his right arm so that his hand rested directly over Snape’s heart.
"The beats of your heart calm me..."
But Severus knew those beats were false. They were the work of potions. He wasn’t alive.
Even so, he couldn’t help but wish that moment would last forever. To always feel that warmth from Harry.
He looked through the window.
The flowers had bloomed, and the wind gently swayed the treetops. From that distance, he couldn’t make them out clearly, but it was obvious that it was an older couple sitting on one of the benches. Eighty years, perhaps. Though if he said that in front of McGonagall, who was about seventy-seven, she might give him a disapproving look. The couple was very close on the bench; they were holding hands. They leaned in close, perhaps to whisper something to each other.
Eighty years.
He never imagined he would make it to that age. He hadn’t even expected to reach forty, and he had celebrated that months before!
What would he do if he reached that age?
Would he also hold someone's hand and whisper things in their ear? He made a face but didn’t stop looking out the window.
He turned his gaze to the flowers surrounding the garden. He saw them as a clustered mass, but he knew they were there, with their vibrant colors, seeming to stretch out toward the sun.
He wondered what it would be like to feel that wind on his face again.
May
The hours passed as usual. Early in the morning, someone in a lime green robe entered with vials in hand, conducted a routine check of the body on the bed, took notes, and left without lingering too long.
The book on the use of cauldrons in advanced potion-making came to an end. When the silence enveloped him, he realized what time it was: almost seven in the evening. It was quite strange that Harry hadn’t arrived yet. He hadn’t mentioned anything about being late.
What had he just thought? Was he upset that Harry hadn’t arrived? No, he was worried, and that was perhaps worse. Had something happened to him, or had he simply decided it wasn’t worth coming back anymore? The day before, he had acted strangely, too quiet for Potter’s usual behavior. He had brought another puzzle, failing to even complete a third of it. He had said nothing more than a couple of words and barely glanced at him.
It’s stupid, unreasonable, absurd, and illogical. If Potter doesn’t want to come back, then let him not. I enjoy his company because it’s all I have, that’s all.
But who was he fooling? Was he trying to deceive himself? Of course it bothered him that he didn’t see Potter walk through that door and flood the room with his comments, often absurd, but that had become a necessity for him.
That he would come closer... that he would find some stupid excuse to hold his hand… or to repeat that hug…
For whatever reason—perhaps confinement, need, or loneliness—he had developed feelings for Harry that he had never imagined he could feel. It was a mix of joy and uncertainty, affection, urgency... and fear.
Because he was terrified of the mere idea of feeling hope, of experiencing affection, of knowing he was loved.
And he longed to immerse himself in the thought that all of this was only possible because of their current state, that neither of them would have developed such feelings without those conditions. But Harry held a world in his hands, a life of freedom, and he chose to return to Snape. He chose to share smiles with Snape, to waste his afternoons with Snape. Even before knowing about his magic, he had chosen to be in that room.
And Severus knew that, perhaps, if it had been anyone else, he wouldn’t feel the same, because, though it pained him to admit it, Harry was special; he always had been, even if he denied it. He himself had succumbed to the charms of the Gryffindor.
The door was opened and slammed shut so forcefully and quickly that Severus took a few seconds to pull himself out of his thoughts and realize it was Potter. He suppressed the tingling sensation that wanted to travel through his body and walked toward the boy, who had made his way to the window and had his forehead pressed against the glass.
Where have your manners gone, Potter? Severus asked as he reached him.
But any sarcastic comment, even to himself, vanished when he saw Harry. The younger man was clearly furious, his jaw clenched and his hands balled into fists.
"They don't know what they're talking about," he murmured so quietly that Snape almost didn’t hear him.
Who didn’t know what they were talking about?
He seemed to take a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Severus positioned himself beside him and couldn’t resist placing a hand on the other’s shoulder.
Harry...
Harry’s body shuddered slightly, and he quickly turned toward Severus.
"I know that you..."
A few timid knocks sounded at the door, interrupting the Gryffindor’s words. Severus quickly withdrew his hand from Harry’s shoulder, only realizing afterward that no one could actually see the action.
Harry turned his gaze back to the window, as if he hadn’t heard the knocks. Nevertheless, the door opened slightly, and Severus saw Hermione Granger peeking in timidly.
"Harry."
He didn’t look at her and kept his face turned toward the window. She fully entered the room.
"Harry, can we talk?"
He didn’t look at her.
"I’m listening."
Severus, positioned between Harry and the girl, didn’t miss the movement of Granger’s eyes toward the body on the bed before she spoke again.
"How about we take a walk in the garden? I saw that it's looking quite nice."
Harry merely shrugged and leaned further on the windowsill, grimacing as his leg ached. Hermione sighed and walked closer to the boy, placing her hand on his shoulder where Severus’s had been moments ago.
"We're just worried about you. Ron didn’t mean that."
"But he said it, and that’s enough." He shook off his friend’s hand as if it disgusted him, and she pressed her lips together at the gesture.
So the Weasley is involved in this.
Suddenly, Harry walked to the door, stepped out of the room, and positioned himself to one side. Hermione followed, closing the door but leaving a small gap through which they could both be seen. Severus wondered if he should step away and not listen to the conversation; after all, he had heard enough conversations in his duties as a spy, so he wasn’t going to hesitate now. Besides, he somehow felt that all of this had to do with him.
"I thought you didn’t want to go out," Hermione said.
