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Chapter Text

Severus Snape – Withering Anemone

Cold.

It's been cold ever since he could retain information about his surroundings. If it were the type of cold that one could chase away with a bundle of fuzzy blankets, snuggling into freshly washed bedsheets or dragging an extra shirt on he would not complain. He kind of wished that was the type he'd been cursed to deal with, but no, Severus knew that'd be way too easy of a fix.

He absent-mindedly played with the hem of his worn-out robes. The thread at the end of his sleeve came loose. 

No, the frost sticking to his skin would only ever ease when he spent time with Lily. She had a way of making every day feel like a sunny autumn afternoon. And now she was gone. Severus squeezed his eyes shut at the sharp pang of guilt wrecking his form. Foolish.

He stared up at the stone ceiling, and the warm yellow of his nightlight broke apart the gloomy palette of their dorm. It was a matter of minutes before Avery and Hurley returned from dinner. Perhaps he should have gone with them. He hadn't eaten since yesterday, after all, wilfully avoiding the Great Hall. And his stomach was painfully reminding him of this very fact.

Letting out a sigh, he shut his eyes, resting his arm over them. A mistake, Lily's face popped into mind. Severus pressed the flat of his hands to his eyes, fingers fisted in his hair until distorted spots of purple and green danced before him in the darkness. The throbbing headache persistent. Merlin, she'd looked so betrayed, green eyes open wide, brows raised, frozen in place.

He rolled over to his side, bringing his knees up to his chin. A small bottle of Ilumi draught sat on his bedside table. It was unlabelled but impossible to mistake for anything else. The liquid sloshing around in it was brewed perfectly, a textbook example. Its high viscosity allowed for each colour to be separated, unmixing, leading to a mesmerising galaxy of light blue, pink, and yellow with specks of purple. Shimmering. Ilumi draughts were meant to be decorative potions, their soft glow was used to ease children with night terrors. Severus thought he should have felt more awkward when Lily gave it to him since it was usually given to very young wizarding children. But it was a gift, a Christmas gift. He didn't even know if he ever got one before that. The sheer joy he felt overshadowed any embarrassment. Severus treasured the little potion greatly, despite Avery teasing him about it being childish.

Lily had laughed when he reprimanded her for wasting time brewing such a useless thing.

A strange moisture built up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He knew not to use that word. Knew only goons the likes of Avery used it.

Laughter filtered in from the hallway, muffled voices approaching. And Severus dragged himself up from bed, he ought to do some homework. The charms assignment won't complete itself on its own. 

How could I ever say that? 

His skin ached.

James Potter – Of Geranium and Fools

"Mate, are you listening?"

"Huh?" James blinked.

Sirius sat in front of him, leaning back in his seat with arms crossed over his chest. Staring at him with a raised eyebrow.

"You've been giving that fork a death glare for the past 10 minutes. Did it poke out the eye of old man Fleamie?"

Off to the side, Peter snickered.

"What, Padfoot no, I was just," he stopped for a second, "thinking."

Sirius faked a gasp, wide-eyed.

"Thinking?"

"Oh, why James does it hurt?"

James gaped at Remus: "Not you too Moony, c'mon I think-"

Dubious looks.

"...sometimes, anyway."

James furrowed his eyebrows and sat the poor fork down beside his barely touched dinner. Sirius went back to complaining to Peter about some History of Magic essay they had due, which. Okay. Maybe James should try to write his homework down sometimes because he did not know they had to write one.

A hand squeezed his shoulder, and he turned his head to the side just to be met with a chestnut gaze.

"You only think when you overthink, so what's wrong?"

"It's okay Moony, really," James sighed.

He glanced back at the other side of the Great Hall. The Slytherins slowly flickered out of the room, never ones to stay at their table for far too long. Their side of the Hall was nearly empty, yet one Slytherin still hadn't shown their face.

"Snivellus hasn't been around ever since yesterday."

It wasn't a question, that didn't stop Remus from following James's eyes to the Slytherin table.

"I don't think I saw him much during the weekend."

"Why do we care again?"

Sirius fiddled around with the last chunk of meat on his plate.

"The snake was a bloody asshole. Did you not hear what he called Evans? I'd be afraid to show my face too if I were him."

Prongs knew that. The Slytherin boy took it too far. He couldn't imagine calling someone he viewed as a best friend, however much he hated the image of those two being friends, a slur. And that slur specifically. By all means, he should be angry and upset with the boy for insulting his crush like that. Yet, James couldn't help but feel odd. As much as he hated to admit it, Snivellus wasn't the type to do that either. Lily had fumed afterwards; she was a force of nature snapping at anyone and everyone. But he knew she cried by the fireplace when she thought it was only her and her friends there. She was positively devastated. But yesterday she sat by the dying fire in their common room, surrounded by some girls from higher years, retelling the whole ordeal. James leaned against the wall leading up to the boys’ dorm rooms. The fire's light had nearly died out, leaving a weak orange hue and dragging shadows along the walls. Lily’s voice turned distorted, her breaths hitched, and sobs replaced all words. One of their seniors, Emily, had hugged her. Prongs knew he was an intruder.

"Take it like this mate, at least now you have a better chance with the object of your affection," Padfoot wiggled his eyebrows.

James snorted but didn't reply.

At first, he was waiting for Snivellus to show up so that he could prank him, he wanted to humiliate the other boy for the way he dared hurt Lily. But Snivellus didn't come to dinner that day. Didn't even show his face at any meal on Saturday. James even went through the hassle of dragging himself to the library, the natural environment of the slimy git. Nothing. Now the weekend was coming to an end, and the boy was nowhere to be seen. Prongs doubted anyone else knew about the kitchen so did he just not eat for two days?

And why was that thought making him feel weird?

"JAMES!"

"Huh?"

There were three concerned pairs of eyes on him. 

Moony pat him on the back: "You zoned out again buddy."

"Don't worry mate we'll make sure to get back at the git," there was a dangerous sparkle to Sirius's Cheshire grin.

Peter nodded solemnly and chugged his juice.

"There's no point fretting over a brooding snake."

James chuckled at his friends. They're right, there's no way Snivellus wouldn't show up to classes anyway. And then he could avenge Lily.

"Okay, okay, you goons," he shook his head and stood, "now what was that about an essay we have to write?"

"Merlin's beard Prongs you cannot be serious right now. I reminded you about it two times already-"

James barked out a laugh as they walked out of the Great Hall and towards the endless flight of stairs up to their dorms. The unsettling feeling never quite lifted from his shoulders.

Severus Snape – The Loneliest of Zinnias

Severus was going to throw up. He was absolutely certain. All current symptoms and circumstances proved his theory definite. He would walk down the hall and throw up. If he was lucky Potter and his bang of monkeys would be there to witness it, and they'd kill him before he'd do it himself.

He took a shaky breath.

The kid in the mirror looked ragged. Severus stayed up late finishing his homework and forgot to wash his hair. Again.

It was hard to focus his sight on anything, the bathroom sink kept fizzing in and out of existence, and he felt impossibly weak. There was no chance he could sit through three periods on an empty stomach.

"I can just grab something and leave."

He splashed his face with cold water a few times. Someone banged on the door just as he was drying it off.

"Snape, could you possibly get ready any slower?"

Avery, naturally. 

Throwing his robes on, he fled the bathroom and set about making his way to the Great Hall. Severus loved his house, he really did, but he couldn't help but wish the place was less bleak. The dark gloomy common room was, well, dark and gloomy. And wet. The lake was not helping the humidity at all. Reminiscent of a cold dungeon. One could only wonder why.

It took him roughly ten minutes to speed walk over to the Hall.

The doors were open and a big group of Hufflepuffs were just about to walk in. So, the boy swiftly joined them, hiding in the very back. If he was quick enough, he could avoid his roommates, all Griffindors, that one Ravenclaw...

His gaze remained firmly glued to the floor as he made his way over to the Slytherin table. There seemed to be a wide array of rather pompous meals, just like any other day. He knew he most likely couldn't stomach anything too heavy, so he opted for some buns and an apple. Turning on his heel he stormed right off.

The bun was filled with plum jam. Severus nearly shed a tear at the velvety texture of the dough. It was the single best thing he'd eaten in the past days. That might be the hunger speaking, regardless the bun was good, and he felt a tad bit better. The apple found itself thrown in his backpack, a reserve for the inevitable hunger that hits in between periods before the holy lunch break.

He planned to proofread his essay on Giant Wars one more time. It was an interesting topic, despite the utterly dull delivery they'd received on the introductory lesson he enjoyed reading about the widespread campaign, although the struggle of fitting a century-long set of battles into one parchment was horrendous. His attention lasted three solid sentences before his thoughts slipped to Lily once again. 

She had tried to help him, to cease the harassment from Potter and his gang. There was no going around it he needed to gather himself together and apologise. Severus attempted to imagine her forgiving him, but the idea was so hard to envision he discarded it as impossible. That, however, did not mean an apology was not in order. He would know how much regret can mean. He might never forgive his father for the myriads of white cracks and raised red strokes covering his entire form, yet akin to a starved dog he craved the smallest sign of remorse from the old man. 

Tucking his parchment into his bag he stood with a newfound goal.

Classes went by in a blur, he took notes, spoke a total of zero times and finished all tasks ignorant to the pair of eyes following his every move.

Catching Lily without any of her friends was beyond Severus. The girl was constantly surrounded by at least two other Gryffindors. After their lunch break, she finally got up and walked off. He hurried to catch up with her.

"Lily, hold on for a moment-"

She whirled around so fast that her ruby hair slapped him in the face. He took a stumbling step back.

"I thought I made myself clear," ice cold tone and a gaze of steel. Her lips pressed into a thin line, not a shred of hospitality on her face.

He meant to face her, to apologise properly. The scrutiny made his head hang low. Fingers tugging at the hem of his robe.

"I know what I said crossed a line, the word I used was vile and I was being cruel. I'm sorry. I know my regret might not mean anything, but for what it's worth, it was not my intention to hurt you."

It was nowhere close to what he wanted to say, but his throat clenched shut, so he stood there. Waiting.

"I accept the apology Snape, but I don't think we should hang out again."

He barely suppressed a flinch. Snape?

"I think you might get along with the people in your house more."

She left no room for argument.

"Of course, Evans," he hated how his voice cracked.

A shadow of something crossed her face. She was the first to turn around, Severus the first to run.

He knew it would end like this.

Snape.

The chances of her forgiving him were as good as non-existent. That didn't stop his lungs from aching at the sound of his wretched last name being spoken by the one person he considered family.

The cold crept in and his chest burned.

James Potter – The Seeds of a Rue

The quill fell off his finger for the seventh time since the start of the fifth period. Professor Firestone was exceptional at making nothing sound like something. The defensive theories rivalled Binns's History lessons with their sheer dullness. James made an effort to pay attention, reading the introduction to how the third law of defence came about to be. As far as he was concerned the rules should be dodge, block, fire. But alas, people had to be smart about it, a bugger. He skimmed through the paragraph multiple times, his brain accepting a maximum of four words before losing the thread of interest as he zeroed in on the empty seat in the row in front of him. It wasn't like Snivellus to not show up for class, the swot that he was.

He tried to balance the quill on his finger pad once more.

Prongs kept a close tab on the other boy ever since he showed up for breakfast looking like a starved rat. His skin managed to go from pale to ghostly white in the span of two days. One would think Snivelly spent the weekend with Bloody Baron, at this rate he'll be see-through by next week. During History of Magic, he sat close to James, so he had a chance to notice the slight tremble his hands had. It seemed as though just lifting his wand was taxing. In the following periods, Prongs’ attention remained on his black-haired classmate. Noting problem after problem.

Shabby robes, hair so greasy you could fry an egg if you squeezed the oil out of it, the eyebags, his barely open eyes. It was annoying.

How come Snivellus didn't fall asleep James had no idea. 

The thing that bothered him most, however, was the Slytherins' absence from their current class.

The quill fell from his finger again, splattering ink over the edge of his unfinished notes.

On the opposite end of their classroom, in the other shabby wooden seats sat Lily, red hair covering most of her face as she hunched over her parchment, tirelessly scribbling note after note. When Professor Firestone called them inside, she had looked positively furious. In ‘Lily moods’ that would translate to being sad or hurt. It was obvious the class helped take her mind off whatever it was that upset her prior to it. James had a feeling he knew what, or rather who could be to blame.

"Very well students, if you've completed your notes, you may begin packing your belongings."

Prongs needn't be told twice, he grabbed the mostly empty sheet of parchment, ready to bolt.

"Ey, Padfoot," he elbowed his mate.

"Hey! Don't poke me you overgrown herbivore, what is it?"

"Pass me the map."

"So rude, have your parents not taught you to use the magic word?"

James fixed him with an unimpressed look.

"Okay, okay, geez," Sirius fished an empty parchment out of his bag, "here you go, mate. Don't be weird with it."

James flashed him a toothy grin before running off to the corridors.

"I solemnly swear I am up to no good."

The blank piece of parchment lit up with life as ink seeped in through the fibres, drawing a delicate replica of Hogwarts's layout. Littered with tiny dots and floating names and little steps running around as students shifted from one classroom to another, running to get to their lessons on time. His hands clenched the edges of the map slightly. There he was. The slimy git hid away in the old storage room just off to the side of Professor Flitwick’s classroom.

The corners of his mouth perked up, and the idea of Snivellus hiding away in shame danced in his mind. Maybe he could try that new Twitchy-Ears hex he found a few weeks back. That would ruffle the feathers of the snake.

The doors to the storage room were shut tight, James reached for the heavy brass handle and with a stuttering squeak entered the room.

