Chapter Text
The first thing Severus Snape became aware of was wetness. Cold, uncomfortable wetness spreading across his left cheek, seeping into the corner of his mouth with the faint taste of salt and something acidic. His eyelids felt as though they had been sealed shut with lead weights, each one requiring a monumental effort to pry open. When he finally managed it, the world swam into focus with agonizing slowness, shapes and colors bleeding together like watercolors left too long in the rain.
His head felt like lead. No, that wasn't quite right. Lead would have been a mercy. His head felt as though someone had filled his skull with molten iron, let it cool and solidify, and then proceeded to strike it repeatedly with a hammer. Each pulse of his heartbeat sent fresh waves of agony radiating from his temples, down his jaw, into his teeth. His fingers, splayed across the desk before him, felt like wood. Stiff, unresponsive, foreign appendages that belonged to someone else entirely. He tried to flex them and felt only the distant, muted sensation of movement, as though his hands were wrapped in thick wool.
Slowly, with tremendous effort, Severus lifted his head from the desk. A piece of parchment came with it, stuck to his cheek by the drool that had pooled there. He peeled it away with clumsy fingers, squinting at the words written across the top in official, no-nonsense script: "Ordinary Wizarding Level Examinations: Potions Theory."
OWLs.
The word echoed in his mind like a stone dropped down a well, taking far too long to hit bottom. OWLs. He was taking his OWLs. But that couldn't be right. That couldn't possibly be right because he had taken his OWLs decades ago, hadn't he? The memory felt slippery, like trying to grasp smoke, but he was certain. Almost certain. Wasn't he?
Severus forced himself to look up, to take in his surroundings, and the Great Hall stretched before him in all its impossible, magnificent, terrible familiarity.
The ceiling soared overhead, enchanted to mirror the sky beyond the castle walls. Today it showed a pale spring morning, wisps of cloud drifting lazily across an expanse of delicate blue. The illusion was so perfect that Severus could almost feel the breeze that should have accompanied such a sky, though the air in the hall remained still and heavy with the scent of parchment, ink, and teenage anxiety. Hundreds of candles floated in neat rows above the examination tables, their flames burning without flickering, without dripping wax, suspended by magic so old and so fundamental that no one even questioned it anymore. The light they cast was warm and golden, but it hurt Severus's eyes, made him want to squeeze them shut again and retreat back into the darkness of unconsciousness.
The tables themselves stretched in long, orderly rows from one end of the hall to the other. Each was separated from its neighbors by precisely five feet, a distance calculated to prevent even the most determined cheat from glimpsing their neighbor's work. The wood was old, scarred by generations of students who had carved their initials, doodled in the margins of their consciousness, tapped nervous rhythms with their quills. Severus could see the grain of the table before him with startling clarity, each whorl and knot standing out in sharp relief. He didn't remember the tables looking like this. Or perhaps he did. Perhaps he had simply forgotten, the memory buried under years of standing at the front of classrooms rather than sitting in them.
Around him, hundreds of students hunched over their examination papers. Their quills scratched against parchment in a sound like a thousand insects scuttling across stone. Some wrote with furious confidence, their hands flying across the page. Others chewed their lips, stared at the ceiling, tapped their quills against their teeth in thought. A girl three rows ahead had her hand raised, waiting for a proctor to notice. A boy to Severus's right had his head in his hands, the very picture of despair.
The students wore their house colors, but they seemed wrong somehow. Too bright. Too vivid. The Gryffindor reds blazed like fresh blood. The Slytherin greens shimmered like serpent scales. The Ravenclaw blues were the color of deep water, and the Hufflepuff yellows glowed like captured sunlight. Everything was too much, too intense, as though someone had turned up the saturation on the world itself.
Proctors paced between the rows, their footsteps muffled by the thick carpets that had been laid down for the examinations. Severus recognized some of them. Professor McGonagall moved with her characteristic brisk efficiency, her tartan robes swishing around her ankles, her sharp eyes missing nothing. Professor Flitwick stood on a stack of books to better survey his section, his wand held loosely in one hand, ready to cast a Silencing Charm on any student foolish enough to attempt conversation. And there, near the doors, stood Dumbledore himself, his silver beard cascading down the front of his purple robes, his eyes twinkling behind his half-moon spectacles as he surveyed the scene with what appeared to be genuine pleasure.