"I don’t want to argue in front of him."
Hermione bit her lip, and for a moment, her expression seemed one of frustration.
"Harry, that’s the problem, it’s very likely he’s dead."
Harry shook his head strongly before turning his gaze to the slightly ajar door. If Severus had been flesh and blood, the boy would have seen those deep eyes upon him.
"You’ve refused to accept it, but you know it’s true. The Healers agree that the only thing keeping him in this world is that infusion machine."
"Severus is alive. I know it."
"Severus? Since when do you call him that?"
"What does it matter to you, Hermione?" he asked, glaring at her with fury in his eyes.
"I care about you. And I realize you’re losing your mind, losing your life, over someone who’s dead."
"He 's not dead!"
Granger stepped back slightly at that shout, and even Severus was surprised by the explosiveness of it. The lights flickered briefly, and he wondered how much magic Harry had unconsciously used to cause that.
"You don’t have to get angry with her, she’s just telling you the truth."
Severus couldn’t see the person behind that voice, but he was certain it was Ron Weasley approaching through the hallway. Both Hermione and Harry looked in the direction of the newcomer, but Harry shifted his gaze to the floor.
"I know he’s alive, and he will wake up."
"You don’t know that," Ron argued. "You just want to believe it."
"I feel it, okay? Don't you understand? His magic talks to me. He... is there."
"Harry, the healers can’t feel his magic." Hermione's voice was low as she approached him, making him look at her. "He... isn’t there. Maybe you’ve spent so much time in his presence that you think you feel him. You always had some kind of feelings for him, even if you thought it was hate back then."
Harry leaned against the wall and hugged himself, looking exhausted. Severus had the instinct to reach out and place his hand on his shoulder, to let him know he was there for him. But his projected form couldn’t cross the threshold of that room.
"I know he will wake up."
"And when will that be?" Ron asked, his voice slightly demanding. It seemed like this wasn’t the first time they had argued about it. "In a day? A year? Ten years? You don’t know, Harry, you don’t know. Besides, what will happen if he wakes up?"
"What do you mean?"
"You love him, Harry, it’s obvious." Hermione’s voice couldn’t have been softer or more maternal, as if she feared hurting a scared cat with her words. "It’s more than obvious that you’ve fallen for him."
"But he doesn’t love you," Ron spoke again, not bothering to soften his tone. The redhead stepped closer to Harry, and Severus could see him from the side. He had changed quite a bit during the time he hadn’t seen him, reminding him a little of Bill Weasley. "He didn’t love you before the battle or when he ended up like this. Merlin, you hated each other! You could barely stand his classes without provoking him, and he couldn’t see you in the hallways without docking points just for breathing. Do you honestly think he’ll wake up and magically have feelings for you? Do you even know if he likes men?"
Severus lost sight of Harry’s expression when he turned his face away. A heavy silence fell between them, broken only by a faint sob that escaped from Hermione.
"Leave me alone," Harry whispered.
Snape could barely make out how Weasley clenched his fists and turned around, leaving his line of sight. Hermione took a few more seconds before following him, but not without extending her hand, as if she wanted to touch and comfort her friend, only to pull back along the way.
Their footsteps echoed in the hallway until they became so distant that they could no longer be heard. Harry slid down the wall to sit on the floor, his injured leg stretched out, the other bent beneath him. He stared ahead, so Snape could only see half of his face. His expression was desolate, like Snape had never seen in that Gryffindor before.
Severus stepped away from the door, moving back to the side of the bed. Although he wished it were different, there was no way his current state could offer any comfort, and Harry had made it clear that he wanted to be alone. Therefore, Severus felt it was wrong to stay and witness this moment. During that time, all Severus could do was think.
Harry was gone for a long while until Severus heard the door open completely and close again.
"Sorry about that," Harry said as he wiped his face with his hands. "Hermione... came to bring me something. She left; she couldn't stay long. Anyway, I know you don’t really like visitors."
He sat down in the chair, as close to the bed as he could. His hands gripped the sheets tightly, as if they were an anchor keeping him from sinking into the depths of his pain. His knuckles were white from the effort.
"I know you're alive," he whispered so quietly that Severus almost couldn't make it out. "And I know you can hear me."
Severus halted the motion of his hand, which had been reaching toward the Gryffindor's shoulder. It was likely that Harry could feel it, just like the other times. But what difference would it make? As much as he hated admitting it to two Gryffindors, he had to do it.
Why give him hope when he didn't even know if he would wake up? In that situation, only Potter lost, because it was obvious who stood to gain more of the two. If he kept showing signs, Potter would never abandon him, even if he stayed in that state for the rest of his life.
But Harry had already sacrificed too much, just like him, but he still had a chance to be happy.
His Slytherin side told him it didn't matter, that Potter wanted to be there, and he didn’t need to feel bad about it. But he did.
He slowly withdrew his hand and moved toward the window, as far away from the boy as possible. He had already made a decision.
During the following days, he didn't say a word. He kept as far away as possible from where Harry was, aware that remaining in his own body would do no good, as the boy seemed to sense him in some way. Years of obedience under the Dark Lord’s yoke had taught him to blend with the shadows, to settle in the corner of the room like a silent specter. Without speaking, without moving, without even allowing himself to think.
Harry, on the other hand, continued with his usual routine. Every day, he sat next to the bed, telling him what had happened that day in his cheerful voice. Sometimes he would read aloud, and before leaving, he made sure to leave a book on the reading assistant.