Prongs stood in the doorway, wand in hand, insult ready to fire. His breath escaped with no sound; his mouth was left hanging. 

He expected pacing.

Rage.

Irritation and embarrassment.

Instead, he found a near-empty storage room, unused, perfect to accommodate the shaking form huddled into the far-left corner. Morbidly thin arms crossed, holding the boy’s legs to his chin. Snivellus' face was covered by strands of wet-looking hair, obscuring his vision. There was no indication he even noticed James open the door, too focused on forcing oxygen into his aching lungs.

A shiver ran down Prongs’ spine, the hairs on his arms standing, ears ringing.

Blood trickled down the boy's forearms, dripping onto the stone floor.

"Fuck-"

He crossed the room in three steps, grabbing the other boy's wrists and wrenching the crimson fingers away.

He dug his nails into his skin.

The thought made his gut clench. Multiple red crescent wounds littered across the Slytherin's arms, oozing blood. There wasn't too much of it, objectively speaking, but to James, it looked like too much blood to be freely flowing out of someone.

He dug his nails into his skin.

"Hey, hey, c'mon you can't just-"

The snake's hair fell to the side revealing a clouded, unfocused gaze. Snape was sweating, his breathing laboured.

"Oh."

James had never seen him in such a bad state, so weak. His thoughts seemed to fly around his head, unwilling to settle. He managed to regain a primitive resemblance of composure, they needed to get to the infirmary, fast. Disgust for the other boy forgotten Prongs slid one arm behind Snivellus' back and the other under his knees. Hefting him right up with a sloppy stumble. He expected more weight, lifting Padfoot was always a pain, but the Slytherin amounted to a third of that, at best. 

He wasn't small and yet when he brought his arms to his chest and his head rested on James's shoulder, all James could see was that one black cat that would sometimes let him pet her. Tiny, cold and underfed. Maybe... 

He reached out to his core and nudged his magic a bit, letting it seep out through his hands and settle over the injured boy. Snape let out a little sigh and his pain-stricken expression loosened as he basically melted. 

Prongs shook his head to physically rid himself of the absurd image and made a beeline for the infirmary, fully armed with his invisibility cloak. Only taking it off once the door to the infirmary shut tight behind him.

"Oh goodness!" Madam Pomfrey rushed to him, ushering the blood-stained boy to the closest bed. The infirmary seemed to be empty.

James sat his peer down on the sheets and stepped away to let the Matron fret over him. She cast a quick diagnosis charm and let it run its course while she fetched some ointments. 

"He dug his nails into his skin, " he whispered. 

Madam Pomfrey seemed to consider this as she read through the assessment her spell had provided. Wand in hand flasks and bandages flew around Snape, cleaning and wrapping him up. The Madam was the leading multi-tasker in the castle, James should place a bet on that sometime. Her eyebrows creased. 

"It would seem that he did Mr Potter."

Her eyes continued to skim the parchment. Face falling more and more the longer the minutes dragged on. 

Prongs shifted from foot to foot. She hadn't dismissed him, and he wasn't sure if he could leave or if he should offer to help somehow. Is it rude to just stand there while a nurse does her job? The idea of being useful to the Matron who had patched him and his friends up multiple times seemed silly, she was a talented medi-witch and seemed to handle every problem flawlessly. 

He looked at his shivering classmate, he was out of it. James could not wrap his head around the situation. 

He dug his nails into his skin. 

His father had once told him to be careful with how he treated those around him, something-something could cause irreversible harm, and he might not notice it before it's too late. Prongs had been too busy thinking about the new broom he was getting to pay much attention to his father's life advice. In retrospect, he wished he'd have listened a bit more diligently. A low keen cut through the air, Snape flipped to the side and balled up. 

He couldn't help but wonder if this was somehow his fault.

"Mr Potter?" 

"Yes?" 

Merlin, I was staring at him, wasn't I? Must have looked like an absolute muppet.

"Would you please stay here and watch over Mr Snape? His condition is nothing serious, but I do need to fetch his head of house and would hate to leave a patient unsupervised."

She phrased it like a request, but James heard the order: "'Course Ma'am."

Her smile was tight. 

Poppy Pomfrey – The Balm of Gilead We Don’t Deserve

Poppy had had her fair share of different cases. When she'd applied as Matron for Hogwarts, she knew it would be more of a hassle than a delight. Children were the sweetest troubles in the world, but troubles, nonetheless. Kids had a knack for getting into the oddest of circumstances and the ridiculously dangerous curriculum did not help her stress levels, not in the slightest. Dumbledore had discarded all her suggested alterations, claiming the school's environment was reasonably safe.

Each case that went through her hands, each patient stitched together by an intricate weave of spells and potions found a permanent residence in her memory. A memory that begged to differ with the Headmaster’s claims. Their name, symptoms and how well she managed to ease their ailments. This inevitably led to the development of an ever-growing pile of misery. She could recall the face of the first child she'd lost, the mother’s devastated scream. The first broken arm which caused damage to the magical coils in the kid's arm, rendering the little girl unable to cast with her dominant hand. The first case of abuse...

The latter was, thankfully, not the most common of occurrences for her to come across.

The parchment containing Mr. Snape's diagnosis was heavy in her clenched wrist. Heads turned and the hallways quieted as she strutted down towards the dungeons.

Madam Pomfrey rushing from her office was never a good sign.

"Horace."

The sound of chopping and stirring ceased upon her entry. A busy class of second-year Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs stopped in the middle of completing their potions.

"Why Poppy what brings you here at this time?"

Slughorn might have been smiling but she knew the man better, he had a great disdain towards interruptions to his lessons.

Though he felt stronger about his Slugs being hurt.

"It is quite urgent, Eugene."

Poppy only ever addressed him by his middle name, when the situation at hand was either extremely dire or he had by some means, upset the lady. Given that she seemed quite calm Slughorn sat his quill atop the table and closed his ink flask.

"Well, children it looks as though you lot got yourselves a lucky day. Vanish your potions, we'll take a look at them in our next lesson. Make sure to leave your workstations in pristine condition and enjoy your free period."

The class needn't be told twice, everyone scrambled to clean and with much too loud chatter slowly filtered out the room. Once the last girl shut the heavy door behind herself Slughorn stood and let the medi-witch to his office right next door. He sat in a comfortable emerald-cushioned armchair and gestured for her to come over. Poppy set the wrinkled parchment in front of Slughorn.

The Professor pushed his glasses up his nose as he read on.

She took a seat and patiently waited as he studied the parchment contents.

"What-" his hands shook as he put the parchment down, "what is this, Poppy?"

"Well as you can see, it's my most recent diagnosis."

"But this..."

"I know," she sighed and just for a second her usually perfectly straight shoulders slumped. The very next moment they were back to their right-angled position. 

"Eugene, I have reason to believe one of our students is a victim of child abuse."

"A wizarding child..."

She narrowed her eyes: "We are not exempt from cruelty, Horace, as the head of Slytherin you, most of all, should be aware of this fact."

"But why would you come to me and not the Headmaster?" 

His question went unanswered as she held his gaze. He seemed to get the message.

"One of mine."

She offered a slight nod.

"Which one?" Poppy was so used to seeing her old friend smile, seeing the pained look that nestled itself on the cheerful man’s face was rather difficult.

"Mr Snape."

Horace snatched his glasses off and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

Several minutes passed.

"Mr Snape, Mr Snape, of course..."

His eyes were wet.

"Your parchment went a little beyond the standard case of abuse."

Her answer was sharp: "I believe no case of abuse is standard, but if you mean the whipping then, indeed, we are talking about extremes."

She felt no remorse for the way he flinched.

"Yes, yes, of course Poppy. But what I meant was, ah, well the entry regarding his core."

The dungeon air was cold on her skin. Her next words left the man questioning all he knew about one of his most prized students.

Chapter Text

James Potter – An Offer of Plucked Mint

Madam Pomfrey was taking her sweet time fetching Slughorn.

The little wooden stool dug itself into his thighs. One would think they'd acquire more comfortable seating arrangements for distressed visitors of potentially dying kids, but no, the thing was less comfortable than the boulders in the Forbidden Forest. James spun the seat around, nearly losing balance and tumbling off. Nearly.

Snivellus stirred, and the thin white duvet covering him slipped off to the side. Prongs maintained a respectable distance, sitting at the opposite end of the room beside an empty bed.

Well, I ain't tucking the slimy git in.

"Hgh-"

The snake curled up even further. Seriously, how can he ball up even more?

A weak whine got Prongs on his feet. With a scowl of sheer self-disgust, he reached for the duvet.

He was, in fact, going to tuck the slimy git in.

Drenched black locks stuck to Snape's sweaty face, his mouth hanging slightly open, breaths escaping in shallow rapid gasps. James was about to slip the duvet snug around the boy’s shoulders, determined to make haste to retreat to his chair when he froze.

The nape of Snape's neck was uncovered, skin bare for all to see. The all being the sole gaze of a boy wondering how he'd never spotted such noticeable bumpy red marks.

The duvet fell back down, shy of slipping entirely off the bed.

Oh, dear Godric.

A tentative finger reached out, gently running across a raised welt. It was rough to the touch, with dried blood still left in the middle as though it had reopened just recently. The smell of ointment was bitter in his mouth.

Snape was beaten.

The sheer idea seemed absurd, Snape got pushed around, teased, and made fun of. He was a slimy bastard who was annoying and evil. He hoarded all of Lily's time, played around with an organisation of treacherous radicals and was nothing but an asshole. Yet here he was, with an inflamed, untreated cut right down his neck. James lifted the hem of his year mate’s shirt and nearly gagged. A spiderweb of bumpy scar tissue ran down his back. Some were seemingly old and fully healed, others seemed to have closed but remained violently red. While the rest were accompanied by patches of dried blood and puss.

"Fuck."

He backed away.

"Oh fuck no."

That wasn't funny, that wasn't something you do to others. Hexes were fun, they were embarrassing and only hurt a bit and-

Why didn't he get them healed?

The Matron would've wasted no time treating such damage. She would've gotten rid of the whole mess within half an hour and Snape could've resumed his day as if nothing had happened. James stared at the sleeping Slytherin with wide eyes, a heavy feeling settling into his stomach.

The boy in question let out a soft gasp and clawed at the bedsheets. Eyebrows scrunched in pain.

Prongs wanted to ease the pain. It seemed to have worked when he had first found Snape, so perhaps it’d help again. At least until the Matron returned. James closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

“Steady yourself, tune out the outside world,” his mother’s warm palm squeezed his shoulder, “find it, it should feel like the warmest of summer rays. A little bundle of wonder.”

James’ core was a mix of cackling fires and laughter, his magic strong and buzzing. He led the fuzzy flow down along his forearms. His fingers tickled as it broke out. Wandless magic and core exercises were by far his least favourite, they required too much concentration and effort.

A golden shimmer snug tightly around Snape, wrapping him up just to disappear in the blink of an eye. His entire form relaxed, fingers eased their death grip on the sheets, frown disappeared. Snivellus still looked as though he’d been chewed up and then spit out, but at least he uncurled and appeared more at ease.

It kind of made James happy.

“Mr Potter!”

Madam Pomfrey barged into the infirmary, followed by a panting Slughorn whose face was three shades redder than usual.

The Madam shooed James away from Snape’s bed and went right back to fussing over him as if she had never left in the first place. “Were there any changes to his state while I was away Mr Potter? Did he perhaps wake?”

“No Madam, he didn’t,” James’ eyes were fixed on Slughorn, who somehow dragged himself over to a chair and slumped. The man was acting as though he’d run a marathon.

“Why Poppy I had no clue you were such a fast walker.”

The Matron scrunched her eyebrows.

Poppy, huh? James didn’t know the two were on such friendly terms.

Madam Pomfrey sighed, “Mr Potter, thank you for staying behind. Please let your professors know you were held up by me and should they not believe you don’t be afraid to come by. We don’t need you to get detention for helping.”

“Thank you, ma’am, that’s kind of you.”

“Oh, hush boy.”

An uncomfortable silence settled in the room. The adults exchanged glances as James awkwardly stood beside a wooden shelf filled with potions. Having gathered himself, Slughorn stood up and asked Pomfrey whether she could further clue him in on Snape’s condition.

Prongs took that as his call to make himself scarce. With a quick bye, he ran off.

Remus Lupin – Poisonous Belladonna

Remus had a headache.

That was not a new phenomenon nor a rare one. Lately, it was more of a growing trend. The reason for his daily session of utter mental turmoil sat hunched over a potions book. Said potions book had dog ears, a ridiculous number of colourful splashes and criminally crooked pages. Remus wasn’t sure whether the victim was him or the book.

“Agh! This makes no sense whatsoever!”

Sirius threw his hands in the air and slumped into his chair, like a dehydrated slug.

Remus closed his eyes and focused on taking a deep breath into his stomach.

I’m a patient friend.

They’d been looking at their Potions assignment for the past forty minutes, Remus kept count, and they had gotten precisely nowhere. Sirius couldn’t wrap his mind around the fine art of extracting high-quality Syrup of Hellebore. They had somehow battled through the process of grinding moonstone as well as the correct way of adding the gem to their potions without butchering the whole batch up. But moonstone was by far the easiest ingredient they had to cover, given that Professor Slughorn stressed they keep it short and to the point since they would revisit the subject of precious gems used in potioneering later on in their year. The Syrup of Hellebore was an entirely different story, it needed to be covered clearly and thoroughly.

“Why are we doing this again?”

“Because Professor Slughorn assigned a 10-inch parchment about the ingredients used in the Draught of Peace and how mishandling them might affect our potions.”

He was met with an empty gaze. Merlin, does Padfoot have anything left up there?

