Chapter Text
Somnum Confluere
joining of sleeps
Harry didn’t stay for the cheering after Voldemort fell. The shouting rose behind him, people moved in toward the center of the courtyard, and something in his chest locked up.
He turned before anyone could stop him and walked as fast as he could toward the nearest gap in the rubble. When no one was looking, he broke into a run.
His magic felt unsteady. It scraped under his skin in short bursts, badly contained, but he held himself together long enough to reach the shadows beyond the courtyard wall. Then he twisted on the spot and disapparated.
He landed on his knees in the Shrieking Shack.
The room was quiet. The air was stale and damp. The smell of blood lingered in a sharp line that cut through the dust and rotting timber. Nothing had moved since he’d left.
Harry pushed himself shakily to his feet and crossed the creaking floor. His boots left wet impressions in the boards near the spot where Snape had collapsed. The pool of blood hadn’t dried yet. It soaked into the grain in uneven patches, darker at the edges and still tacky in the center.
He found Severus Snape half-slumped against the wall where he’d fallen. His head lolled slightly to the side. His eyes were half-open but unfocused. His chest didn’t appear to move.
Harry crouched immediately. His hands hovered for a moment before he steadied himself and touched the man’s shoulder. The skin felt cool from shock, not cold in the way of a long-dead body. There was still residual warmth at the collarbone and under the jaw where blood flow had slowed but not fully ceased. The center of the chest held faint warmth as well.
The neck wound looked worse than before. The bruising had deepened, and the surrounding skin was tight and swollen. Venom had spread in dark blotches along the side of the throat, rising toward the ear.
Harry leaned closer and listened. He couldn’t hear breathing. There was no visible rise or fall of the chest.
“Come on,” he whispered. He placed two fingers just above the sternum the way Madam Pomfrey had taught him once in passing. Nothing.
He pressed harder, desperate.
“Please. Please don’t be gone.”
He didn’t think. His hands flattened against Snape’s chest- still warm. Something broke loose inside him—grief, refusal, exhaustion, something else he didn’t understand—and his magic surged without direction or intent.
The effect was immediate. Snape’s body jerked slightly, a small reflexive contraction. A faint gasp escaped him, shallow and irregular but present. It wasn’t a stable breath, but it was enough that Harry’s own breath shuddered out of him in one long, uneven exhale.
He put a shaking hand on Snape’s shoulder to keep him from slumping sideways. Harry focused on that warmth.
“That’s it,” he said, barely audible. “Stay with me.”
He shifted his grip, sliding an arm behind Snape’s back and bracing the other under his arm. He tightened his hold, trying not to jostle the injured neck, and concentrated, disapparating straight to St. Mungo’s.
Harry landed hard on the tiled floor just inside the emergency ward of St. Mungo’s. The sudden shift from the Shack’s stale darkness to bright torchlight made him blink, but he didn’t let go of Snape. The man’s weight sagged against him, and Harry adjusted his grip quickly to keep him upright.
Two healers turned at the sound of the apparition crack. One of them, a woman with graying hair pulled tight at the back of her head, stepped forward immediately.
“What happened?” she asked.
Harry could barely get the words out. “Snake bite. Venom. Massive blood loss—he isn’t breathing properly.”
That was all they needed right now.
They lifted Snape onto a conjured stretcher and guided it under the bright examination lamp. One healer stepped in closer and took hold of Snape’s left wrist to begin a circulation scan.
The sleeve was stiff with blood and dirt. She pushed it back to clear the forearm so the charm could work more steadily through contact.
That was when she saw it.
Not stark black the way it had been when Voldemort lived but a washed-out imprint, the lines dull and grey, still unmistakable as the Dark Mark. Her hand hesitated. Just a fraction, only long enough to register recognition. The air around the bed shifted in that small, tense way that happens when people don’t know how to react.
Harry saw the pause. He saw the look. And he stepped forward immediately.
“If any of you hesitate because of that mark,” he said sharply, his voice loud in the suddenly quiet space, “I swear I will drag you before the Wizgamont myself and see you sacked.”
The healer glanced up, startled.