This rhythm lasted two months. Sometimes, Harry would suddenly stop talking and look around the entire room. His gaze might linger a little longer than usual right on the spot where Severus was, but if he didn’t move, he couldn’t be sure if Harry noticed any change, and he would start talking again, though with less enthusiasm.
“Are you mad at me?” he would ask while searching for his hand and intertwining their fingers. “If I did something wrong, it's fine, you just have to tell me.”
But Severus would simply stay by the window, watching the leaves of the trees dance in the wind.
Sometimes, Harry would stand by the window, looking outside. On those occasions, Severus made sure to stay next to the infusion machine, analyzing the potions he knew so well.
“Did I really imagine it all?” Harry asked when August began.
Severus pressed his lips together, his eyes resting on his body in the bed. Yes, that was the best decision.
Two more weeks passed. The Gryffindor no longer spoke to him, nor begged him. He simply sat by his bed in silence. He didn’t read any magazines, nor brought flowers. He no longer placed any books for him to read in his absence. He didn’t search for the potion master’s hand to hold, nor comb his hair.
He simply stared at some fixed point. It could have been the infusion machine. Maybe a stain on the wall, or Severus’s sleeping face.
It was just days away from September when Harry entered the room. He had stopped coming for five days, and Severus thought he wouldn’t return. For the past few weeks, Severus had noticed a deterioration in the boy. He limped more, and complained more than before when sitting. He looked pale and slightly thinner. But after five days without seeing him, Severus could say he truly looked unwell.
Harry sat as close to the bed as he could, took Snape’s hand in his, rested his head on the bed, and cried. Although the sheets muffled his sobs, they still reached Severus with all the strength of guilt.
He fell in love on his own, Severus thought with his eyes closed . I’m not to blame. Besides, this is the best for him. It’s what must happen. Even if I wake up… This should not happen.
He felt Harry’s hands tighten around his wrists when the crying seemed to subside. Harry lifted his head and wiped the tears away with the sleeves of his sweater. Severus froze when the younger man stood up and leaned over him. Harry brought his face close to his former professor’s. Severus felt the warmth of Harry’s face and a slight tingling on his lips as Harry’s drew nearer.
Suddenly, Harry pulled away from him. The chair fell to the floor, and the boy pressed himself against the wall, breathing quickly.
“What am I doing? I can’t… I can’t take advantage of him. It’s not right. He hates me. None of this is real.”
Severus had to control himself to avoid reaching out and touching Harry. That tingling he still felt on his lips made him want to throw everything he had done in the past few months to hell. But he couldn’t. He shouldn’t.
“I’m sorry,” Harry said, this time looking at the floor. “I’ve been an idiot.”
He succeeded; Harry didn’t appear in the following days.
He had done the right thing, he had done what was necessary.
It didn’t matter that the solitude in that room grew.
It didn’t matter that the absence of Potter bothered him more than anything in his life.
Nothing mattered, it was the right thing. The thing he had sworn to do that night after holding his only friend in his arms. The right thing.
September
August passed completely and September began. Sometimes he looked out the window, watching how the first hues of autumn painted the leaves in golden and reddish tones. People began to bundle up more.
And he was still there.
And his heart still ached.
October
October came slowly for him. Everything for Snape passed quickly and slowly at the same time.
Maybe that’s why he didn’t notice, until several days later, that his projected form was no longer as clear as before. He would place his hands in front of his eyes and couldn’t see them as clearly. He touched his face and knew it wasn’t as defined as the first time he left his body.
And so the days passed.
Each day, the projection of his magic grew weaker.
And each day, he felt weaker.
When it was almost November, one morning whose day he no longer knew, he couldn’t project himself. He couldn’t even open his eyes.
He tried hard, but he simply couldn’t.
And it was almost funny, almost, if it hadn’t been ironically sad, that he seemed to be achieving what he had wanted so much when he woke up in that state: to die. Only now, he would have liked to feel the breeze on his face, even if it were for the last time.
And to be able to read a book on his own again.
And feel the snow or make a potion.
And see Harry one last time.
But perhaps it was already too late.
November
In mid-November, the alarm set on his body went off.
He suddenly felt a pull over his entire body, and suddenly his senses activated for a few seconds. His brain could barely register the green robes surrounding him before he fell back into unconsciousness. He didn't know how much time passed before he opened his eyes again, but this time there was only a Healer by his side trying to explain the situation he was in.
Everything was confusing. As if the memories of that year were being stored slowly in his brain. The memories of the last battle mixed with Potter’s hand holding his; Dumbledore falling dead because of his wand with the flowers that decorated the nightstand; Nagini’s bite with Potter leaning over his lips in the shadow of a kiss. And he felt the weight of unconsciousness again.
When he woke up again, he was alone. Darkness filled the window, and only a small light filtered under the door from the hallway.
Snape sat on the bed, feeling strange. He brought his hand to his neck and traced the scar Nagini had left behind. Despite everything, he didn’t feel as bad as he had imagined he would after so much time in a coma. His body didn’t even seem to have much trouble responding to his commands.
Perhaps it was because, during all that time, he had been “projecting” and walking? He didn’t want to dwell too much on that room.
With a sharp tug, he disconnected himself from the infusion machine, and as he had expected, before he could fully stand, a healer entered the room.
“You are not yet in any condition to leave, Mr. Snape.”
It was Healer Johnson.