“So that we don’t mess the potions up when we brew them next week Sirius.”

“Well, couldn’t he have told us what not to do himself? This is stupid.”

Remus was going to turn grey. His hair would lose its colour by the time he turned twenty. James owed him at least five chocolate frogs for ditching them. Pete can forget about any help with his divination homework for the sneaking off stunt he pulled once Remus suggested they sit down after lessons and get the Potions homework done early.

I am a patient friend.

“No, because that would mess up the whole ‘this is an easy mark’ plan for those struggling with the actual practical aspect of his lessons. You know Siri, fellas like you?”

Padfoot had the modesty to think about what he said.

“But then-“

A patch of black curly bird nest spawned at the very edge of Moony’s vision.

“You will not believe what I just went through, oh dear Godric, guys it was a mad afternoon.”

Remus fell off his chair.

“JAMES! My dear dear saviour,” Sirius pushed his unfinished parchment to the side, “you’ve come to save me from these vile quests, haven’t you?”

“Me interrupting a study session with Moony-dear? I would never dare Sirius, you know that,” a sloppy-toothed grin settled on his face, utterly unempathetic to Sirius’ groan.

Remus grabbed the hand Prongs offered him, letting his friend swift him right off the ground. James’ hair was more out of it than usual, the mop of twists and turns caught together randomly, all tangled up. His glasses were patchy, lenses uncleaned. And while the characteristic mischievous smile was there, it didn’t quite reach James’ eyes.

However, what was truly concerning was the poor state of his robes. Especially the dark red splatter that littered them.

 “James, is that blood?”

“Uh,” he fisted the fabric and squinted at it, maybe the new glasses weren’t calibrated right for the level of blindness that guy could achieve. Remus wondered whether he was struggling to tell the ruby of his Gryffindor robe apart from the enormous blood stain.

“It’s not mine?”

“Are you asking me whether the blood on your robes is-“ his head was going to explode, “you know what. No. I don’t care where that came from. Where were you the whole afternoon? You just vanished and missed three whole periods.”

“And came back looking like a right murderer mate, you know when I told you not to do anything weird that included killing people,” Sirius cut in.

James looked away sheepishly and bit down on his lower lip, a nervous tic he picked up in their second year, for a split second Moony entertained the idea that Prongs had beaten someone half to death. Hex gone wrong.

The afternoon sun filled their dorm room to the brim, each dust particle dancing in the air as the three of them settled on the gold embroidered rug in the centre between three wooden beds. The carpet was surrounded by pillows they’d stolen from around the castle, forming a messy nest that was their official meeting room for mischief planning. James asked them not to interrupt his story until he was done explaining and went on to retell the events of his afternoon.

“You carried Snivellus bridal style?”

James slapped his forehead and dragged his palm down his face, stretching his cheeks and lips just for them to snap back into place with a wet sound. It wasn’t a pleasant sight, Remus thought.

“How is it that after everything I just told you, that is what you focus on?”

Moony carefully categorised all that he learned, sorting his thoughts out while the two of them bickered on about James pretending to be a saviour. The cuts Prongs described may have sounded jarring, but they didn’t explain why the Slytherin was barely lucid. Excessive blood loss may lead to loss of consciousness, foggy vision and the like. However, from James’ story, it didn’t sound like Snape had lost a substantial enough amount to be exhausted to the point of not being able to stand or communicate. The sweating could be explained away with an infection, given that by the sound of things his body was left to fend for itself when it came to healing.

“Prongs?”

The duo ceased their quarrelling.

“Did Madam Pomfrey mention what could be the cause for his condition?”

James’ eyes unfocused the way they tended to whenever he tried hard to remember something. Sirius shifted, while Remus quietly waited for his answer.

“I don’t think she mentioned anything, like at all.”

Well, that wasn’t helpful at all.

Padfoot must’ve picked up on the unease Remus felt because he shuffled along the old rug and sunk heavily next to him, side pressed firmly against Remus’: “What’s brewing up there?”

There wasn’t all that much brewing as there was boiling over. Scars on the back, red raised welts. Remus had a hunch as to what had transpired, although he didn’t like to picture scenarios of that kind. A shiver ran down his spine, shoulders hunching up for a millisecond.

“I think he was beaten,” a steadying breath, “likely with a belt.”

A sharp pang of hurt squeezed his heart at the way Sirius straightened up.

“By whom?”

“Do you think it was other Slytherins?”

Sirius’ eyes narrowed to a point where the tiny sparkles of reflected light could no longer be seen, making them look completely black. He nodded.

Remus stayed silent, refraining from chiming in that no. He did not think it was students who had hurt Snape. He thought it was someone much older, much closer. The type of person that he festered a burning fury towards, white-hot anger that prickled just below his skin each time Sirius went on a tirade about how his parents were utter arses. A clenched fist for every moment his dunderhead spent wishing for a non-bigoted family. A caring home instead of hands that wouldn’t shy away from hard blows to get their point across. Violence as a means of besting sensible arguments.

No, Remus feared he knew precisely what had happened to Snape. And he wished with every corner of his being that his deduction was wrong.

Severus Snape – Woodland of Withered Ferns

Severus ached.

His entire body felt as though it had been thrown into a thorn-ridden bush and left to rot. Each time his chest expanded sharp pain left his ribs halting halfway through, never quite getting enough air. The light seeping through his eyelids seemed oddly cold and way too white to be the dim yellowish-green atrocities they have in the dungeons. His ears rang, so it was tough to make out who the voices around him belonged to and however hard he tried to force his eyelids apart the pesky things refused to budge. A familiar ache from his back tugged at his skin with each shaky breath, yet it was somehow different. Not quite right. Not quite painful enough. The uncomfortable tugging of his scars was present, but it was toned down, more achy than sharp.

Something cold and clammy ran along his back. Fingers. Someone was touching his back, the fact that he could feel no material on his upper body hit him like a train and his eyes shot open wide, seemingly forgetting their previous grogginess. He flinched away, instantly, barely catching himself before falling off a bed that was not his and way too white to be a bed in any dorm room. The room was far too lit to be below ground. His arms reached up in an attempt to shield his chest.

He was met with the worried stare of a merlot-robed witch, a witch he’d been avoiding ever since he first stepped foot in the castle halls. Madam Pomfrey smiled, at least he thought that was what the perk of her lips’ right corner was trying for.

“Hello, Mr Snape.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but all that slipped out was a wheezing puff of air.

Her hand was still hanging in the air between them, blue ointment shimmering on her fingers. The idea that she had seen his back had his stomach clenching and she must’ve thought he feared her because she withdrew her hand extremely slowly. The way you’d move if there was a rabid dog in front of you. He closed his mouth, took a second to get his vocal cords to cooperate and rasped: “Hello, ma’am.”

She wiped her hand on a neat white towel, took her time to fold it with care and placed it on the tiny table next to the bed he was in. The white bed, the white infirmary bed.

Severus felt bile building in his throat.

She sat on one of those three-legged stools he heard kids in his year complain about after they visited friends following a quidditch match.

“Mr Snape you were brought here by a classmate after you experienced a severe… episode of sorts.”

He did not remember that.

“I took the liberty of dressing your wounds,” she stopped for a moment, and he followed her gaze down to his arms, which were wrapped in bandages and felt oddly numb, “the ointment I administered has a pain-relieving effect and should leave you scar free.”

He nodded his head in a silent thanks.

“I don’t remember anything.”

She eyed him, face carefully neutral and smooth. There was no way he could avoid questioning if she had been treating his back, she’d seen the damage and would not let it go.

“I didn’t think you would dear.”

Her kindness was unnerving, Severus wasn’t used to people being careful with their words around him. Nobody ever took a moment to consider that what they were about to say could make him uncomfortable.

“Now then, I assume by not remembering anything you also mean what had happened before you were brought here.”

She didn’t phrase it like a question, but he hummed an affirmative anyway.

“Alright, alright. Dear, your arms were bleeding upon entry, the wound was self-inflicted. So, Mr Snape, could you please tell me what made you dig your nails into your skin?”

Severus wanted to answer. He despised letting the employees at Hogwarts down. At the same time, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wouldn’t understand, she’d judge like anyone else and if he were unlucky, she’d keep him from his studies. He couldn’t, under any circumstances, leave Hogwarts. But the look she gave him was as inviting as if she was prepared to sit there and listen. A commodity no one had offered in a long time.

“I felt cold, ma’am.”

Her eyebrows rose.

Backtrack, backtrack.

“Could you elaborate?”

No, he could not. She wouldn’t get it. She couldn’t get it.

“It was freezing all over and warming charms weren’t taking effect and it got hard to breathe and-“ he stuttered to a stop, shutting his eyes in favour of darkness. Salazar this is demeaning.

And so, they sat there, student and matron. Madam Pomfrey made no move to coax Severus out of his little panic. Letting him sit all tense, slightly shaking.

Severus thought about all the scars he took such great care to hide, the long list of bruises, the way his magic was getting weaker and all the nights he’d spent staring at the wet stones above his bed. If the Matron performed a diagnosis charm that was extensive enough, something a witch of her calibre would have been more than capable of doing, it would have shown years’ worth of fractured bones, untreated scars and missed meals.

A 20-inch certificate of his suffering.

A blue curtain blocked his view to the right, he guessed the door to the Hospital Wing was precisely on that side given that three windows were reaching up to the ceiling on the opposite end. The door was out of the question, they were too far from it. The Hospital Wing was located on the first floor. If he were to try and get out via one of the windows he’d plummet to his death or wind up breaking his legs which would land him right back into the clutches of the nurse. A futile struggle.

“You, Mr Snape, are a troubled young boy.”

Her voice cut right through his intense escape-planning, making him jump slightly in surprise.

“From your demeanour, I assume you’re aware we’ll have to talk about the things I’ve discovered during my check-up. That, however, will have to wait as I don’t think you’re cleared for an emotionally draining talk. Be that as it may, we will revisit the subject tomorrow with your Head of House. Do I make myself clear?”

He gave a curt nod.

“Perfect, now then, there is something we will have to go through. Please refrain from running off, I will fetch you a Calming Draught.”

Severus wondered why she wouldn’t simply summon one, but he could live without knowing and thus didn’t voice his confusion. The Madam was quick to return, the white cloth in her hair flowing behind her back as she rushed to his side.

She handed him a small glass bottle with a bluish liquid sloshing around the inside: “Now drink, one sip is enough.”

Calming Draughts are highly demanded by both medical personnel as well as caregivers. A powerful calming solution which is administered after experiencing severe trauma or an emotional outburst. The colour could take on a blue or amber hue, depending on the order of the last two ingredients to be added. If the chopped crocodile heart is added as second to last, followed by the standard amount of amber, the potion will remain brown with relatively strong properties. Most suitable for aiding severely distressed adults. Blue was indicative of a less intense liquid, often given to children. To achieve a less active potion lavender, ideally in access, must be introduced to the mix before we add crocodile hearts. Shelf life is approximately three years.

“Mr Snape, please take a sip.”

Marvellous, now he spaced out on the medi-witch.

He took a tiny sip, the liquid bitter in his mouth. She took the bottle from his shaky hands and left to put it back on its shelf, claiming it’d at least take effect in the meantime. It seemed to do the trick, Severus felt more at ease, his thoughts pausing their racing.

“Mr Snape, I’m sure you’re aware that your body has sustained severe physical trauma over what appears to be an extended period of time.”

Severus was very much aware.

“I’m worried about the effect this had on your emotional health. Am I right in assuming you feel worse for wear? Perhaps you’ve been more exhausted lately or experienced sadness and hopelessness?”

Not the words he’d choose but she wasn’t far off. Severus was feeling overall weaker; his sleeping schedule was in shambles, and he was constantly cold.

“It’s nothing new ma’am.”

Her carefully held expression fell. The bedsheets scratched at his skin, and he shifted to the side, trying to avoid the onslaught of pity.

“Mr Snape, I’m afraid you’ve suffered emotional distress severe enough to lead to your magical coils blocking. Essentially,” she reached for her hand, drawing it midair with a whispered ‘Flagrate!’, “our magic builds up in a reservoir of sorts. As I’m sure you’re aware, the core is like a second mind.”

She doodled a fiery circle in the air, with squiggly edges that extended into long streaks. Occasionally she’d stop midline to form a small ball.

“The problem lies in the fact, that much like the illnesses of the mind can affect our bodies they wear down our magic, too. Your core, Mr Snape, is currently highly unstable. Your magic flow is irregular, which leads to some magical coils,” she drew an exceptionally big sphere on one of the lines, “enlarging and preventing your magic from going any further. If such a blockage is formed in your arms, for instance, it could make casting spells rather tedious, as you wouldn’t be able to summon enough magic to activate them.”

Severus considered that maybe he messed up the colours of the potions because he should have been feeling far more panic than he was.

“And,” that wasn’t all? “since magic is an essential part of who we, as wizards, are it can also affect our other bodily functions.”

The dramatic pause was unnecessary.

“Namely our thermoregulation.”

She didn’t wait for him to react or ask follow-up questions. A gentle hand guided him down towards the bed. His head hit the pillow with a gentle whump. The duvet rested heavily on his side, the soft fabric felt nearly scorching on his skin.

“It is nothing that some care won’t fix.”

Her reassurance fell on deaf ears, Severus’ eyes remained open yet unseeing, stare focused somewhere far beyond the Matron.

It was cold.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape – In Dire Need of Chamomile

The wind whistled between yellowing leaves, dancing along with the gentle chirps of birds and completely drawing out the soft scribbles of Severus’s pen scratching the parchment of his worn potions book. He sat in his usual spot, below the tree where he had spent nearly every afternoon chatting away with Lily when they were just twelve. The trunk was the same as ever, the grass tickling his thighs. Despite winter creeping into the air with each passing day, the sun persisted with its warm rays. He would have to make the most of these weeks before he’d be forced to remain between the castle walls.