Harry didn’t relent.
“Voldemort is dead,” he continued, tone flat and unyielding. “That thing is faded because he’s gone. And without this man’s help, none of us would be standing here right now. So you will treat him. Properly. And you will do it now.”
The healers exchanged a look, more startled than offended, then immediately bent back to their tasks. The witch raised Snape’s arm again, began the circulation charm, checked the radial pulse. Another leaned close to examine the bite wound. A third one flicked her wand and began generic diagnostic scans.
Harry stayed only a step back, close enough to interfere. He didn’t want to be pushed away. Didn't trust them.
The older healer frowned at the readings forming in the air. “Circulation is unstable. Core magic critically low.” Her eyes moved to Snape’s throat. “We need to neutralize the venom spread immediately.”
Another healer summoned vials from a nearby cabinet. The bottles clinked against each other as they landed in his hands. Two antidotes, a stabilizer draft, and something thicker that Harry didn’t recognize.
“Hold him steady,” the older witch said.
They worked quickly. Potions were administered by charm, taking the liquid directly through the skin to avoid the risk of aspiration. Diagnostic runes shifted colours as the neutralizing agents entered the bloodstream.
Harry stayed close. His hands were shaking. He kept his eyes on Snape’s face the whole time. There was still some warmth in the skin, though it looked strained under the harsh lights. The bruising along the throat remained dark and mottled.
A woman in a green robe approached with a clipboard.
“Sir, for the intake form—do you know if the patient has any relatives we can notify? Medical history? Allergies? Preexisting—”
“I’m here,” Harry cut in sharply. “He has me.”
The woman swallowed. “All right. Then your name—”
“Harry Potter. And no, I don’t know his medical history. He didn’t exactly share it back in his classes.”
"Who is he?" she asked.
"Severus Snape. 38 years old."
She struggled for a moment, then tried again. “Okay, good. That's... I still..." she sighs. "Financial assistance… If this becomes a long-term case—”
Harry stared at her, incredulous.
“It’s disgusting,” he said flatly, “that you even ask that in a situation like this. Unbelievable. Yes, I’ll pay.”
She opened her mouth to list costs, but Harry held up a hand, already moving to follow the floating stretcher.
“I don’t care what it costs. Money is not a problem.”
The healers did not argue as they noticed Harry following them. Snape’s stretcher drifted down a narrower corridor that grew quieter with each turn. Wards buzzed faintly in the walls.
At the end of the hall stood an older healer reviewing a set of floating charts. His hair was greying at the temples, his expression composed in the way one only earned from years of long nights and difficult cases.
He looked up when the stretcher approached.
“Paul Merrow,” he introduced himself to Harry. His voice carried the weight of someone who did not waste words. “I’ll be taking responsibility for this patient.”
Harry nodded tightly, still gripping his own wrist tightly as they floated Snape inside a guarded private room. Paul stepped to Harry’s side, taking in the boy’s shaking hands, pale skin, blood-smeared sleeve.
“You can stay,” Paul said. “These rooms are designed for patients who need uninterrupted care and those who refuse to leave them.”
Harry didn’t answer with words. He simply moved closer to Snape’s bedside, fingers white against the metal rail. Paul accepted that as answer enough. He cast a quick charm to stabilize the man's airway, another to monitor circulation permanently, then glanced back at Harry.
“This will be slow,” he said quietly. “And difficult. But he’s alive. That’s more than I expected from someone in his condition.”
Harry let out a breath he’d been holding for far too long. Paul set the chart aside.
“I’ll be frank,” he added. “Most healers here would not volunteer to treat a man with that mark.”
Harry’s jaw tightened.
“But I don’t care what he was before,” Paul continued. “I care what he is now. And now, he’s my patient.”
Harry closed his eyes briefly. “Good.”
Paul nodded once. “You brought him here at the last possible moment. Whatever kept him from crossing the threshold...it was nothing ordinary.”
Harry didn’t respond. Thought about his own magic pouring und into the man, how desperate he's been. How....strange it had felt to bleed his own magic into someone else.