He had to clear his throat several times before he could regain his voice. Even then, his words came out hoarse.
“There’s nothing preventing me from leaving here, is there?”
“That’s not what I mean. I’m well aware you’re a free man. But you’ve been in a coma for over a year. We never imagined you would wake from it. You need to remain under observation.”
“My own observation will suffice.”
“You need medication.”
"I am perfectly capable of preparing it myself."
"I know that very well. I was your student."
Silence lingered between them.
"Legally, I can detain a patient against their will if I deem them unfit to leave."
Severus was weak, barely able to stand. Though he had improved significantly, the discomfort in the left side of his neck still lingered. And he didn’t even have his wand. Besides, would he really attack the healer? He’d already managed to avoid Azkaban; he wasn’t keen on ending up in a sanatorium labeled as insane.
Severus raised an eyebrow. The healer sighed and stepped aside.
"You and Potter are just the same."
He didn’t have many options, really. He couldn’t use the Floo Network from St. Mungo’s to get home, as there was no fireplace in his house. Even so, Apparating after a year in a coma, without having used magic during all that time, wasn’t the best idea in his weakened state. It took a superhuman effort not to collapse to his knees, and he leaned against the rickety fence surrounding the house as he waited for the dizziness to subside.
In front of him was Spinner's End.
Once he managed to straighten up, he walked to the door and opened it, only to be greeted by a thick layer of dust covering everything: the small sitting room with its worn furniture, the bookshelf that spanned the entire wall, and the kitchen at the end of the hallway, which held more cobwebs than food. The two bedrooms upstairs and the bathroom were likely in the same state.
Severus had cast a spell against the dust once, but such charms had to be renewed every two years at least, and he hadn’t stepped foot in that house for almost twenty years, since the time his mother had died.
On more than one occasion, he had considered burning the place to the ground, but then he would have had nowhere to go in moments like this. He had never made plans for his future. For the war, yes. But with each passing year after accepting his role as a spy, the idea of planning for anything beyond his mission seemed absurd; nothing worth the effort would ever happen.
However, as he stood there in that house, he realized he had been wrong. Not getting rid of it meant that, somewhere in the depths of his mind, he had harbored hope for a future. He had entertained the possibility of a day when he would no longer be at Hogwarts and would need a roof over his head.
The knocks on the door, just before noon, caught him by surprise. He was lying on the couch, trapped between the unconsciousness of weakness and the impossibility of sleep due to the whirlwind of his thoughts. He had managed to doze off for a little while, but between dreams, a fog would drag him back to reality for a few minutes before releasing him again. He thought about ignoring the knocks, letting whoever was bothering him knock their knuckles raw until they got tired and left, but the person was persistent.
Severus sat up with difficulty. As soon as he arrived, he had searched for something he could wear and found some old clothes of his parents in the wardrobe. Most of the clothes were beyond use, but he managed to find a barely worn set of sportswear. He showered, and, too exhausted even to look for a can that most likely contained expired food, he collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep.
The knocks continued persistently as he managed to get to his feet. On the other side of the door, McGonagall looked at him with joy in her eyes, hidden behind a reproachful expression.
They stared at each other for a moment, and Severus stepped aside to let her pass.
She walked to the kitchen without saying a word. He mentioned that all he had was cobwebs, and she showed him a bag filled with biscuits and tea bags. He rummaged through the drawers and was surprised to find that the old porcelain and teapot still had the protection charm active.
The water heated, the tea was poured, and they both sat at the table after Minerva waved her wand and dusted off the kitchen.
"Two days ago, I was informed that you had woken up, just like Mr. Potter." Minerva looked at him over her steaming cup. "I suppose they told him, as they did me, that they were only informing us out of formality, but that we had to wait until the next day to make any visits due to your condition. Imagine my surprise when today I was told you had left." McGonagall paused before adding, "Then again, upon reflection, it wasn’t that surprising, really."
Along with the bag of food, Minerva had placed a long box on the table. Severus had an idea of what it was, but kept his expression neutral as he sipped his tea.
"The Ministry confiscated it. It arrived along with the Order of Merlin, but I thought you might prefer it not to be in plain sight."
Severus took his wand, feeling a familiar sensation between his fingers. He suppressed a smile, but the gleam in Minerva’s eyes told him he hadn’t quite managed to hide it.
"You know you have a place at Hogwarts."
"My mission at Hogwarts ended with the death of the Dark Lord, Minerva."
She nodded, expecting that answer, though it seemed she had hoped for a different one.
"It will be a shame not to have you as a professor."
He didn’t feel that way. She would find another teacher, one who didn’t feel the need to curse his students.
...But what would he do with his life?
Minerva cleared her throat in an undignified manner before changing the subject.
"Potter is another lost cause. Apparently, he’s been skipping his treatment."
Snape frowned at her. What did Minerva know about all of this? Surely, she didn’t believe the rumors.
"Why would I care about that?" he said carefully.
"I know he developed a certain... appreciation for you while you were at St. Mungo."
"I don’t know anything about that."
Minerva nodded absently, but something in Severus told him she didn’t fully believe his words.
"I also brought this.," she said, taking something from her pocket and sliding it across the table. "I figured you might need this."
It was a shrunk trunk.
She stood up, and before reaching the door, she suddenly stopped.