With a steady hand, he drew a thick line, the last one to complete the stem of his Dittany sketch. The doodle sat in the top right corner of the parchment. Severus dried the remainder of the ink off his quill and set it beside his ink bottle. Sketching the ingredients for his potions was a mindless habit, one in which he indulged whenever his work came to a standstill, and he was uncertain how to progress further.

His current predicament was titled Eavesdrop elixir, a placeholder name, one which was rather misleading. The nature of this brew was supposed to aid those who suffered hearing loss. The idea for developing a cure came to him two summers ago when he sneaked off to the corner store two streets down from their house. Severus’ original plan was to grab some bread and rush back home instantly. It was a hot, rainy evening, the streets were empty. Save for a little girl. She couldn’t have been older than eight, standing off the dirt road in a loose-fitting pink dress and laughably high pig tails. He attempted to pay her no mind, but she was a curious one, smiling widely just as he was about to pass her. A distorted hello.

Severus came home past sundown, late enough for his father to have noticed the quiet in the house was missing his carefully controlled breaths. The man managed to get two blows in before Severus locked his bedroom door in his red face.

He didn’t regret it.

It would take four weeks before he’d find out the girl’s name was Maddie. She was utterly sweet, the tiniest of dents in her cheeks. She would giggle whenever he gave her one of his drawings. It was rare to see a child so happy bearing such a heavy burden. The girl would never be able to dance along to music, or so her mother said.

Severus begged to differ.

Potions, which were brewed with the utmost caution, would be of no harm to muggles. What’s more, they’d be just as effective as they’d be if a wizard were to use them. All he needed to do was create a potion which could restore a sense. It had been done before; the Oculus Potion was perfectly capable of rekindling one's sight.

The notes on the page were closer to frantic scribbles. Below his latest drawing was a step-by-step walkthrough on how to brew the elixir.

1. Add 6 Blind-worm’s Stings to your mortar (colour variant doesn’t make a difference)
2. Crush into fine powder
3. Add powder to your dry cauldron
4. Gently heat with constant stirring until the powder changes colour (there is a slightly different colour transition for each shade variant, regardless, keep on stirring until the colour takes on a hue reminiscent of rust)
5. Add 3 measures of Alcohol
6. Cut off the leaves of Dittany
7. Julienne the leaves into thin strips
8. Add the Dittany strips in small amounts, without stirring
9. Let the potion simmer for 5 minutes
10. Add 2 globs of Flobberworm mucus
11. Stir counterclockwise 6 times (anything less has no effect, whilst more results in clogs)
12. Finely dice Mandrake Root
13. Add Mandrake Root to your cauldron
14. Stir clockwise 2 times

The instructions in step fifteen were crossed out with such vigour that the paper thinned out in their place. The following page in the notebook was stained from the amount of ink he used. Severus let out a frustrated puff of air. He’d been mulling over how to finish the potion for two months.

The first hitch he ran into was Dittany itself. The plant showed great potential in potion making. Dittany was a healing herb known for its instant restorative properties, often applied by aurors and explorers during field work. Severus speculated that the plant could be utilised in healing balms, but he didn’t quite understand why it wasn’t.

His potions book was his greatest treasure; no one knew of its existence. Not even Lily. He took great care to avoid her figuring out he was creating his own draughts, particularly due to the more gruesome of his creations. Yet the Dittany conundrum was eating away at him, and Severus couldn’t help but ask.

“Do you reckon Dittany could change its effects based on how it is introduced to potions?”

Lily had barely raised her head from the book she was hunched over, as if the proximity to the page would make the topic seep into her head.

“Isn’t that the healing wonder plant?”

“Quite so, supposedly it‘s rather effective too,” Lily had considered his words.

“I heard that it could be pretty moody.”

Severus had half a mind to tell her how the first batch of his brainchild had exploded in his face, singeing his eyebrows clean off. He had never been more grateful for his wand than when he had charmed them back after that unpleasant incident.

They had spent the better part of an hour discussing possible ways to bypass explosions. By the end, Severus had written a decently long list of things he could try to implement.

“Goodness, Sev, could you not choose better times for your philosophical potion tangents? It’s nearly dark, and I still don’t understand my arithmancy homework,” she had been exasperated. He still wasn’t sure if she was being playful or had been genuinely upset with him.

Thanks to their discussion, Severus managed to figure out that thinly cut strips of the leaves, added with maddening sluggishness, worked perfectly. His eyebrows remained intact, happy and bushy as ever on his forehead, just where they were supposed to be.

The sun was close to setting, and he had yet to add anything productive to his notes.

“The consistency is adequate, the colour promising, the ingredients interact perfectly.”

Yet the potion did not work.

A chill shook his form, deep shadows creeping along the roots of the tree.

Severus glanced up at the castle looming above his meadow. He didn’t want to return to the dark halls, nor did he wish to report back to Madam Pomfrey. That woman was terrifying when it came to taking care of others. If he skipped his evening check-up and potion dose, she would most definitely hunt him down faster than Filch ever could. The caretaker was the most pathetic choice of staff their headmaster had ever made, but Severus would not be the one to point that out.

His hand trembled as he tied the little leather tie around his book, securing his notes. It was far harder than it ought to have been; his fingers refused to cooperate. The walk to the castle would be long, his knees buckled under him nearly every fifth step he took. Half defeated, half determined, he stumbled back towards his home.

Poppy Pomfrey – Stranded in a Field of Columbines

“Albus!”

The Headmaster of the ridiculous institution she worked at was in his usual spot. Snuggly seated in his ridiculously high armchair, behind his ridiculously cluttered table with that ridiculous innocence feigning smile. She could hear that ridiculous question before he opened his mouth: “Why hello there Poppy, would you fancy some sherbet lemons?”

She had half a mind to slap the sweets right out of his hand.

“No. I would, however, fancy a discussion.”

Dumbledore showed no sign of taking her tone seriously. The man simply gestured for the empty seat in front of his desk and leaned back in his chair. Much like an old dame awaiting gossip.

Merlin save this man from me.

The screech with which she yanked the chair back was avoidable, but she found it necessary.

“We have a case of child abuse.”

He did not even twitch.

“Here is my professional assessment,” she slid a stack of parchments toward him, flicking a cup with quills over, letting them clutter to the ground, “I filled out a report and am willing to provide any memories showcasing the wounds I saw as well as the things Mr Snape has told me about his homelife.”

The man popped a sherbet lemon into his mouth. The report she handed him was far more extensive than the initial one she had given to Horace. It included all her findings, detailing how each wound was inflicted, the age at which it was received, as well as Horace’s reflection on Mr Snape’s behaviour in class and around his peers. It was definite, she made sure to leave no room for doubt.

Albus was infuriating. He read through the papers with the nonchalance with which one would skim the Daily Prophet.

Poppy opted to observe the man’s study before she lost her composure. The place was in a dingy state, unopened letters lay on any available surface, and half of the portraits were empty. their chatter ceased strictly when they were sent away to gather answers or fetch people. A fast-warning network, the hair on her arms stood. The last time she had visited the Head’s office, it was far more cosy: old granny carpets, warm lighting and a magical sense of nostalgia seeped out from the stacks of books and maps. If there was one thing the Headmaster was good at, it was keeping up a calm front when a war was creeping around the corner. Regardless, his office gave him away. He was just as frantic as any of them.

“How peculiar.”

The calm tone would drive her mad one fine day.

“How come it is not Horace who sought me out?”

Not today.

“Horace is busy preparing his current class for this season's seventh years, a frisky bunch.”

She did not mention how their poor acquaintance was shaken by this discovery, the glassy eyes as he excused himself after their talk with Mr Snape. And held her tongue from remarking that cases regarding child welfare were a part of her trade. Albus hummed as he lazily flicked through her report. His eyes danced off towards an empty cage on the very edge of his worktable. His mind was clearly preoccupied with another matter.

“Albus, I’ll be frank, the boy needs to be removed at the earliest date possible.”

The wacky old man dared to sigh.

“You know this will take at least three months.”

The chair's legs scraped against the stone floor with a high-pitched cry. Poppy’s face remained carefully devoid of emotion, but her voice dripped with pique.

“Well then, you better promptly reach out to the Ministry. The sooner they get someone on Mr Snape’s case, the sooner you can return to your infernal planning. Mr Snape will not be going home for any of the upcoming holidays. That is my professional prescription. I do not care if fires fall on this castle’s walls. I want him out of that house with a suitable foster home by the end of this school year, Albus. I expect you to deliver.”

He had enough self-preservation to remain quiet.

“Very well.”

“Minnie!”

Minerva McGonagall closed her book with a loud thud.

“Poppy, dear Godric, don’t barge in like that!”

“I will hex him into oblivion, that utter tosser.”

Poppy sank onto the couch beside Minnie as she moved her legs to make some room for her old friend. Minerva was halfway ready to turn in for the night. A loose-fitting black dress replaced her robes. She tugged the green cardigan draped around her shoulders a bit higher. The drowsiness brought about by her evening reading session dissipated, her senses sharpened. It wasn’t common for Poppy to get worked up to such a noticeable degree. Her magic was radiating from her in sparkling waves.

“Albus?”

“Is a goon.”

Minnie chuckled: “Oh, but I thought we established that long ago.”

Poppy didn’t elaborate; she waited until Minnie stopped laughing. It didn’t take her long to catch on and notice how tense she was, how she did not laugh along with her quip.

“Pop, what happened?”

For the third time, she took a deep breath and summarised what she stumbled upon. For the third time, she watched as her listeners’ eyebrows scrunched together. The fire cackled mockingly; its flames had nearly extinguished by the time she finished her rant. She let her head fall against the top of the sofa, eyes shut tight, could hear Minnie gently whoosh her wand in the air, and a moment later, a log was dropped into the sizzling ash.

“I’ve been giving him Nutritional Potions for the past three days, Min, they’re doing nothing.”

“Oh please,” Minerva squeezed her arm, “you cannot lecture me about how healing takes time when Potter breaks his jaw during Quidditch and then be all worked up when you fail to miracle years’ worth of damage away in the span of what was it? Days?”

Her reply was a noncommittal shrug.

“I’m certain Albus will get him out.”

“Oh, he better.”

Minnie smiled at that. Poppy had a knack for being awfully stubborn when it came to her patients, a characteristic of utmost value in medi-witches. Her moral code has done nothing short of solidifying further since the Matron finished her studies at Hogwarts.

“His core is damaged.”

Her smile froze.

“What?”

“Coil blockage, his flow is strained.”

“Blimey.”

The boy had obvious tremors, there was no questioning needed to figure out that it had already manifested as physical symptoms. He had spent their entire conversation with his head hung low, plucking at the hem of his blanket.

“Worst case I’ve seen in years, I don’t understand how he could pass his classes with such ease.”

Horace insisted the boy was one of his most diligent students, a potions genius. If the young Slytherin could pick up on the most delicate shift in a potion’s equilibrium, he must have near-perfect senses. She had been told he would fine-tune pre-existing instructions, his batch resulting in higher quality potions than what was considered the standard. Despite popular belief that Potions were more about one's ability to cut spleens properly, binding the interactions of each ingredient together required a sufficient amount of magical energy. An amount she thought Mr Snape would not have.

“How’s he doing in Transfiguration?”

“Decent. He’s one of my quietest students, a rather easy child to work with. He turns in assignments on time, and I will be honest, I don’t remember the last time he struggled with a spell.”

“I can’t wrap my head around it.”

Minerva considered her friend. it had been a while since she’d seen Poppy so distressed by one of her cases. The Matron’s composure rivalled that of Dumbledore’s.

“And Horace?”

“Didn’t notice anything. Honestly, he appears to regret not having paid closer attention,” she walked over to the woven basket beside the couch and picked out a grey fluffy blanket, “as he should. The boy avoided me for the past few years, but he was right there under his nose. This is not a recent issue, Minnie. Do you know how much force is needed to draw blood like that? If Mr Potter hadn’t found him, we could’ve faced far greater challenges.”

A shadow crossed Minerva’s face, her eyes dropping to the blanket on her knees. One of her comments had made her uncomfortable, Poppy’s stomach made a curious little twist. She refrained from inquiring; instead, she leaned back away from her friend and hoped she would speak of her own accord.

“Potter and his band have been a nuisance to Snape for years.”

“A nuisance?” Poppy dearly wished she had understood the implication wrong.

“They have been bickering since their second year.”

A most hysterical way to put it.

“Minerva, have your lions been bullying a classmate?”

She turned her head towards the fire, as if looking away would somehow make the situation less dire. “It is nothing far too vile.”

Perhaps Poppy should pay more frequent visits to her friends and question their days a tad bit more. Maybe she could act as a sort of virtuous voice, a substitute for the common sense they clearly lacked.

“You are going to talk to them.”

“Pop-“

“You will tell them off. Reprimand them, give them detention or whatever professors do nowadays.”

She opened her mouth, presumably to argue.

“You will put them through the wringer, I want them reflecting on what they did. And while you’re at it, ask them for details regarding their treatment of Mr Snape, it might aid me in drafting his recovery plan.”

She slightly raised her chin and stared at Minerva with narrowed eyes.

“Yes, Poppy.”

“Splendid.”

Minnie let out a breathy laugh. “You know Pop, you can be quite a terror.”

Who would be if not me? “I do my utmost.”