Paul didn’t push. He only set a padded chair beside the bed and stepped back, giving Harry space.
The door closed softly, and the private ward sealed around them.
Harry didn’t sleep properly. He tried. Paul dimmed the lights, handed him a light blanket, told him to rest on the spare cot in the corner. Harry nodded but sat down at the chair again. Not ready to lie down. Not here, where danger could barge through the door at any given moment.
He lasted maybe twenty minutes. Then he dozed off for a bit. But every sound jolted him awake. Every shift in Snape’s breathing made him sit up. The crackle of monitoring charms, the creak of the ward door hinges, even Paul entering for routine checks. Each one snapped him back into alertness.
At some point he drifted off again, only to be yanked awake by the same sequence of images. Snape falling to the ground. The blood spreading. The way his eyes had started to lose their focus... "Look at me"...
The third time Harry woke, his heart was pounding and his clothes were damp with sweat. He sat on the edge of the cot, elbows on his knees, dragging both hands through his hair, feeling the dust and grime from the war. Dawn light filtered through the charmed window. Thin, grey, offering nothing.
He spent the rest of the early morning pacing the room. He didn’t leave Snape’s side for more than a few seconds. Every time Paul nudged through the door, Harry stopped pacing, stiffened, and waited for an update. Paul’s answers were always the same.
“Still stable.”
“No decline.”
“He’s holding.”
It was enough to keep Harry standing.
By mid-morning, footsteps gathered in the hallway. Multiple people, boots, authoritative cadence. Harry turned toward the door, shoulders tense.
Paul looked up from a chart, exasperated.
“That will be the Ministry.”
The knock was polite but firm. Before Harry could respond, Paul stepped forward and cracked the door open. Two ministry officials stood outside, robes neat, badges clipped in plain view. Department of magical law enforcement.
The taller one introduced himself. “We’re here to arrest the one called Severus Snape.”
Harry was already moving. He crossed the room in three strides and put himself directly between the officials and the doorway. “No. Absolutely not.”
The shorter official attempted to peer over Harry’s shoulder. “Mr. Potter, it’s a matter of protocol. Given… the headmaster’s actions during the past year—”
Harry’s voice rose before the man finished.
“He’s unconscious. You are not taking someone who isn’t lucid.”
The taller official tried again, slower. “We need to understand what role he played. This man's position is relevant as he's clearly been in favor of the Dark Lord for many years and—”
Harry’s jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.
“Relevant?” he repeated. “You want to interrogate an unconscious man because it’s convenient. Because he can’t defend himself. You smell opportunity, that's all.”
The shorter official stiffened. “We’re doing our jobs.”
Harry took a half-step forward. His hand curled into a fist.
“And I’m doing mine,” he said. “He saved lives with his work as a spy. He saved me throughout my school years, which is what made it possible for me to defeat Voldemort at all. That alone should earn him basic decency.”
Paul placed a hand low on Harry’s shoulder. Not restraining, just enough to steady him. “Gentlemen,” he said evenly. “Medically speaking, you cannot proceed. He is my patient and I am asking you now to leave the premise.”
The taller official’s gaze flicked past Harry toward the still figure on the bed. Even with the Mark faded, its shape was recognizable. His mouth tightened.
“With all due respect,” he said, voice cooling, “the crimes of this man are numerous. He is—”
Harry cut in, sharper than before.
“He is a hero!", he squared his shoulders some more, staring at them with an absolutely furious glint "You will not enter this room. If you try to force entry, I will use everything in my power to make you regret to have ever crossed my path!”
The officials exchanged a glance. Harry could see the debate happening between them. Procedure versus practicality, suspicion versus self-preservation. It made sense that his word carried weight now with Voldemort being dead. Politically speaking he could probably make the life's of these two Aurors a living hell.
Finally, the taller one exhaled. “We’ll file a request with St. Mungo’s administration. Expect follow-up.”
Harry didn’t blink. "Do that.”
They left without further argument. The moment the door closed, Harry’s breath shook out of him. He pressed his hands to the sides of the bedframe and lowered his forehead against the metal for a second.