"I almost forgot," she said. She took a folded sheet of paper from one of her pockets and placed it on the small table. It was a list of the potions Severus had always prepared for the school, with the required quantities for each month written next to them. "I’d like to continue using your services as a Potion Master. Send me your fees by owl. It could be a start."
When he was left alone, he turned his attention to the shrunken trunk. He pointed his wand at it and, performing his first real spell after more than a year, reversed the shrinking charm. The trunk expanded, revealing some of his clothes, a couple of books, and several items necessary for potion-making: two cauldrons, protected vials to prevent breakage, and various ingredients.
None of those things were meant to be shrunk, neither the ingredients, nor the cauldrons, nor the vials. Everything lost value when it shrank, though he supposed something was better than nothing.
Something for what? To brew a strengthening potion for himself. Just for him?
The quality wouldn’t be the same after the shrinking charm had been used on them, but it would be something until he could get better supplies. But for him or for Potter? Was he really thinking about making potions for the Gryffindor? Now that he was free, he should forget about Potter and follow the path he had chosen in the hospital.
But if what Minerva said was true, Potter must be suffering a great deal of pain.
Maybe he could make a potion to silence his voice of guilt. He would go, give him the potions, and never see him again. He never asked her to take care of him while he was at St. Mungo’s, so he owed Potter nothing.
When he was about to use the excuse that he didn’t actually know where Potter lived, he realized Minerva had left Harry’s address on a sheet of paper inside the trunk. The worst part was that he lived relatively close to Severus.
He stopped in front of a yellow five-story building and climbed to the third floor around seven p.m.
He knocked twice. He had planned to simply knock and leave, letting Potter see what he had brought whenever he wished. However, in front of the door, there were several bags piled up. They didn’t seem to be trash, and, glancing quickly at one that wasn’t fully closed, it appeared to contain food. Surely there was some charm on them to prevent spoilage, but why were they out here? And why were there so many?
He knocked again, and this time someone spoke.
“Hermione, I already told you to go. I’m fine.”
Undoubtedly, it was Potter’s voice, but his tone didn’t sound right. Was he crying? Severus tried to convince himself that it wasn’t his problem. If Potter was in trouble, he was old enough to seek help. Besides, it was clear that help had been offered and he had rejected it. So why did the idea of leaving bother him so much?
I must return to normality.
He was no longer trapped in that hospital room. He could rid himself of those feelings for the Gryffindor. He should turn around and leave.
But instead, he spoke.
"Potter, I’m neither your friend nor do I have Granger’s patience. Open the door."
There was a silence longer than it should have been before Harry’s voice came again.
“Go away, Snape.”
How dare Potter have crossed all of Severus’s boundaries for a year and, at that moment, expect him to simply leave? Well, Harry didn’t know that Severus was aware of everything, but that didn’t make the Potion Master’s anger any less.
He correctly assumed that he couldn’t open the door with a simple spell. It was very likely Harry had some kind of protection to keep his friends from entering forcefully.
“Potter,” Snape began, making sure his voice sounded grave enough, “I’ll repeat, I am not one of your friends. If I need to set fire to this building to get you out, I will. I don’t care if you suffocate from the smoke by mistake.”
There was silence for a few seconds before two clicks were heard from the other side of the door. Severus grabbed the handle and turned it. Inside, it was quite dark, but a light coming from an ajar door provided enough clarity. The entry led directly into a small living room with a sofa and an armchair; in front of them, a television, and to the side, a window with the curtains drawn. The Gryffindor's figure was outlined on the sofa, lying on his left side, looking toward the door.
"Snape..."
Severus thought Harry had hesitated, unsure if it was really him. So why had he opened the door? Every day, he found himself more amazed at the little survival instinct of Gryffindors.
Here are potions for the pain. They’re better than anything a healer could give you. Good bye. That’s what he figured he should say. But instead, he placed the small box on the table in front of the sofa and walked toward where he imagined the kitchen was. He turned on the light, searched for a glass, and filled it with water. He could have used an Accio and a simple Aquamenti, but he needed a moment to think.
He returned to the living room, where Harry was still in the same position, now looking toward the kitchen, clearly waiting for his return. Severus sat in the armchair, beside Harry’s head, placed the glass on the table, and took out the potions. He grabbed the smallest vial and poured its contents into the water. The faint light filtering from the partially open door wasn’t enough for Harry to discern the color of the mixture, though it didn’t look particularly pleasant.
“Drink it.”
Harry squinted his eyes. Perhaps his face wanted to show something, but his hand clutched his side as if he were about to snap it off and throw it away.
“Snape, I don’t understand…"
“I believe I’ve made it very clear that I’m not one of your friends. If you don’t drink the potion, I’ll force you.”
Had it not been for the grimace of pain on his face, Severus was sure Harry had raised an eyebrow in skepticism.
“You just left the hospital. I even heard you requested to be discharged against Healer Johnson’s advice. I know you’re not in good condition.”
“I don’t hold my injury as if my life depends on it, Potter. I’m sure I’m the one with the advantage here.”
Harry bit his lip and nodded. He stopped clutching his leg and took the glass with a trembling hand. He couldn’t help but grimace as he drank the entire contents and placed the glass back on the table.
He clutched his stomach tightly and gritted his teeth just a second afterward. Severus knew what would happen, so he moved on to the others. He took the other two glass vials and poured their contents into the empty glass. Those potions didn’t need to be diluted. The pain seemed to ease a bit when the Gryffindor gasped for air. Severus brought the glass closer to the other’s lips. Harry looked at him pleadingly, though Snape couldn’t tell if he was begging for him to leave him alone or if he truly understood that he was being helped. Either way, the boy drank.