There was something satisfying about a Hufflepuff scaring a lion, she felt accomplished. However, the depth the roots of Mr Snape’s neglect reached was becoming more concerning with each passing minute. The boy seemed to be dealt the worst deck she had seen since her practice years in Mort’s Clinic. Being an outcast among his peers made sense; if he had a wider circle of friends, someone would have picked up on his predicament sooner. Someone would have reached out to the staff, to her.

Rescued by a tormentor, who would’ve thought?

It was obvious Minnie took her silence as a sign she was upset with her. Which she was. Poppy had higher expectations for her friend.

“Make sure to get it through their thick skulls that further bullying will not be tolerated. I will not be wasting potions to get the boy up and walking only for his magic to fizzle out due to emotional distress.”

She would grow grey.

James Potter – Basil Tastes Bitter on One's Tongue

Snivellus was acting weird. James was honestly surprised to see him return to classes barely two days after the incident. He was pretty sure people needed more time to recover from fever-induced delusional states, but apparently Hogwarts had higher-grade healing solutions than their home cabinet at the Potter estate. The boy was back to his pathetic-looking state, with an extra serving of limping. James could not figure out what was up with that, one would assume arm injuries and a few deep scratches did not affect the legs.

Who knows what else is wrong with him.

Prongs blew a puff of hot air on the window. He drew a ball, which vaguely resembled a golden snitch, onto the condensed canvas. The windowsill was barely wide enough for Sirius to sit there with his knees pressed against his chin, yet James always managed to arrange himself into a perfect cross-legged position. It got him many frustrated shouting sessions from Padfoot, his mate could not make peace with the fact that James was comfortable. To his and his eardrums' delight, Sirius was out with Peter wreaking havoc near the library. Moony left, presumably to study in peace, which left him unsupervised in their dorm, with a strap of parchment in hand.

So far, he had five names:

• Rudolphus Lestrange
• Lucius Malfoy
• Avery
• Mulciber
• Wilkes
• Evan Rosier

Malfoy had already left Hogwarts, and some of Snape’s wounds were fresh, so even if he was the initiator, his role now was irrelevant. The rest were all part of the slimy git band, a bunch of disgusting pure-blood extremists. James didn’t know what they were scheming, but the cases of attacks on students were alarmingly common nowadays. Most victims were half-bloods or Muggle-born. It wasn’t hard to piece together what was going on.

He'd seen the git enter the hall with Avery, who was close with Mulciber. He had gotten into a fight with them a few weeks back. They were picking on a Ravenclaw boy, calling him more slurs than James knew. He had a good laugh when they left with itchy blisters all over their faces. It was worth every minute of detention he got.

Were they capable of torture?

It all came down to that question. He could picture Lestrange cursing the life out of someone, but the rest of them just seemed like textbook bullies. Not bad enough to be criminals, and what he saw on Snape’s back was most definitely a crime.

James stopped tickling his nose with the end of his quill.

What spell even causes cuts like that?

The marks on Snape’s back seemed almost like they were made by a whip.

“Prongs!”

A very sweaty tomato-looking Peter swung their dorm room door open. He leaned heavily on its frame, mouth agape with a very concerning whistling noise coming out.

“Wormtail?” James hopped off from his spot, “You good?”

“No,” another wheeze, “and you also won’t be.”

Okay, that’s not at all cryptic.

“Alright,” he drew out the ‘a’, “will you explain, or do you drop dead, and I’ll have to spend the rest of my days frantically trying to decipher your dying words?”

“McGonagall wants you in her office.”

James handed him a cup of water. The redness was beginning to spread to his arms, and Prongs was starting to worry he’d faint.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, is it because of the jelly floor in front of Binns’ classroom?”

Wormtail chugged the water way too quickly. After a few minutes of coughing, he spoke, more coherently than before: “What? No, James, it’s because of Snivellus.”

Now that had James confused. He thought Pomfrey took care of the git.

“Mate, she’s mad mad. I thought I would die for sure; it was like an auror questioning. She wants us all in her office, one by one. She’s talking to Sirius right now, Merlin help him.”

“Wormtail-“

“I couldn’t find Remus, who knows where he hid to read. James, I don’t want to be expelled! She called me foolish, said I didn’t have the brains to think for myself.”

“Pete.”

“Following Potter and Black around mindlessly,” he mimicked her tone, “I’m banned from helping out around the magical creatures. It was the only thing I was good at, now what am I supposed to do? Bloody hell, I won’t make it to NEWTs, won’t finish school and will never get a job and…”

“PETER,” James grabbed his friend's shoulders. Pete was on the verge of bawling, his eyes shimmered, and his nose was already runny. Prongs pulled him to his chest, wrapping his arms around the other boy in a firm hold. After a few seconds, Peter’s shoulders began to shake, and James tightened the hug more. He hoped it was the right amount of pressure to help ground Wormtail. Sirius was far better at handling these than he ever would be.

They stood there for quite a while. Slowly, Peter’s hiccups quieted, and he drew back his head from James’ shoulder.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He dragged him to his bed. Peter sagged down into the covers, curled into a ball, and a moment later, his form started slowly morphing. The boy was replaced by a small rodent. The rat lay with its tail looped around its body, eyes shut tight.

With his friend safely tucked in, Prongs turned to leave.

Wonder what’s got old Miny so upset.

The walk was quick. The moment he raised his hand to knock, the wooden door creaked open, revealing a shaken Sirius. His jaw was clenched tight, his shoulders tense with his fists balled. He patted James on the shoulder, an unspoken good luck, and stomped off towards the library.

James’ mouth was dry.

McGonagall’s office was cosy for a torture chamber. Red and purple curtains hung from the high ceiling to the floor, pinned to the edge with lion-shaped clutches. The fireplace was out, bookshelves plastered to every single wall and the leftover space filled out with portraits and framed Daily Prophet articles. His Head’s desk was in front of the windows. She did not greet him as he sank into the wooden chair. The light flickered in from behind her back casting a deep shadow over her scowling face.

“I believe Pettigrew clued you in?” oh, she is mad.

“Not really, Professor.”

One of her freakishly thin eyebrows disappeared below her hat.

“I was informed you were the one to carry Mr Snape to the infirmary earlier this week.”

James was getting lost, but he nodded.

“And it has come to my attention that you’ve been more than just unfriendly with him.”

“Professor, I swear I was not the one who did that, but I have a hunch on who could’ve possibly-“

“Oh, hush you witless muttonheaded twit!”

James’ mouth clicked shut.

“The name-calling. The flipping people upside down. The tormenting, Potter, I meant your bullying.”

Bullying?

“We didn’t bully anyone, least of all Sni-Snape. We were just messing with him.”

Wrong thing to say. She took a sharp breath, her fingers clenched around each other.

“Snivellus?”

He looked down on his knees. It was an ugly name, of course. That was the point, to poke fun at his endless snivelling. James never thought that it could be considered bullying.

“What else did you do?”

“Didn’t the others tell you,” her scowl managed to deepen even further, “ma’am?”

“I would much more prefer to hear it from yourself.”

Prongs didn’t know what she wanted him to say, what she wanted to hear. There was no point lying to her; with his luck, she would only end up angrier. He let his head sink and started from the beginning. How irritating Snape had been, how he envied his closeness with Lily, and how Sirius hated him for being in Slytherin. How they agreed on pranking him, the way he would get flustered and upset, and how they would laugh. He recounted multiple occasions where their quarrels ended in hexes, yet he never saw him in the infirmary afterwards. The ridiculing of his hair, nose, and shabby clothes, his fascination with the dark arts. She didn’t stop him, did not jump in with a question or need for clarification. She simply sat there with a grim expression.

“But I would never leave the marks on his back, that wasn’t any of us. It was really only the pranks and names. Most of the pranks were my idea to begin with, Peter followed along because Sirius and I dragged him into it, and Remus was against it from the very beginning.”

 The office fell into a brittle silence.

“50 points from Gryffindor for tormenting a fellow student.”

James flinched. Lily won’t be happy about that.

“I ban you from participating in this year’s Quidditch tournament.”

They will have to find a new seeker, there was no one lined up currently. James rarely missed even practice, and he had never missed a match.

“I will be owling your parents.”

His mother will be so disappointed.

“What’s your least favourite subject, Mr Potter?”

“Oh, um, I don’t really have one.”

She considered him: “Very well, report to Professor Slughorn by the end of the day. Tell him I expect him to give you detention for the remainder of the month.” She glanced to her right, a calendar hung on the wall with a picture of kittens playing with yarn. “The following month. For the entirety of the following month.”

James nodded and when she didn’t continue with any other remarks, he stood up.

“Mr Potter,” he was halfway out the door, but James looked back to meet that saddened face, “could you find it in your heart to be kinder?”

“Kinder.”

He never thought of himself as a mean person. His father had called him a fool after a particularly risky stunt during Quidditch, his mother claimed he was far too energetic, and Remus said he was idiotic at best. Wasn’t it just now that he wrote Avery and Mulciber off as villains for being rude to another student? James wondered what made him better than them, different.

The brass handle sat heavy in his hand.

“I will try.”

She smiled, the corner of her lips crept upward, not reaching her eyes.

The air in the hallway was noticeably warmer. McGonagall’s magic had likely chilled her office; she must’ve been more affected than she let on. The image of an even more furious Professor popped to mind, a shiver ran down his spine, James discarded it immediately. He walked around the hallways without a destination in mind, his thoughts felt cluttered and messy. The heavy feeling from earlier weighed down on his shoulders. When the world returned into solid shapes and outlines rather than the colourful blobs he had perceived, Prongs found himself standing in front of an unused back door which led to the fields by the Forbidden Forest.

 Black eyes stared up at him from the floor.

James felt an odd sense of déjà vu.

Chapter Text

Severus Snape – Choking on Champignons

Severus stared down at his dishevelled robes. Green spots and dirt clung to the fabric around his elbows and sides. To be frank, he’d expected his walk back to the castle to be long and exhausting, but had hoped it would be fall-free.

He fell a total of three times.

“Splendid condition, Snape, truly,” he muttered to himself.

He let his head rest against the cold stone of the wall behind him. Five minutes. I’ll rest for five minutes.

It was nearing dinner time. However, the notion of eating in a hall full of noise made his throat close on instinct. Mulciber would surely comment on his messy attire, claim how he was behaving as any other half-blood, a disgrace to his mother’s bloodline, an insult to magic. It was counterproductive, one day they ask him to join their crazy cult meetings, in the middle of the night too, the other they’d be seconds away from spitting in his face. It confused Severus profoundly. Their behaviour reminded him of his father, mindless and unpredictable. He thought of his potions, of all the unknowns and the unease they filled him with. The way his fingers shook when he’d try something for the very first time.

Severus was not a fan of unpredictability.

 A wuss, Avery had called him.

 The hallway's silence was broken with a series of slow tap tap taps. Yet, Severus, lost in his plans of avoiding any and all housemates, didn’t pick up on the change of acoustics until a pair of barely tied shoes stopped just short of his resting spot.

Severus’ shoulders tensed up so fast that his right side popped audibly. He’d recognise the battered black glasses even if he were half asleep. The person looming over him was undoubtedly Potter, yet the distant look and lack of his tell-tale grin made him look like an entirely different person. He could lose him in a crowd.

 Neither of them spoke.

Potter’s gaze remained zeroed in on his eyes. A passing thought pointed out that the sense of being stared at like that was familiar. Severus swallowed on nothing and willed his voice not to crack before he opened his mouth: “Fae stole your voice, Potter?”

It was provocative, challenging. The exact thing that’d get him hexed in the face. The type of comment that had him brewing batches of itch relievers in the past. He was used to it; it was the norm, the standard course of action. As it should be, as it always was.

He was ready to draw his wand, though the thing could do little to protect him.

And yet the git stood in front of him, hands at his sides, no wand in sight. Honey ran up and down his form. Then he went off script. The bastard took a step back and crouched down in front of him.

“You doing peachy, Snape?”

The way he spoke was weird. It was slow, toned down and slightly husky. Severus has never heard someone speak that way, least of all Potter, a full-time loudmouth. Was this a new sort of prank? He saw no possible punchline to it, though. And why was he not all up in his face as usual?

There was too much for Severus to process, and Potter must’ve taken his silence as a bad sign because he sat down cross-legged, with both hands in clear sight and proceeded to ask whether he needed him to call Madam Pomfrey. Severus doubted a mediwitch could do anything about hallucinations. As that was the only way a decently behaving Potter could ever exist – in a fever dream.

“Uh-“

A sentence of utmost intelligence, Severus, good going.

“I know your legs are giving you trouble. I can help you to the infirmary if you’d like.”

The potions the Madam had him on had the most hysterical side effects he’d ever seen. Unfortunately, staring at someone in disbelief does little to get them to leave one alone.

There was a hand on his shoulder.

Severus slapped it away before the fingers could tighten their grip.

His breathing quickened.

That hand was real and hot. Very much not a phantasm.

“Sorry, you seemed a bit, uh, spaced out.”

“What is wrong with you?”

Potter blinked: “What?”

“Who the bloody hell are you?“

The boy had the audacity to laugh. And he laughed for quite a while, before he wiped one of his eyes off and stood up, bowing with one of his arms outstretched to the side.

“James Fleamont Potter at thyne disposal.”

He laughed again as if the gesture was supposed to be funny. Severus only continued to gape.

“If you don’t want to go to the infirmary, I can get you to the dorms. I don’t think the floor is a good place to rest, your bum must be freezing off-“

“No.”

Potter’s eyebrows rose: “Your bum isn’t freezing off?”

“No, you blistering fool. I’m not going to the dorms.”

He meant for it to come off as dismissive. The desperation that snuck into his voice was not intentional, and he hoped it flew right past Potter’s nut-sized brain.

