Chapter Text
Severus Snape opened his eyes, jolted awake by a stiff neck and an aching back. He found himself hunched over the Headmaster’s Office desk, a quill still clamped between his fingers—ink had bled into a stain on the last ungraded essay.
Daylight was already bright.
“Good morning, Severus,” a gentle voice came from the wall. Albus Dumbledore’s portrait looked down at him with concern. “It seems a sudden sleep overtook you. Though I must say, a desk is far less comfortable than a bed.”
His black robes rustled as Snape straightened up stiffly. He rubbed his throbbing temple, trying to clear the muddled fog in his head. His last memory from the night before was grading school documents—after that, nothing.
“How did I fall asleep here?” he muttered.
Dumbledore adjusted his half-moon spectacles in the portrait, his bright blue eyes glinting. “That, my dear boy, is a question only your own mind can answer. Still, it’s rare to see you sleep so deeply without relying on potions. Did you dream of anything particular?”
Dreams?
Snape froze. Fragmented, bizarre images tried to break through the fog, but they sank back quickly, leaving only a strange, uneasy emptiness.
The room was silent, save for the fake soft snores from the other portraits on the walls.
He closed his eyes, trying to grasp the fading shards. Jumbled colors, an unprecedented weariness, and…
“I had a nightmare,” he admitted sharply. “Undoubtedly the strangest one of my life.”
“Care to share? An old man’s amusements are rather limited.”
“I dreamed,” Snape ground out through his teeth, “of sitting at the same table eating with your Golden Boy.” Just saying it made his stomach twist. “How could I possibly dream of something so absurd?”
Dumbledore’s smile in the portrait seemed to widen. “Sharing food is an ancient way to build understanding. Perhaps it’s a sign—you’ll soon find Harry easily, and have a productive conversation with him?”
“That’s not the worst of it,” Snape ignored the comment, struggling to recall more. His dark eyes were filled with confusion and self-doubt.
“I also dreamed of being in this office with Minerva. She seemed to be saying something to me… and that Potter,” he took a deep breath, forcing down his irritation, “was lingering in the background, as always.”
“Maybe it’s a prophetic dream, Severus. Fate often sends us messages in strange ways.”
“I’ve never believed Trelawney’s nonsense,” Snape snorted.
He’d rather think someone had cursed him—or that the pressure of being a double agent had finally driven him mad.
Just then, a persistent tapping came from the window. A tawny owl was rapping its beak against the glass, one claw clamped tightly around a thick parchment package.
Snape stalked over and threw the window open. The owl hopped in nimbly, dropped the package on the desk, then perched haughtily on a pile of scattered documents, staring at him expectantly.
“Save your look,” Snape hissed. “I have no food for you, and no interest in writing back to your owner.”
The owl seemed to understand. Offended by his rudeness, it retaliated by pecking sharply at the expensive parchment nearby—leaving small dents—before fluttering away in a huff.
Snape picked up the package. It was light. He tore off the parchment wrapping, revealing several small bunches of flowers, tied carefully together.
The blooms weren’t fully open yet; slender green stems topped with clusters of bright yellow buds, giving off a faint, fresh scent.
“What is it?” Dumbledore leaned slightly forward in his frame, though he couldn’t see clearly.
“Asphodels,” Snape ran his fingertips over the cool petals. “The asphodel powder extracted from them is one of the key ingredients for the Draught of Living Death.”
“I ordered them. I plan to brew another batch for myself. If I go to the hospital wing to ask Poppy Pomfrey for more, she’ll pester me with questions… and start getting suspicious.”
But…
His gaze lingered on the delicate flowers.
A tribute from Hogwarts, Professor.
Was it a nearly inaudible hallucination? Or just a ringing in his ears?
Snape’s brow furrowed deeply, annoyed at his momentary distraction and the莫名ible flutter in his chest.
“The Draught… I suppose I don’t need to brew it anymore.”
He tossed the remaining flowers back onto the desk, as if they were burning him.
“Oh?” Dumbledore’s eyes flicked subtly between Snape and the asphodels. “Why the sudden change of heart?”
Snape didn’t answer at once. He turned to look out the window at the Hogwarts grounds, just waking up. A heavy, clear premonition settled over him like morning mist—nothing like the absurd fragments of his dream.
“I have a feeling,” Snape’s expression darkened, “this will all be over soon, Albus.”
Dumbledore in the portrait fell silent for a moment.
“Was that part of your dream too, Severus?”
“I don’t know,” Snape answered quickly, sharply—closing off any chance of continuing the conversation.
He hated this feeling of being out of control: the unplanned sleep, the illogical dreams, the strange tug in his chest now.
His eyes darted to the asphodels on the desk again. They lay there quietly, out of place amidst the surrounding clutter, and the fresh, vibrant plants seemed somewhat dazzling at this moment.
A sudden, unaccountable thought struck him.
He needed a place to put them. Not as ingredients, but as…
As what? He couldn’t even say.
He waved his wand. A cabinet beside the desk slid open silently. It was nearly empty—only a few rolls of discarded parchment, a bottle of dried-up black ink, and a dusty glass vial. With a flick of magic, he cleaned the vial quickly, filled it with water, then practically shoved the asphodels into it.
The cabinet slammed shut, locking with a click.
That night, Minerva and the other professors drove him out of Hogwarts.
It made sense. He deserved it, after all.
Later, he went to the Shrieking Shack. Dust filled the air, mixing with the smell of old wood and an indefinable stench. When Voldemort’s cold voice echoed through the room, when the snake coiled around him, Snape felt time slow down.
In his final moments—when Nagini’s fangs sank into his neck, when warm blood gushed from the wound—images flashed in his mind, sharp and clear:
A bunch of withered asphodels, leaning against a cold headstone;
A young man with black hair and green eyes, hugging him;
“And goodbye, Headmaster Snape.”
The images were so real, so intense, he forgot the pain. His eyes widened—not from fear of death, but from a sudden realization.
On the edge of unconsciousness, Severus Snape understood.
That hadn’t been a dream?
That hadn’t been a dream!
Silver memories spilled out with his blood.
“Look… at… me…”
Finally, his gaze fixed on those fading green eyes, trying desperately to catch a glimmer of understanding, to pass on a message he’d never had time to speak.
Darkness swallowed everything in the end. But before he stepped out of time, a strange calm settled over Severus Snape’s heart.
He knew now.
He’d already seen the future, long before it came.
END