This time, it didn’t seem to sit so badly with him.
“It’s a pain reliever and a bone regenerator. The pain is because Minerva shrank the ingredients, and they weren’t as stable as they should’ve been.”
Harry nodded. The look he gave him seemed to want to ask so many questions, but he didn’t dare. He had gone back to clutching the area where it hurt. Severus growled; the potion would take longer than usual to take effect.
“Why aren’t you in bed?”
He hadn’t expected his comment to embarrass the Gryffindor so much, so he was surprised when Harry’s cheeks flushed. That, somehow, was enough to make Severus’s heart beat a little faster.
Harry shook his head, as if trying to shake off a dull thought.
“I was going to get something from the kitchen, but the pain started halfway there, and I could only make it back here.”
Harry clenched his fists and lowered his head, looking frustrated and embarrassed. Severus watched him, wondering if he should leave. He had already done what he had planned to do, hadn’t he? But he didn’t want to leave. Instead, he said: “Move, Potter.”
Harry lifted his head, confused, but he shifted slightly, unable to hide his surprise when the Potions Master stood up and sat down on the couch. His surprise grew even more when, with the help of a levitation spell, Snape lifted him and placed him gently on his lap. Harry’s head rested on Snape’s chest, while his legs stretched comfortably on the sofa.
Harry stared at him.
“Wha...?”
“I thought you said it calmed you to hear my heartbeat.”
Harry’s eyes widened in surprise. A hand lifted to rest on Snape’s face, as if he needed to make sure what he was seeing was real. His breath seemed to catch, and Snape could swear he had never seen emeralds that glowed brighter.
“I knew... but I doubted... I…”
"Still as eloquent as ever, Potter." Severus couldn’t help but let a faint smile tug at his lips. He tilted his head slightly toward the hand that brushed his cheek.
"I abandoned you," Harry whispered. "I’m sorry. I stopped going to St. Mungo. I thought... I’m sorry..."
Severus lowered his head, cutting off Harry's tirade with a kiss. It was more instinctive than anything. His lips longed for what they had almost had. His mind wished to comfort Potter, but he lacked the words.
And he, who had acted more impulsively that year than in his entire life, could only kiss him.
In the first few seconds, Harry was frozen in surprise, but then he began to move his lips against Severus's, gently and deeply. One of his hands clutched the collar of his former professor’s shirt, as if trying to steady himself in that moment.
Severus broke the kiss after only a short time, far too brief for both of them, but he knew he had to control himself; he couldn’t allow himself to give in.
He left as soon as the potions took effect and Harry stopped writhing in pain. Since the potion also induced drowsiness, Harry would soon sleep for a long time. He still felt pain, but Severus left him potions to take every six hours, so it wouldn’t be as overwhelming.
It was almost dawn when he returned to his house. His body felt exhausted, and his magic was weak. He hadn’t fully recovered from that year, and he had shown up and brewed more potions than he should have.
But he couldn’t afford to rest.
He took out the sheet Minerva had given him and began making a list of everything he needed.
When eight o’clock came, he went to Gringotts and withdrew the money he had left. It wasn’t much, just enough to live for a month, maybe. Still, he had ingredients and equipment at Hogwarts that belonged to him. He only needed to speak with Minerva to move them without shrinking them this time.
Afterward, he went to a store and bought the ingredients he knew he’d need.
That simple act of going out to take care of the things he needed felt strange. After being locked away for more than a year, he was finally feeling the cold on his skin again, and the wind through his hair.
He could hear, from a distance, the laughter of children and the chatter of passersby. The caw of some distant bird sounded clearer than ever, and the colors of the streets appeared more vivid than he remembered.
Some people couldn’t help but give him a glance, and he held back from looking toward a magazine stand.
When he arrived home, he cleaned the basement as best as he could and turned the space into an improvised potions lab. He had to pause in the afternoon when hunger and exhaustion threatened to knock him out.
In the morning, he had stopped at a nearby supermarket before returning. Sandwiches would be what he ate. He wasn’t about to make anything elaborate.
He lay down on the sofa when he felt his legs wouldn’t carry him up the stairs to his room; he didn’t have the strength to clean it anyway.
It was nighttime when he woke up. He hadn’t meant to sleep so long, but he supposed it was normal for a body still in recovery.
When he opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling above him, a thought crossed his mind. He went to the bathroom, showered, and, with only the towel wrapped around his waist, stopped in front of the mirror.
The Dark Mark on his arm was fading. The first time he showered, he had kept his gaze as far from that arm as possible, making sure to wear a shirt that would keep him from seeing it. However, in that moment, standing before the bathroom mirror, he could see that the mark was now perhaps a third of what it had been. And it seemed to be fading further, until no trace would remain on his skin.
For some reason, a feeling overwhelmed him, one he couldn’t name. Then he thought of Potter. And he began to replay the kiss they had shared. As if his mind wanted to tell him that he was becoming a new man, that he had a right to love…
Harry’s eyes came to his mind, so bright, so full of hope. But no. That kiss had been an impulse, but it meant nothing. It shouldn’t mean anything. He hadn’t promised anything to the Gryffindor, nor did he owe him anything.
Because somehow, he felt a pressure weighing on him. Perhaps he was acting this way because he felt some sort of debt?