But it was all wrong. The faces were right, but they were also wrong. McGonagall's hair was darker, with fewer threads of silver. Flitwick's beard was shorter. And Dumbledore... Dumbledore looked younger, though calling any version of Albus Dumbledore "young" seemed absurd. But there were fewer lines around his eyes, less weight in his shoulders.
Severus tried to make sense of it. This was the Great Hall. He knew this room better than he knew his own quarters. He had eaten thousands of meals here, had stood at the High Table and glowered at students, had watched Sorting ceremonies and Christmas feasts and end-of-year celebrations. But he had never seen it quite like this. The angle was wrong. He was too low, sitting instead of standing. The perspective was that of a student, not a professor, and it made everything feel alien and familiar at the same time, like looking at a photograph of your childhood home and recognizing it while simultaneously feeling that it belonged to a stranger.
The smell was different too. As a professor, the Great Hall had always smelled of food, of roasted meat and fresh bread and pumpkin juice. But now it smelled of nerves and sweat and the particular mustiness of old parchment. It smelled of desperation and hope and fear, the scent of hundreds of teenagers facing examinations that would determine their futures. It smelled young.
A clock ticked somewhere, though Severus couldn't see it. Each tick seemed to echo inside his skull, keeping time with his heartbeat, with the throbbing pain that pulsed behind his eyes. How long had he been asleep? How much time had he lost? He looked down at his examination paper and saw that he had completed perhaps half of it, his handwriting growing progressively worse as the page went on, until the final answer trailed off into an illegible scrawl.
He needed to finish. He needed to... what? What did he need to do?
His vision blurred, and suddenly the Great Hall was overlaid with other images, other memories. He saw himself standing at the front of a classroom, his robes billowing as he swept between desks, his voice cold as he berated a student for adding porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the heat. He saw the Headmaster's office, saw Dumbledore's face grave and disappointed as he spoke of Lily, of protection, of a debt that could never be repaid. He saw the Dark Lord's red eyes, felt the burn of the Dark Mark on his arm, heard the screams of those he had failed to save.
And then he was back in the Great Hall, but it was different now. The students were laughing. All of them. Hundreds of faces turned toward him, mouths open in cruel mirth, eyes glittering with malice. The sound was deafening, a roar of mockery that seemed to shake the very stones of the castle. He could see their mouths moving, could see them pointing, but he couldn't make out individual words over the cacophony.
Colors swirled around him, bright and nauseating. The Gryffindor reds bled into the Slytherin greens, creating a muddy brown that spread across his vision like a stain. The candles overhead burned brighter, their flames stretching and distorting until they looked like reaching fingers. The enchanted ceiling rippled and warped, the peaceful spring sky replaced by roiling storm clouds that pressed down, down, down.
Someone was shouting. Multiple someones. Their voices overlapped and echoed, creating a discordant symphony of sound that made no sense. He caught fragments: "Snivellus" and "greasy" and "freak" and other words, crueler words, words that cut like knives.
And through it all, the laughter. So much laughter.
Severus tried to stand, but his legs wouldn't cooperate. He tried to speak, to defend himself, to cast a spell, anything, but his tongue felt thick and useless in his mouth. He raised his hand to his face and felt wetness. For a moment he thought it was tears, but when he pulled his hand away, his fingers were stained red.
Blood.
His nose was bleeding.
The realization came with a fresh wave of pain so intense that it drove all other thoughts from his mind. He clutched at his head with both hands, feeling the sticky warmth of blood running down his upper lip, dripping from his chin onto his examination paper, spreading across the parchment in crimson blooms. The laughter grew louder, more frenzied, and the colors spun faster, and the pain, the pain, the pain...
---
Severus opened his eyes.
The world was blessedly dim. Soft. Quiet. He lay on something comfortable, something that gave slightly beneath his weight. A bed. He was in a bed. The ceiling above him was white and clean, crossed by dark wooden beams. Sunlight filtered through tall windows, but it was muted, gentle, filtered through what must have been enchanted glass designed to protect sensitive eyes.