The boys' grin lost its sharp edges; he scrunched his eyebrows as if he could see through Severus’ façade at will.

Severus knew better than to meet an aggressor’s gaze head-on, and so he cast his eyes towards the floor and awaited the taunting comments to fly free. It was odd, Potter assessing a situation. Severus had never truly considered his yearmate as someone capable of critical thought. All action, no foresight. Zero consideration. He was far from the brains in their gang. That title belonged to Remus Lupin and Lupin solely.

“Well, if the dorms and infirmary are a no-go, the great hall is the school's official gossiping hall, and the library is packed full of panicking sixth years. Then there’s only one place where we can go.”

The excitement on Potter’s face promised nothing but trouble.

However, before Severus could even attempt to object, he had already been dragged to his feet with his arm thrown over Potter’s shoulder. The Gryffindor’s hand snuck tight around his side and promptly killed off any comment brewing in Severus’ throat.

James Potter – Nothing but Fields of Evening Primroses

James Potter was an action-first type of person. He did things on a whim, without much thought put behind his acts, so long as he felt his actions were the right ones. McGonagall had pointed out a harsh truth: he was not as good a person as he thought he was. He’d mull over that during the night. Maybe. Currently, his hands were full of a half-dead weight. The greasy mop of hair tickling his cheek belonged to someone he should have been upset to see. He knew Padfoot would’ve been. Yet the violent urges never came.

James made several revelations during his short conversation with Snape.

First, the sight of the Slytherin did not fill him with anger, despite the trouble he found himself in due to the boy. He’d have to ask Remmy about what the rough sting in his chest was; deciphering it was above his emotional pay grade, but it was not anger.

Two, Snivellus wasn’t snivelling at all, he was closer to scared. Terrified even. And James was pretty sure it wasn’t because of him. Well, not only because of him. It was obvious Snape was afraid of people in general, but the suggestion of going back to the Slytherin dormitory made his body tense up more than it should have. Their dorms were supposed to be safe places, but the boy’s reaction only fuelled James’ suspicions that it was his housemates who had been hurting him.

Three, being kinder was surprisingly easy; Snape’s reactions to his antics were golden.

He adjusted his hold on the snake’s side; his fingers brushed his rib cage. Prongs noted that someone with a healthy weight should not have their ribs sticking out like that, thus marking the nth occasion where he noticed how morbidly thin the other student was.

The stairs shifted in front of them, one step disappearing mockingly. James frowned at the wall to their left as if the castle could feel his annoyance.

‘The castle takes care of its residents,’ my ass.

“Careful,” he grabbed Snape below his armpits and placed him over the gap, “I don’t feel like falling today.”

His only reply was an undignified squeak. If he didn’t know better, he’d think Snivellus was flustered.

Snape, he corrected himself. His name is Snape.

There were only a few stairs left before they’d reach the seventh floor.

The corridor was dark, the torches rather stubbornly refusing to light themselves. James expected Snape to question why he dragged him all the way here, but the other boy kept his silent glaring up, not voicing his obvious doubts. They shuffled forward until James stopped in front of a wall tapestry, just as a troll fell over. He didn’t manage the pirouette, again, and got a stern talking to from Barnabas the Barmy, again. James didn’t understand why the man in the painting insisted on teaching such inept students, but then again, his effort was but a mirror image of what their professors were doing, so he didn’t question it too much.

Now came the tougher part: how to get the room to materialise with the things Snape needed. James had not even a shred of an idea.

“Snape, what do you need?”

Narrowed eyes looked up at him.

“Just think about it, okay?” he tried to make his smile reassuring.

Hoping Snape would follow through, he focused on his need. Whatever would help him, whatever he thought of. He repeated it three times, like a mantra.

Beside him, Snape let out a quiet gasp.

A door had appeared in front of them, tall and ordinary.

“How?”

James grinned, so the Slytherin could still speak. “C’mon, let’s go.”

He ushered him inside and shut the door behind them, the handle fell apart into orange sparkles in his hand the moment he closed it.

Okay, that’s a new one.

He opted not to think about it too much and shifted his attention to the room they had gotten. It wasn’t too spacious, way smaller than the one he and the Marauders got whenever they came here to plan their pranks. He expected something dark and gloomy, black and emerald. Prejudiced idiot, a voice resembling Remus’ whispered in the back of his mind. The room was the stark opposite of his initial vision. Warm tones, small lamps and fairy lights on every inch, leaving no harsh shadows. James couldn’t deny that it was cosy. There was a tiny fireplace surrounded by a huge bookshelf running along one of the walls, with a couch? It looked more like a bed, on the opposite end of the room. There were a ton of pillows and blankets, so many damn blankets. It was hard to decipher where the bed itself began. His nostrils flared, curse his better sense of smell, and his eyes fell onto the little table between the fire and the bed. A tea set was carefully arranged atop a white cloth, accompanied by two bowls of steaming soup. It was quite an endearing sight, and the soup smelled delicious.

It felt rather homey.

Snape stood a few steps ahead, his back turned to James. He was shaking. Prongs noted that when his head turned towards the bed, his fingers twitched.

“What, never seen an actual room?”

Is what he wanted to ask. The Slytherin dormitory was known for being gloomy. James couldn’t envision living in literal dungeons. But he clenched his teeth and refrained from talking.

Kinder.

It took only two steps to get a look at Snape’s expression. His face was slack in wonder, eyes wider than James ever got the chance to see. It was weird. It didn’t make the other boy look any less pathetic; his nose was still crooked and big. But the lack of a frown, of tension, of harsh lines running along his forehead and bushy brows… it made him look different, that much was certain.

It was almost as if he’d forgotten Prongs was even there, that’s how enamoured he was with the blanket pile. Snape tried to walk towards it, yet his legs quickly fell into stumbles. Prongs reached out to steady him, not pondering too much about what he was doing as he walked with him over to the bed. Snape still tensed up at the touch, but he didn’t utter a word, eyes glued to the sheets.

James was not about to tuck him in again, so he let him fall into the bundle of pillows on his own.

Snape looked awfully out of place, he sat in the very at the very edge of the mattress, looking around as his hand absent-mindedly ran over the fluffy sheets. He was patting them as if they were a dog.

James wanted to laugh, but the little smile that crept onto the Slytherin’s face stole his breath. He looked happy. Prongs had never seen him show happiness, or peacefulness, or any other even remotely positive emotion. It made the sting in his chest ease up a bit.

“Go on, take off your shoes and snuggle in.”

Snape’s head turned a bit too fast. That must’ve hurt his neck.

Seems like the boy had forgotten he was there. James just smiled and walked towards the table.

“The bed’s all yours, don’t worry,” he picked up one of the bowls and a spoon, “but we should eat this while it’s warm.” The room wouldn’t let the food go cold, especially if warmth seemed to be one of Snape’s current needs. Snape, who hadn’t moved at all. He also didn’t appear privy to taking his shoes off.

James raised an eyebrow: “You want me to take them off for you or?”

“No!”

The Snake was struggling to untie his laces within seconds.

“I can do it by myself, thank you very much.”

Prongs handed him the bowl and spoon; Snape snatched it out of his arms and shuffled back to the wall. The moment his back hit the pillows set up against it, he melted.

James was a bit worried he’d spill the soup, but he just nuzzled into the pillows and stared at the meal in his hands. It seemed smart to let him have his space, and so James walked over to the table and sat down to his own dinner substitute. It was kind of the room to grant him a portion, too. The soup was thick and hearty, with lots of vegetables and chunks of meat. Upon chewing, it was obvious it was chicken.

It reminded him of the soups his mom would make whenever he was sick and whiny. She said it’d calm his stomach as well as his endless tangents about the unfairness of the world and the lack of his body’s resistance to natural things, such as rain.

The fire cackled, its flames had made his entire right side feel hot. James had to shuffle to the other side of the table so that it would cool off, and he could heat his right side instead. He smiled. The room was homey indeed. Perhaps Snape missed his home. James would definitely want to be at their residence if he were bullied at Hogwarts.

He glanced in the direction of his year mate, Snape had given in and was sipping the soup, slowly. James didn’t know anyone who ate so slowly. He was already halfway through his tea when the Slytherin finished his dinner.

Prongs got up and took the bowl back from him, each of his moves followed by pitch-black eyes.

“Want some tea?”

“Why are you doing this?”

James tilted his head: “Asking whether you want tea?”

Snape made a noise similar to that one sigh Remus makes when no one understands his explanation of a concept during their homework writing misery sessions. He vaguely gestured in the air.

“I mean this.”

James looked around the room as if looking for something Snape was pointing out.

“You goon, I mean you! You’re acting weird, bringing me dinner, asking about tea. Potter, we tend to curse each other into oblivion, forgive me for being confused as to why you’re behaving like a, a-“

“Decent wizard?”

“Quite, that.”

James smiled.

Pomfrey obviously didn’t tell Snape who had found him, and he didn’t seem to know about McGonagall reprimanding them either. What did the Matron even discuss with you?

“You looked like a maiden on her deathbed, can’t leave you cold and miserable on the floor.”

“The Potter I know would laugh right in my face.”

“I’m not using Polyjuice.”

“Naturally, I could smell it if you were, I just don’t comprehend your motives, it’s rather,” he fiddled with the end of a fluffy blue blanket, “infuriating.”

James shoved the whole potion-smelling ordeal into his ‘Report to Moony’ file. It was weird how open and vulnerable Snape seemed while sitting between pillows and blankets. Prongs almost felt like he shouldn’t be seeing the other boy in such a state. It was surreal, the black robes and hair stood out from the colourful bedding like an erumpent in a bathroom. Who knew, perhaps Pomfrey had him on some weird potions, and he was high, unaware of what he looked like. Or he was too tired to keep up a tough, mean act. The latter seemed more likely.

“McGonagall talked to us.”

Snape didn’t look up from his blanket fiddling, brows drawn into a frown.

“So what? You’re going to apologise, pretend like nothing happened and play good boy in front of your Head of House? I’m not an object you can just glue together, Potter.”

Anger buzzed below his skin, hot and vicious. It took a breath or two until he could trust himself to reply without insulting the git.

“No. I am not. I’ll apologise when I’ve had time to sit down and come up with a sensible thing to say. I wouldn’t even know where to start on the spot like this.”

Snape blinked.

He opened his mouth as if to ask a follow-up question, but before he could even start, a violent shiver ran down his spine, and he hunched forward. His forehead hit the bed, and a low keen left his lips.

Prongs was crawling into the bed before he knew it. His hands hovered over the shaking black bundle. Bloody forearms flashed before his eyes; he gathered Snape into his arms and turned towards the exit.

“I’ll take you to Pomfrey, she’ll help, okay? She helped last time. She’ll get you out of it again.”

They were almost off the bed when it dawned on him.

There was no door to leave through.

Sirius Black – A Mourning Bride Plucking Maidwort

Padfoot clutched the quill in his hand. He sat down to write a letter to his mother, on the off chance that it would arrive sooner than the news of her son harassing a renowned and proper Slytherin student. Maybe she would be less angry if she heard it from him first and would only send a howler and not a cursed artefact disguised as a Christmas present.

He got stuck after scribbling down a measly “Dear mother,”.

Their room was suffocating in an uncomfortable silence.

Remus was reading a book on his bed, Sirius didn’t mention how the book was upside down, nor how Moony’s eyes had not moved from their far away stare in the past 20 minutes. Wormtail was still curled up on his bed, tail tucked over his eyes, chest rising and falling periodically. They agreed not to wake him up; he was pretty out of it when he’d left McGonagall’s office, and they were sure he’d spiral right into a panic attack if he had to think about the mess they’d found themselves in.

Sirius didn’t know what kind of punishment their professor had given him, but it left the kid shaken up.

Moony mentioned he got off easy, two weeks’ worth of detention and something about having to help Binns, which Sirius thought was more of a reward for him, but whatever. At least someone wasn’t devastated by this ordeal. Although Padfoot suspected the guilt would run its course with more ruthlessness than any punishment from old Minnie could.

Sirius wasn’t even mad that he was laid off the Quidditch team for a few months; he’d live through it, he could stomach boredom.

He could not stomach his mother.

That woman will summon the power of all their ancestors just so she can scream his ears off at the top of her lungs. The ghost of her slap was already stinging his cheek. The portraits will mock him more than ever.

Disgrace of a mutt.

The quill snapped in half.

Maybe she’d finally throw him out.

Little dark circles littered his parchment, a new one left after every tear that slipped free.

Sirius knew he shouldn’t cry silently, that it’d just end up in a suffocating struggle, but he never really learned how to cry like a normal person. So, he sat there, staring at the blank piece of nothing on his desk. The word ‘mother’ smudging as a teardrop hit its edge. The ink formed a black spot on the page.

His mouth remained pressed into a thin line, teeth grinding. His breathing didn’t speed up, didn’t waver, there were no sobs. And yet the tears kept on falling; he could barely see the parchment. It was all just a messy blur, and his entire face was wet.

“Siri?”

Moony had left his bed and was now standing on Sirius’ right side, an arm’s length away from him.

Sirius forced out a laugh. It was wobbly and came out wet. A small trickle of spit rolled down his chin. He rubbed at his jaw with the back of his hand, with more force than was necessary, before he went on to wipe his eyes and cheeks.

“It’s nothin’.”

He knew there was no sense dismissing how he looked ragged. There was no getting out of the talking to he was about to receive. Yet another one.

Remus’ eyes were gentle, muscles lax, and eyebrows slightly pinched. It was as if he were completely poised. Yet his jaw clenched when he noticed what Sirius had been working on.

“Do you want me to talk to McGonagall?”