Either way, he dressed quickly, gathered a few vials, and headed to Harry’s house.
This time, he walked.
He didn’t know if Potter had done it on purpose, though he doubted it. But they lived just a mere twenty-five minutes on foot from each other.
He hadn’t bundled up enough, and the night wind slipped through his shirt, but although a spell to keep warm crossed his mind, and he enjoyed it every time he could use his wand again, he decided not to. There was something about the sensation of feeling the cold on his skin, that he found pleasing.
The last few shops on the street were closing. He saw people saying goodbye at a corner, heading home. The streetlights were on, casting light down the street, and a few cars passed by him.
Throughout the entire walk, he couldn’t stop thinking about him and Harry. What did he mean to someone like Potter? A whim? A desire to obtain the one thing that wasn’t his? Because no matter how much he thought about it, no matter how much he analyzed it, he couldn’t understand it. And perhaps, when he had been in a coma, he had quickly succumbed to believing—or longing—that Potter harbored a real feeling for him. But now that he was free, now he could analyze it better.
Because along with the mark, in the bathroom mirror, he had also noticed the lines of wrinkles beginning to form on his face. And the nose that had always been a source of mockery, and a damned gray hair that signaled the arrival of many more.
But it couldn’t just be a whim. All of Harry’s actions, all of his emotions, had been genuine from the very first day. Those gestures, those flowers, those smiles…
And the kiss from the day before… It had been brief, too brief, but so deep, so damned perfect, that even he couldn’t believe he was capable of faking it. So he doubted that Potter, who was so incapable of controlling his emotions, had faked it.
Then why? Why did he want him? What did he see in him? There was nothing special about him.
Harry was beautiful, young, brave. He could have anyone he wanted with those same qualities.
Severus was a man whom life had beaten down, and was barely offering him a second chance, but he had nothing to offer. Quite the opposite.
And what about himself? Was what he felt real, or had he simply developed those feelings because it was the only thing he had? Now that he wasn’t in a coma, that he could walk, that he could make potions, that he could—and wanted to—live, did he still want Potter willingly?
Would they have a future?
But then, was he thinking about the future? About them moving forward?
He, who had never thought about a future after the war because he had never expected to have one. He had bought ingredients to make the potions they needed at Hogwarts, to earn money, for what? To live…
He barely realized he had arrived at the Gryffindor’s apartment door. He shook off those thoughts and knocked on the door. Harry opened it a couple of seconds later.
The living room was more organized than the day before. Potter was wearing sweatpants and a brown sweater. Severus couldn’t help but think he preferred seeing him in red.
"Snape…"
"I came to check if the potions are working. They did not have the best quality."
It was a lie. Severus was lying. And his eyes must have shown it, because Harry’s eyes reflected that he knew Severus was lying.
Harry stepped aside without responding, inviting him in. Severus entered, and as soon as the door closed behind them, Harry quickly sought his lips, resuming the kiss from the day before.
But this time, it was deeper, more eager, more desperate. Severus responded with the same intensity, pulling him into his arms with force.
Relationships were never easy; he didn’t expect what they had to be any different.
He hadn’t even considered that he might have one. However, it surprised him that they got along better than he’d imagined.
During the day, Snape brewed potions at home, as, two months later, he had found a small shop looking for a new supplier. It wasn’t a big thing, but it was progress.
He had never enjoyed brewing potions as much as he did at that moment. He loved the recovered ability not just to see them, but to be part of their creation. Chopping, slicing, grinding. Heating, stirring, bottling. It was something he had taken for granted until he thought he would never be able to do it again.
He learned to cook—or rather, he was learning. He could manage one or two basic dishes, but having spent his entire life under Hogwarts’ care, he had never needed to learn. At first, he hadn’t thought it would be difficult, but he burned soup twice and undercooked a chicken. However, he improved over time.
After brewing potions, he would read. Holding a book in his own hands again, no longer relying on the reading assistant, was almost comparable to when he had been able to perform a spell again after that time in a coma.
When night fell, he would go to Potter’s house with potions in hand and instruct him on how to use them. The pain hadn’t subsided, but the doctor’s prescription, along with his own modifications, made it bearable.
The Gryffindor had found a job in a nearby bookstore. It was a Muggle bookstore, but the owner had a wizard brother, so she knew Harry, though she never showed him any more affection than what she offered to everyone equally. She allowed him to use magic as long as there were no customers around, and he worked mainly behind the counter, which spared him from spending too much time on his feet. Harry loved his job: a quiet place where no one smiled at him more than out of sheer politeness.
When Severus arrived at his apartment at night, Harry would place the potions on the side table, guide him to the sofa so they could sit together, and, without another word, lean over to kiss him. Severus responded with the same intensity. Afterward, they would pull apart, and Harry, cheeks flushed, would offer to prepare tea or something to eat. Severus wasn’t hungry, but he would accept with a “disinterested” voice, just to prolong his visit.
They hadn’t gone beyond kisses, as if they were two teenagers afraid of the next step.
Maybe because Harry felt self-conscious with Severus responding to him, really looking at him. Or perhaps he doubted whether what they had was real. And Severus, maybe, felt apprehensive not knowing if this was real. He wasn’t sure of himself—now that he could do what he wanted, if Harry would be one of those things.
But sex was just sex, wasn’t it? Or maybe not. Because when Harry looked at him with those bright eyes and held him as if he never wanted to let go, Severus knew it wouldn’t be just that. And, although he had never really cared about the other person’s feelings during that act, something kept him from acting without being sure.