Paul waited a moment before speaking. “You stood your ground,” he said quietly.
Harry huffed, a humorless sound. “They’re not getting near him.”
“I figured.” Paul glanced toward the corridor. “There’s chaos out there. They probably only realized Mr. Snape was missing when someone checked the staff roster.”
“And because he’s hated...” Harry swallowed hard “they’d prefer he died quietly and made things simpler...”
The old healer huffed. “That’s politics."
Paul watched Harry for a long moment after the Ministry officials disappeared down the hall. He chose his next words carefully.
“Mr Potter… I’m going to be very direct.”
Harry straightened immediately, every instinct alert. Paul lowered his voice, even though the private ward was sealed.
“Some of my colleagues are resentful. Because of the Mark. Because of the last year. You can imagine how the reputation of Mr. Snape's position… complicates things.”
Harry’s body went stiff.
Paul held up a hand—not to calm him, but to keep him listening.
“I am not implying harm,” he said steadily. “But I am implying risk. Unconscious patients who are politically inconvenient are… vulnerable. Especially ones who can’t defend themselves.”
Harry’s breath caught. He stared at Severus, pale and unmoving beneath the sheets, and then back at Paul.
Paul went on. “The Ministry will return. They’re sorting the aftermath of the battle now, and they will want access to him. He cannot defend himself right now. And some might be tempted to… interpret his current state as...very convenient indeed.”
Harry’s fist tightened on the bedframe.
Paul continued, voice steady. “Pureblood families often employ private healers in secured safehouses of theirs. Vow-bound, background-checked. It ensures safety, privacy, and uninterrupted recovery. I’m suggesting the same arrangement for Mr Snape. With his complicated history he cannot stay in a public hospital.”
Harry’s response came immediately.
“Would you take the position?”
The directness surprised Paul only slightly. His expression softened, the faintest hint of approval in his eyes.
“...Yes. I would.”
Paul held his gaze. “But...Mr Potter? Think carefully. This is not a short-term commitment. He will need long-term care. Months, possibly longer. It will be exhausting. It may be frightening. Are you prepared for that?”
Harry looked at Severus. He didn’t need to think.
“Yes.”
He exhaled, shakily. “Well... What's next?"
The old healer smiled, empathetically. “I’ll draft the transfer protocol. But you must find a secure location.”
Harry nodded. “I will.”
“And it must happen today,” Paul added. “Before the Ministry returns with paperwork. They regulary need three to four days, I imagine they will rush the procedure in this case.”
Harry didn’t need to be told twice. “I’ll handle that but..." he swallowed once. “I don't want to leave him here. You...You’ll stay and protect him?” His voice dropped. “You won’t leave him alone with anyone else?”
His gaze flicked, involuntarily, to Severus Snape's still form.
Paul didn’t answer immediately.
He stepped closer instead, closing the distance with deliberate care, and drew his wand from his sleeve. He held it openly, angled down, a gesture that was neither defensive nor threatening but formal.
“I will,” Paul said, slow and certain. “I will take full responsibility for the care of Severus Snape. I will act as his primary healer, and I will safeguard his person to the best of my skill and ability.”
He raised his wand, just enough for Harry to feel the shift in the air.
“No one will be permitted access without your explicit consent,” Paul continued. “No Ministry official. No auror. No colleague of mine. Not unless you authorize it.”
The magic tightened, subtle but unmistakable. A pressure like a held breath.
Paul met Harry’s eyes.
“This is a binding vow,” he said plainly. “I do not make it lightly.”
Harry felt it then.
Not a surge, not anything dramatic, but a settling.
Magic sinking into the walls, the floor, the space between them. Anchoring itself around the man's bed like a quiet, unbreakable perimeter.
Harry’s shoulders sagged as the weight he’d been carrying finally shifted. Not gone, not even eased, but shared.
“Thank you,” he said hoarsely.
Paul inclined his head once, solemn. “Go. I will remain here.”
Harry hesitated only a second longer. Then he nodded, turned, and left the room. The first time since the shack that he did so.
Still feeling like he was abandoning something fragile and irreplaceable.