He became aware of sounds. The quiet clink of glass against glass. The soft splash of water. Footsteps, measured and purposeful. And humming. Someone was humming a tune he didn't recognize, something light and cheerful that seemed entirely at odds with the pounding in his skull.
Severus turned his head, slowly, carefully, and saw her.
Madam Pomfrey stood at a nearby table, her back to him, wetting a cloth in a basin of water. She wore her usual crisp white robes, her hair pulled back in a neat bun, a few strands of grey visible at her temples. But something was off. The grey was wrong. There was too little of it. And her figure, glimpsed in profile, was slimmer, more upright, lacking the slight stoop that years of bending over patients would eventually give her.
His mouth felt like it had been stuffed with cotton. His tongue was thick and clumsy as he tried to form words. When he finally managed to speak, his voice came out as a slur, the syllables running together like melted wax.
"Poppy? What's going on?"
The humming stopped. Madam Pomfrey's shoulders stiffened, and she turned to face him with an expression that could have frozen fire. Her eyes, sharp and grey, fixed on him with the kind of look that had cowed generations of students into obedience.
She didn't say anything at first. She simply stared at him, the wet cloth dripping water onto the floor, her lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval. The silence stretched out, growing more uncomfortable with each passing second, until Severus began to wonder if he had actually spoken aloud or merely imagined it.
Finally, she spoke, her voice crisp and cold as winter frost.
"Mr. Snape, under your fugue state I will allow that comment to pass. You will only call me by Madam Pomfrey. Is that understood?"
Mr. Snape. She had called him Mr. Snape. Not Severus. Not Professor. Mr. Snape, as though he were a student, as though he were...
"What?"
The word came out as barely more than a breath, confused and lost. Severus tried to sit up, but his body refused to cooperate. His limbs felt heavy and disconnected, as though they belonged to someone else. His head spun, and he had to close his eyes against a fresh wave of nausea.
He heard Madam Pomfrey sigh, a long-suffering sound that spoke of patience worn thin by years of dealing with difficult patients. Her footsteps approached, and then he felt the cool, wet cloth pressed against his forehead. The sensation was blissful, soothing, and he couldn't help the small sound of relief that escaped his throat.
"You had a migraine, Mr. Snape," she said, her voice softening slightly, though it retained its professional edge. "A severe one, by all accounts. You collapsed during your Potions OWL examination. Professor Slughorn had to levitate you here himself. Caused quite a stir, I'm told."
She moved the cloth down to his upper lip, wiping away what must have been dried blood. Her touch was gentle but efficient, the touch of someone who had performed this action thousands of times.
"As for the bleeding," she continued, "well, I have no idea, but it tends to happen to people from time to time. Stress, most likely. The pressure of examinations. You wouldn't be the first student to have a nosebleed during OWLs, and you certainly won't be the last. Just watch what you eat and..."
She trailed off, her attention caught by something beyond Severus's field of vision. He heard it too. The sound of the hospital wing door opening, the creak of old hinges that no amount of magic ever seemed to fully silence.
Footsteps. Light, hesitant footsteps that seemed to pause just inside the doorway.
And then a voice. A voice that Severus knew better than his own, a voice that had haunted his dreams and his nightmares for more years than he cared to count.
"Madam Pomfrey? Professor McGonagall wants to speak to Sev... Snape."
Lily.
Severus's eyes flew open, and the world tilted on its axis.
She stood five steps away from his bed, framed by the afternoon sunlight that streamed through the windows behind her. The light caught in her hair, turning it into a cascade of living flame that fell past her shoulders in waves that seemed to move with a life of their own. It wasn't simply red. Red was too simple a word, too mundane to capture the reality of it. Her hair was the color of autumn leaves at their peak, of copper heated until it glowed, of sunset over water. It held depths of burgundy and gold, of amber and rust, each strand catching the light differently, creating a halo of color that made her seem almost otherworldly.
Her face was a study in delicate beauty, the kind of beauty that poets spent lifetimes trying to capture in words and always fell short. Her skin was pale, luminous, with the faintest dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks, like gold dust scattered by a careless hand. Her features were fine and even, her nose straight and small, her lips full and naturally pink, curved now in an expression of uncertainty that made them even more captivating. Her chin was slightly pointed, giving her face a heart shape that was both innocent and alluring.