He wanted Harry, desperately. Resisting was an effort, and letting him go after kissing him so that he could make tea was agonizing. But did he only desire him physically?
He always thought about Harry. He thought about Harry when he worked in his lab. And he thought about him when he woke up in his bed and realized he could move again. As he went downstairs to make his coffee, he wondered how Harry had woken up.
Maybe that’s why, that Sunday, contrary to what they had agreed upon, Severus showed up at Harry’s house around midday.
He didn’t appear at the door like he had before; instead, he decided to walk.
As his feet moved almost mindlessly, his thoughts wandered through lost reflections. Around him, people continued on their way, indifferent to his presence. He watched a couple walking, almost fused in an embrace, a woman walking her dog, and a man carrying his child on his shoulders, telling him a story that seemed to surprise the little one. The wind brushed his face, the trees swayed gently to the rhythm of a breeze that still felt different to him, and cars passed by, one after another.
When he arrived at Harry’s apartment and knocked on the door, he thought that perhaps the younger man wouldn’t be home. What if he did more interesting things on Sundays than sitting around waiting for him? But he found Harry wearing sweatpants and a worn-out t-shirt.
His face reflected all his surprise, and at the raised eyebrow from Snape, Harry clarified:
“I wasn’t expecting you at this hour. Are you hungry? I can make…”
“There’s a cafeteria about fifteen minutes away. Are you interested?”
I want you to come with me, those were the words he had really meant to say, but Potter would understand.
Harry’s eyebrows shot up in an almost impossible way before he nodded vigorously.
“Let me change clothes.”
Five minutes later, they were already on the street, walking side by side in a slightly awkward way for both of them. Severus realized this was the first time they had been outside together in over a year.
And as they walked, he understood that his world looked the same with Harry by his side. The wind blew the same, the trees swayed the same, the cars made the same sound, and the people walked at the same pace. However, he liked having Harry beside him.
The food at the cafeteria was dreadful, but he was surprised to find himself enjoying criticizing it. Harry told him he liked it, and he couldn’t help but say, “You have questionable taste, Potter”, as he raised the corners of his lips. Harry couldn’t help but laugh.
And when they walked back together, this time Harry reached for Severus's hand, and Severus held onto the fingers of the one who had once been his student. And when they reached Harry’s apartment, and he turned to kiss him, Severus knew he would have a future without those kisses, yet he still longed for them with him.
His hands, almost instinctively, found their way under Harry's red shirt. Harry's hands, trembling, reached for the buttons of Snape's shirt. Severus carefully guided him to the room he had never dared to enter, and with a gentle gesture, he laid Harry down, positioning himself on top of him, always aware of the other's injury. Their clothes were forgotten on the floor, in disarray. Severus slowly turned him over and lay beside him. And in that silence, only interrupted by his sighs and Harry's moans, he couldn't remember the last time he had been so tender, so protective.
And when the day ended, and they were still intertwined in the bed, he hugged him tightly.
The Weasleys and Granger found out when April was coming to an end. Both Ron and Hermione maintained a certain caution in their behavior around Severus, and he could imagine why. He held no resentment toward them for what had happened at St. Mungo's. After all, he knew they were only looking out for their friend's happiness. Even he had pushed Harry to distance himself from that situation. Though that didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy seeing their remorseful expressions every time they looked at him.
Their guilt lasted for more than two months, until one day Severus, tired of them walking on eggshells around him, said… "I don't think it's possible for me to torment you more outside Hogwarts than I did during all my years as a teacher."
Ron burst out laughing, Hermione blushed but became quite encouraged.
And then, the magical world began to talk about them again. The magazines once again wondered what kind of spell had been used. But neither of them cared.
Harry never fully recovered, but he arrived punctually to his medical appointments, hand in hand with Severus. His pain was manageable, and he blushed when he realized he never felt it during sex.
By the time November came around, they were finishing putting up the last decorations in their new home, in a place far from the street where they had lived. That December, they celebrated their first Christmas together and invited the Weasleys. Severus wouldn’t admit that he enjoyed it, but Harry knew. When they were finally alone, he sat by the window and watched the snow fall for hours. At some point, Harry took his hand, and they both went out for a walk wrapped in coats. Severus felt the snow touch his face once again.
And when the ninth day of January arrived and Severus woke up to find Harry holding a gift over the bed, he told himself that maybe he had never been as bad as he had believed.
His life was filled with clients requesting his potions, and with Harry opening his own bookstore in that area, which, although slowly, grew over the years. On the last Sunday of every month, Severus would have tea with Minerva, and he still secretly bet with her under the table on who would win the House Cup.
On the entryway table, there was always a vase with fresh flowers every week, left to wilt without using a preservation spell, because that reminded him of many things. Beside the vase, the reader's assistant, which they no longer needed, but Severus wouldn’t let Harry get rid of.
Teddy started visiting them on weekends after they moved. By the time the boy was five years old and Andromeda no longer had the strength to care for him, they took him in.
And, when one day, many years later, he asked Harry about what he had seen in his memories, about how he had seen him in some special way, the Gryffindor just smiled and kissed him before answering.
"Just like you look at me now."
Severus responded with a click of his tongue, but didn’t ask any more questions, simply returning the kiss.
He’d ask another day, perhaps. For now, he would focus on those arms that surrounded him.
THE END