There was no reality where he could reply to that statement verbally, so Padfoot only shook his head. Black locks stuck to his stained cheeks.

Going to their Head of House meant explaining his home life, which would lead to investigations and questioning. It would serve as nothing more than throwing a dry log at a smouldering flame. He would walk through a hell composed of paperwork, arguments and slaps before he’d make it out of that house.

He was a weed his mother would have to pluck out herself. Sirius would not leave on his terms unless he’d manage to snap Regulus out of their parents’ elitist propaganda.

The sun had long since begun its descent towards the horizon. An array of orange light blue hues with cold pinkish tones painted the sky, each cloud bright orange. The shadows clawing along the grounds below were long, but far away from extending into darkness. They had time before dinner. Plenty of time.

It took one hitched breath for Remmy to ask: “Do we take a drag, play some or wait and go for a run?”

All three were concrete, sure options on how to get his mind off whatever he was mulling over. Sirius couldn’t help but chuckle at the determined glint in Moony’s eyes; he always knew how to cheer him up.

While running sounded refreshing, they couldn’t go for one of their runs until after dinner, when it was dark outside. Padfoot would’ve loved to roll around in the grass a bit, but he’d probably crumble way before they would step foot into the Great Hall.

“How about a smoke with some strings?”

“Sounds like a time.”

The map was still with James, who was most likely having his own little McGonagall-induced breakdown elsewhere, which left the two sneaking off to the bell towers the good old-fashioned way. It never hurts to dust off their natural sight-avoiding abilities. Sirius had shrunk his guitar and stuffed it in his pocket to avoid any younger kids asking him to play. It wasn’t as if he hated having an audience. He regularly played at Gryffindor board game nights, but aside from that, his performances were limited to their lot. It was a private thing. It was theirs.

A group of something akin to second years was chittering not far off the entrance to the bell towers. Moony and Padfoot slipped past them casually, seamlessly turning and running up the stairs to the right bell tower.

“You’re a right Slug, Lupin!”

He was a solid five steps behind Sirius.

 “Fuck you,” a wheeze, “Black.”

Laughing used up too much air, and Padfoot nearly tripped on his own foot and onto his nose after a late inhale. The stumble was immediately exploited by Moony, who zoomed past him.

“Don’t wreck that face, pretty boy!” he shouted over his shoulder, giggling.

Sirius barked out a laugh and took the stairs by two until he caught up to his friend. He slammed right into Remus’ back, both of them toppling over the last step and onto the bell tower’s floor.

“Don’t ya worry, I take great care of the goods,” he wobbled his eyebrows.

The smack in the face was worth it.

Remus pushed him away and off himself: “You’re an arse.”

Sirius hummed.

The right bell tower was their unofficial spot. No clubs had meetings in it, and safe for the huge bell, stacks of scrolls and random trinkets, it was abandoned.

 Moony settled into his favourite corner. It was comfy, he could rest his back against the wooden beam supporting the roof while still having a good view of Sirius. Who would always sit with his back against the pillars rounding up the bell in the middle of the little attic. It left both his arms free to move however he wanted, which made it easier to play comfortably. He fished out his guitar from the pocket in his robes, swiftly unshrinking it.

It was an acoustic one, wooden and clear-coated. He’d gotten it from a garage sale in a muggle town. It was a “hot deal”, the old man was just trying to get rid of his things before he moved closer to his daughter. When Padfoot had asked what he’d want for the thing, it had been more of a figurative question. He had no Muggle money; there was no way he could buy it. But once the man saw how he was looking at it, he shrugged and insisted that the thing was too messed up to repair anyway. Sirius was adamant he could save it. Something in the way he held the guitar made the old man think that maybe the kid meant what he said. All in all, Sirius came home with a heavier pocket that day.

“Incendio.”

The spell was very near whispered, and the tiny flame that burst out of the tip of Remus’ wand corresponded to the softness with which he cast it.

He handed Sirius a cig.

After a few drags, Padfoot placed it down and began strumming.

“Baby, take a look around.”

Sirius’ voice was scratchy and low; despite the laughter, his eyes were still slightly puffy.

“All people do is put us down.”

Remus knew the song, although Padfoot’s rendition of it was way slower than the original. When they first heard it, a year or so back, they were drawn in by the raw frustration the band captured.

“They stare at us, like we don’t belong.”

His voice cracked as he drew out the o’s in belong. Remus let out a puff of smoke, and he looked down at the strings.

“They think they’re right, but they’re all wrong.”

Sirius loved how each one of them had their own routine for music sessions. James would occasionally join in on the singing or sing in his stead. Peter always lay down close to him, be it a bed or wood. He’d asked about it once, why he insisted on curling up each time he took the guitar out. Pete had mumbled something about how the vibrations were soothing.

But Remus, Remus was weird. He didn’t close his eyes, didn’t join in, he’d just sit and stare. His eyes never left Sirius.

“’Cause baby, the world ain’t round, it’s square.”

Chapter Text

Severus Snape – Stuck In a Hemlock

Pain.

Severus didn’t know where he ended, and the pain began. It flowed through his very being, woven into his veins, pushing blood with each desperate beat of his heart. It bit into his clenching muscles, spasms wrecking his body, a ship before a wreck.

Pain, it was unrelenting.

He felt wrong. Bones too brittle, skin too tight. If he could, he’d peel it off so that he could scratch his flesh.

It hurt.

A myriad of incisions, a needle for each pore on his body.

“-elp, okay?”

Was that his voice?

His throat felt raw.

Can you drown on land?

There was either too much or too little air in his lungs. He couldn’t tell. But they fluttered and stuttered, and he could draw their outline if only he could lift his arm.

Distantly, he could recall that the thing below him was a bed fitted with blankets and pillows. It was the softest thing he had ever touched, let alone lain in. Yet, the gentle fuzziness dissolved into brittle ends prying at his skin with each movement.

It hurt.

He ached.

Severus clawed at his back, as if he could yank the weight off his spine.

Nails ripped through his shirt, desperate to scrape the tingling stings his magic left behind as it gnawed through his chest, along his vertebrae, and down his limbs. It pulsed much like his heartbeat, but whilst the blood in his veins gushed around all warm and hot, his magic was akin to ice. Cold to the point of burning.

Pain.

The first time Severus had envisioned his death was when he was five. A blue jay had slammed headfirst into their hut’s window. Its neck snapped. When Severus picked it up, the head wobbled around loosely. His mother had explained what that meant, how an unrising chest brought nothing but tears. Severus had imagined that was what awaited him at the hands of his father. When his fists flew like missiles, Severus could do nothing but curl up and unclench his jaw.

This is the worst one yet.

He had begun thinking of his little episodes as tides; the pain was ever-present, but it would retreat and resurface. Bubbling below. It never lasted long. Mostly since he would lose consciousness halfway through, that is, if he was lucky. The more likely scenario was that he would power through and forget the majority of the ordeal.

Din pervaded the room, but the sounds were distorted – too loud, too deep. It reminded Severus of that one time he had fallen into a lake near their home. He couldn’t make up anything that was being said, for there must’ve been someone speaking; the racket sounded awfully close to words.

White.

Blinding whiteness clouded his vision.

The commotion around him dissolved into high-pitched ringing.

His head would burst.

His shoulders burned and burned, and they would melt if he didn’t get away.

Something was squeezing him, and whatever it was, it was scorching. Severus rasped out a sob, bordering on a wail. Then the pain stopped. It took a single click on the clock, and the feeling of immolation fizzled out.

Severus’ shoulders slumped. His body sagged as he flopped fully onto the covers, sinking as far as he could.

Cautious warmth stretched over him. It felt so similar to Lily’s hugs, but was somehow safer, tighter. It caressed him. Nothing had ever touched Severus so willingly and gently.

Way better than the blankets.

A huff escaped his lips, and the world tuned out.

James Potter – Weave a Net from Eucalyptus

Whimpers drew out the cackling of the flames. Prongs could feel his heartbeat down his spine, thrumming at the end of his fingertips as his hands hovered over Snape. Snape, who was bent over with his head pressed into the mattress. His arms were wrapped around his middle, clutching onto the back of his robes, which looked close to ripping.

“Hurts.”

James jolted slightly. It was the first thing he had said since his episode began.

What’s it been? Ten minutes? Twenty?

He had hoped it would pass on its own. When Remmy had attacks, they wouldn’t last as long as they talked him through them. But whatever reassurance he tried to hurl at the boy in front of him would fly right over his head. It was as if he couldn’t hear or see at all.

“I’ll get help, okay?”

A dribble of saliva rolled down Snivellus’ jaw.

Disgusting.

He whined; it didn’t even sound human.

“Right, help, I’ll get help.”

The room was way too hot; his shirt stuck to his sweat-stained back. The door was still not there; a brick wall with paintings stood in its place. Kittens were playing in one of the hanging decorations. It was as if the room was mocking him. Snape was dying. He was sure of it. The boy in front of him was a real-life version of what he’d imagined people on their deathbeds to look like in the stories he read as a kid.

The Snake was grasping for air with every inhale, his breathing all choked up and wet.

Is he crying?

James was just about to tug at him when the Slytherin shivered and sobbed. Merlin, he’s crying.

If that wasn’t evidence enough that Snape was about to walk off with Death, James didn’t know what was. The other boy’s face was a mess of saliva, snot, tears and sweat.

James was not built for this; he was not trained for this.

The kittens in the painting rolled a cotton ball around. “You can’t,” Prongs grabbed his wand and jumped off the bed, “be fucking serious!”

The frame hit the ground with a loud thud. James’ wand sizzled with the amount of magic he had pushed into it to hurl that spell. A puff of smoke came off its tip. And yet the wall stood tall and proud. Not a single brick moved.

“Hng-“

“Godric damn you all.”

Snape’s nails were way too close to breaking skin. He was getting more and more out of it.

“Stop it, you muppet,” the whisper-yell went unheard, obviously, but that didn’t matter. Prongs scrambled up the sheets, hands back to where they had hovered above Snape. The Slytherin let out yet another broken sound, and something in Prongs snapped. The next thing he knew, his hands were clutching Snape’s shoulders. The moment his fingers squeezed, the Slytherin yelled out. James shut his eyes tight at the hollow sound.

Think, think, think.

You’re a Potter, dammit, you must be able to do something, anything.

His core flared. Magic buzzing with terror.

The room was still far too hot.

The idea didn’t exactly hit him, but rather sneaked up on him. Snape was trashing in his hold, but it had worked last time, hadn’t it?

Prongs forced himself to take a deep breath. His core was worked up, much like him, which made it easier to find.

He exhaled.

Magic was a fickle thing, tough to lure out without a wand. He let its essence trickle down to his arms and held it there for a bit.

Inhale, exhale, inhale.

The flickering simmered down, and Prongs let it pour out. He couldn’t tell what he was doing, so he cracked his eyes open, first the right one, then the left.

Snape’s seizure stopped. Now he lay on the sheets with his cheek squished and body lax. His hair was shimmering. It took James a second to realise the thing that sparkled wasn’t the boy but the thin layer resting on top of him. It wasn’t exactly iridescent, rather a golden whirlpool of reds, oranges and yellows, with the tiniest speckle of purple.

That’s me.

Magic had a different signature for every witch and wizard. Whether it be colour, texture, temperature or even smell, every person was unique. James’ mother made sure he got to know his core, claiming it was an integral part of self-discovery. They would sit and train for hours on end, and he had been an absolute tosser at first. His momma had persisted. It didn’t take long for James to come around. He now practised core exercises for the fun of it when he got bored. However, that did not mean he had ever witnessed himself out in the open. His very self. Seeing the sum of his parts sprawled across Snape was surreal.

It wasn’t a passing glimmer; he had woven a whole cocoon around the Snake.

Snape blinked once or twice, tilted his gaze downwards and closed his eyes. His lip curled the tiniest bit. The expression that settled on his face was nothing short of serene.

James felt like a repeat offender of whatever had transpired last time. Except today, there was no frantic nurse to snap him out of it, no tired professor to make him shuffle away. His palms were still firmly pressed against Snape’s bony form, channelling more and more magic, keeping up the shell.

There was always an option to withdraw and walk off.

James glanced to his side.

The painting was upside down on the floor, right next to the exit.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

This entire ordeal was a bad joke.

Then he heard that wretched noise. Snape still lay by his knees; he hadn’t moved an inch. With his next exhale, James heard it again – a coo.

He fucking cooed.

Something fluttered in his chest. He set his jaw: “You’re supposed to be revolting.”

There was nothing to like about him. His nose took up way too much space, he was scrawny, and he didn’t even shower. At least James was quite certain that he didn’t.

Kinder.

The waves of magic swayed and pulsed around the boy’s middle. Prongs cursed. Keeping up an evenly distributed layer of pure power was a bit draining and certainly tough when he let his focus waver. He wondered whether Snape would be okay now, whether backing off would make him slip back into another attack.

His hands were still shaking, albeit only a bit.

Choking sounds and blood came to mind. James shivered at the thought of it. He had to get him to Pomfrey before the room decided to pull more pranks.

Grabbing Snape below the armpits, he hefted him up onto his back. Manoeuvring the Slytherin’s hands around his neck was harder than he thought it’d be; they kept slipping off when he tried to move. After two failed attempts, he concluded that moving to the edge of the bed would be preferable. Dry skin dragged along his forearms until Snape’s knees were hooked on his elbows. Prongs stood with ease, feeling like an idiot.

Yeah, moving to the edge was a good idea…

The door opened on its own, letting him through. James had half a mind to turn around and cuss the room out again.

Snapes' breath was hot against his ears. The hairs on the back of his neck stood, and James picked up the pace.

Remus Lupin – Sipping Tea From Snapdragons

Remus let a puff of smoke out, angling his lips just right to make a ring out of it. They had stayed up in the bell tower for a good few hours, missing dinner altogether. Not like it was a big deal, the kitchen was at their disposal, and a nicely said please would get them just about anything from the house elves.

Sirius had shrunk his guitar back to pocket-sized and put it away. It had been a lovely afternoon. Remus sighed and let his head fall to the side, just right to fit into the crook of Padfoot’s neck.

“Aw, are we getting clingy?”

Remus would have answered, but given that it was a stupid question, all Sirius got was a huff.

“You want cuddles, don’t ya?” he sounded smug. He was definitely sporting that self-satisfied grin of his; it made Remus want to stand up just to wipe it off his face. Instead, he shuffled closer.

Siri giggled some more and finally wrapped his arm around his shoulder.  Remus could feel his mouth opening, without a doubt ready to make another pun. But no sound came. His jaw was left hanging.

“Wha-“

Sirius shoved a finger to his lips, way too roughly.

“Shh”

Did he just shush me?

Remus yanked his hand away from his face and was about to finish his question when the smell hit him. Light sweat, cold stone and the remains of dinner.

The stairs creaked under the weight of multiple boots, and a group of people flooded the room. Padfoot pressed them closer to the wall and quieted his breathing. Moony did his best to tone down his exhales. The band wore green ties snuggly wrapped around their collars.

“How many did we get last week?”

Remus couldn’t place who the voice belonged to, so he made a calculated guess – it was not someone from their year. They had potions together, and there was no way he wouldn’t recognise the babbling idiots from that class.

“I talked to Timothy, you know the Rowle brat, yesterday. He asked for the time and date of our next meet-up,” that was a girl.

“Well, we don’t have a lot going for that, given that Lucius still hasn’t replied to my owls.”

“Didn’t you send that damn letter two weeks ago?”

Remus shifted and looked to Sirius for confirmation, Did you hear who I heard?

I’m pretty sure I did.

Avery. That had definitely been Avery. Nothing that guy was entangled in was good. Remus smelled trouble, and not the fun kind.

“Tell him we don’t have one scheduled for now. The posters will be ready as soon as Deborah is done with the spellwork,” said the same guy who sent Malfoy owls. He must’ve been an upperclassman. His voice had already mutated, and Remus knew a good few lower years from Slytherin.

“I don’t understand how a simple loyalty charm is taking so long.”

Someone laughed, but it was a bit forced.

“There is no loyalty charm that is even remotely close to resembling ease. It’s a complex combination of multiple spells, be glad we have someone whose family is well-versed in that, or we’d have no cool info pamphlets.

A loud thud echoed through the space. It sounded as though somebody tried to sit down, and it didn’t go according to plan. Sirius peeked around the wooden pole and immediately yanked himself back. His eyes were blown wide, with dilated pupils leaving a measly streak of grey behind.

What did you see?

Padfoot just shook his head as the hand around Remus tightened its hold.

“Speaking of Debbie, she asked me to make a list of things we want included in the general rules and methods section. I think it’d be wise to let Lucius write some suggestions too,” the kid spoke at lightning speed, “and if we want them done by next week, we’ll need to sit down with it sometime before the weekend.”

Several people whined.

“Okay, yeah, sure.”

The discussion went on for what felt like hours. Remus’ leg fell asleep. Regardless of how hard he tried to focus on and memorise what was being said, he lacked the context to make sense of it all. It sounded as if they were planning some sort of event.

“I think that’s all for today, everyone did adequately and completed their to-dos, good job,” a wave of laughter and chatter ran through the group.

Thank Merlin, it’s over.

“Before we go, though, do we have any suggestions for the next targets?”

Targets? Targets of what?

Multiple people started giving names, Remus recognised some as younger Slytherins, one or two Ravenclaws and even a Gryffindor.

“What about Snape?”

The talk died down, and Remus’ mind reeled.

“Snape is a Slug, from what I’ve heard, he’s really good at potions, and he comes from a pureblood family.”

“He’d be a nice catch,” another girl drawled, grin audible in her tone.

“Uh,” that was Avery, “I don’t think he’s worth it.”

“Aren’t you two roommates?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m saying he’s inadequate, you daft goose, I live with him and he is about as competent as a flightless broom. A whiny kid who lives to study. He wouldn’t last a single offering.”

The terminology they used was closer to resembling a cult with each topic they covered.

“Well, it’s not like he’d have to be on the rites. He could just be useful from the shadows, with the potions and all.”

The eldest, seemingly their leader, gave a considering hum before ordering Avery to try and sway the other Slytherin. Perhaps even determine whether he’d be open to the cause. With that, the group dispersed. When their footsteps could no longer be heard, Sirius checked whether the air was clear, and Remus finally went to stretch out his legs.

“That was odd.”

Padfoot put his hands above his head and twisted until his back made a loud pop.

“Odd? Rem they’re organising a cult. I’m sure they’re sacrificing owls in the forbidden forest every new moon.”

“That’s a bit of an overkill, don’t you think?”

“They’re grooming people to join. They have a full list!”

They did have a list. By the sounds of it, Remus assumed the group was quite widespread already, which was concerning.

“I knew they were nothing but scum, Slytherins and their schemes,” Siri kept on ranting. Remus gave up on listening; it was all things he’d heard before. He stared out one of the windows at the dark grounds of Hogwarts. Perhaps he should bring the issue up with McGonagall. It sounded serious enough to be investigated, especially with the recent murder of two muggle-borns in London.

“Remus.”

The tinge of fear in his voice made Moony look back over his shoulder. Siri’s eyebrows were scrunched, and his jaw set tight in that face he made whenever he thought a bit too hard about something and came to an unpleasant conclusion.

“What if they dragged Reggie into it?”

A stone dropped into Remus’ stomach.

Window forgotten, he clenched his friend's biceps: “Regulus knows how to take care of himself, I’m sure he wouldn’t join in on anything sketchy.”

“The old man has been talking up He Who Must Not Be Named at home constantly. How someone finally recognises that we’re better than muggle-borns,” he spat the last part out.

Strands of black curls shielded his face, so Remus couldn’t see his expression, but the trembling shoulders told him all he needed to know. He plastered himself to Siri and cupped his head from behind, bringing it into the nape of his neck.

“We’ll figure something out.”

I’ll figure it out.

Poppy Pomfrey – Season It With Rosemary

Poppy was having a wonderful day. There were no Quidditch matches around, the stairs failed to claim any victim, and Minerva was moping in her office about having to reprimand her little lions. Kids bit harsher than most would believe.

The keyword in the whole point is that she was having a good day. The goodness of it shattered the moment dishevelled brown hair rushed through the door with an unconscious package of boy.

When Mr Snape didn’t show up for his evening potion dose, Poppy had been worried. Minnie tried to reassure her that the student had most likely fallen asleep, which loosened her strung nerves enough that she could focus on writing a concise health evaluation to the ministry. She had hoped to finish up all paperwork and owl it out the following morning. The letters would have to wait another day.

“Walk me through it slowly, Mr Potter, and make it sound believable.”

The boy’s leg was bouncing up and down as he stumbled over his story. Every few minutes, he’d glance at the hospital bed in which she had set Mr Snape up.

“I swear I was only trying to help, it wasn’t supposed to be a prank, please don’t tell Professor McGonagall, I made a promise and-“

“Mr Potter, do me a favour and take a breather, you won’t be reprimanded.”

If she wasn’t afraid that the Gryffindor would turn into a mush of stress, she’d rub her forehead in frustration. Mr Snape’s core was likely more damaged than her initial diagnosis charm proposed. The risk of a full core collapse was much more realistic than they had believed; she’d have to reach out to St Mungo’s. The staff included one of the few specialists in the area. All she had to do was pique his interest.

Sheets rustled.

“Hngh.”

Her gaze snapped to the Slytherin who had manoeuvred himself into a fatal position, clutching his stomach. Before she could manage to stand, Potter had darted across the room and was prying the other boy’s arms away from himself.

“Potter, what do you think you’re doing?”

The fifth year ignored her altogether, mind too preoccupied with stopping the muffled whimpers. Poppy stood and stared as Mr Potter clutched his classmate's hand between his two palms and closed his eyes. It was unnerving to see the energetic, unable-to-sit-still child so still. A swirl of colours, so close to a sunset, danced between his fingers, before bleeding out and running down Mr Snape’s body. The magic stretched and mixed until there wasn’t an inch left unsparkling. A gasp full of wonder died in Poppy’s throat. Such ease with which the kid handled his magic took years of practice, many could never move their essence as precisely, even after reaching magical maturity.

Her patient uncurled and leaned towards where his hand was cradled in Potter’s hold. As if his touch alone could chase away the aches that engulfed him.

A thousand questions swirled in her mind. How did the boy figure out he could do this? Who’d taught him? What made his core compatible with that of Mr Snape’s?

“Unbelievable.”

Mr Potter flinched but didn’t let go. He did, however, open his eyes and peek in her direction, a plea for permission in his eyes. The Matron took a moment too long to offer any answer, and so the boy began pulling away.

“No, no, no,” she strutted over to his side, “do keep it up, young man.”

The kid didn’t reply, but his shoulders lowered, and his focus shifted back to the Slytherin. Poppy took out her wand and cast a few charms. Mr Snape’s core was still in ruin, his coils all clogged up. His magical trace was far too weak to trace, let alone identify any of its physical properties. Yet the pathways were wrapped up in a golden shimmer. It appears Potter had not only draped his magic atop him but also caressed each of his organs. Poppy had no idea what was happening, but she thumped with excitement. A little moisture built up in the corner of her eyes; it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, such delicate work.

“I’d like to run a few scans and make a vial containing my memories of what I see, if that’d be okay with you.”

Wide chestnut eyes bore into her.

“Do I have your permission to document this?”

The boy hesitated.

“James, this is extremely valuable information,” she said, too afraid to touch him, too scared she’d mess up the equilibrium his magic had created. “Please.”

He looked a lot younger when he was uncertain, but when he glanced back at his year mate, his face hardened into something older.

“Will it help him?”

Poppy once again wondered how this boy could be a bully. He was too soft around the edges. The way he held the other was almost reverent, the stark opposite of the harshness she expected. But she knew what he’d done, what he and his friends had been doing for years. The bits Mr Snape let slip and the little she could get out of Minerva painted a picture made of cruelty and shame. There was no way their student had changed so much from a single talk with his Head of House. It was absurd. And yet here he stood, all nervous and caring.

How peculiar.

She smiled, if only a bit: “Yes, yes, it will.”

The boy nodded as if that was reason enough. She stood on business, walking around the bed to get a full idea of just how far his magic had etched. Taking note of all the crooks and nooks. The manner in which its hum was strong and rumbling, much like a cat’s purr. She cast spell after spell, until she was satisfied and left to fetch a vial.

By the time she pressed the cork in, Potter had started swaying on his feet.

“Mr Potter?”

He looked disoriented, much like a drunk person.

She laughed.

“Come now, I think Mr Snape will be okay for a while.”

Reaching for him, she was intent on getting him down and resting. James, however, flinched back. Head jumping from her to Severus and back to her again. He bit his lower lip, looking oh so painfully conflicted.

That was concerning, far from ideal. Mr Potter appeared panicked, lost in his own mind. it wasn’t hard to identify signs of fear as intense as that. His skin was pale, pupils blown wide and breath a notch faster than it ought to be. If Poppy didn’t know better, she’d say he was having a trauma response. The context, however, was missing.

“Oh, do stop fretting,” persistent fingers pried him away, “you can lie down here, see, not too far.”

The proximity did nothing to calm the boy. She managed to get him into the bed, but he turned to stare towards the Slytherin once again.

Poppy’s mouth was pressed against her fists, fingers intertwined as she stared at the only residents in her medical quarters, two fifth years, one a bigger migraine inducer than the other.

Mr Snape had moved a total of five times in the past hour, and Mr Potter had attempted to stand up every single time. She could feel her right eye twitching, a silent reminder that she should make a cup of tea and switch her mind off for a while. But she couldn’t. It made no sense. The nurse was not a fan of her patients being a mystery; her not understanding led to pain and pain only.

A gentle warm light seeped from the lamps in between the windows. The night had long since settled over the castle, the halls emptied, and the telling silence of curfew was the only thing that remained. Poppy folded up her note.

The message read:

Dear Minerva,

Mr Potter will be spending the night at the Hospital Wing. Please don’t be alarmed, all is well, the boy is simply behaving like an obstinate toddler.

I will explain in the morning.

You owe me a cup of tea. A strong cup of tea.

Yours truly,

Poppy

She sent a similar letter to Horace about half an hour ago, foolishly believing Potter would sober up and retreat to his quarters. However, the Gryffindor showed no interest in such actions, and so she was forced to reach for the quill a second time.

The brunette still wasn’t sleeping; she could feel magic radiating off him from across the room. It made the hairs on her arms stand. She thought back to the first time the two found their way to her. The Gryffindor had been shaken, repeating the same sentence like a broken record. It was sensible that, to someone who had never been faced with such injuries, self-inflicted wounds would rattle him and be enough to make him fear for Mr Snape’s life.

Perhaps it was a saviour complex; the boy was a lion after all. Rescue missions and thoughtlessness were in their blood. And yet Poppy couldn’t help but feel like there was more to it than simple house characteristics. If James’ core was compatible enough with Severus’ to balance it out and even work in its stead, then Potter’s magic might consider the other boy as an extension of himself. A magical bond of that kind could be problematic.

Poppy dipped her quill in ink. The folk at St Mungo’s will hopefully have more insights on the situation than she.

A cloud of blue and purple swirled in the little vial on the