But it was her eyes that truly unmade him.
They were green. But that word, like red for her hair, was woefully inadequate. They were the green of new leaves in spring, of emeralds held up to candlelight, of deep forest pools where sunlight filtered through the canopy above. They were bright and clear and alive, framed by dark lashes that seemed impossibly long, impossibly thick. Those eyes held intelligence and kindness, curiosity and caution, a depth of emotion that seemed far too vast for someone so young.
And she was young. That was what struck him most forcefully, what made his breath catch in his throat and his heart stutter in his chest. She was fifteen, perhaps sixteen at most. Her face still held the softness of adolescence, not yet fully settled into the sharper beauty of adulthood. Her figure, visible beneath her Gryffindor uniform, was slender and coltish, all long limbs and gentle curves that hinted at the woman she would become. Her white shirt was crisp and neat, tucked into her skirt, her tie knotted perfectly. Her robes hung open, the Gryffindor red and gold bright against the white of her shirt.
She was beautiful. Achingly, impossibly beautiful. And she was alive.
The realization hit Severus like a physical blow. Lily was alive. Lily was standing five steps away from him, breathing, moving, speaking. Lily, who had been dead for... for...
How long? How long had she been dead? The memory felt slippery, uncertain, like trying to recall a dream upon waking. He knew she had died. He knew he had held her body, had seen her lifeless eyes staring at nothing, had screamed until his voice gave out. But when? When had that happened?
Madam Pomfrey had leaned out of the way, giving him a clear view of Lily, though she remained close enough to intervene if necessary. Her expression was carefully neutral, but Severus thought he detected a hint of amusement in her eyes.
Lily shifted her weight from one foot to the other, clearly uncomfortable. Her hands twisted together in front of her, fingers intertwining and separating in a nervous gesture that Severus remembered with painful clarity. She wouldn't meet his eyes, instead focusing on a point somewhere over his left shoulder.
"Professor McGonagall wants to speak to you, Sev... Snape," she repeated, and her voice was wrong.
It was too high, too light, with a childish quality that made her sound impossibly young. This wasn't the voice he remembered, the voice that had whispered secrets in the darkness, that had laughed at his jokes, that had screamed at him in the rain outside Gryffindor Tower. This was the voice of a girl, not a woman. A girl who was still learning who she was, who hadn't yet faced the horrors that would shape her into the person he remembered.
Something broke inside Severus. Some dam that had been holding back a flood of emotion suddenly gave way, and before he could stop himself, before he could think about what he was doing or why it was a terrible idea, he was speaking.
"Please, wait."
His voice cracked on the words, breaking like a boy's voice breaks during puberty, high and desperate and raw. He tried to sit up, managed to prop himself up on one elbow, though the effort made his head spin and his vision blur.
"I wanna... wanna talk."
There were tears in his eyes. He could feel them, hot and shameful, blurring his vision further. One escaped, rolling down his cheek, and he didn't bother to wipe it away. What did it matter? What did any of it matter?
Lily stopped in her tracks. She had been turning to leave, her hand already reaching for the door, but at his words she froze. Slowly, as though moving through water, she turned back to face him. Her eyes were wide, wider than he had ever seen them, her lips slightly parted in surprise. The confusion on her face was absolute, total, the expression of someone confronted with something so unexpected that they couldn't begin to process it.
She looked at Madam Pomfrey, a silent question in her eyes. What's wrong with him? Why is he acting like this? Should I be concerned?
Madam Pomfrey shrugged her shoulders, a small, economical gesture that conveyed both ignorance and indifference. Her expression remained neutral, but Severus thought he saw her lips twitch, as though she were suppressing a smile.
Lily looked back at Severus, and for a moment their eyes met. Green on black. Life on death. Hope on despair. He tried to memorize every detail of her face, to burn this image into his memory so deeply that nothing could ever erase it. The exact curve of her cheek. The precise shade of her eyes. The way her hair fell across her shoulder. Every freckle, every eyelash, every minute detail that made her who she was.
"Get some rest, Snape."
The words were cold, clipped, delivered with a bite that felt like a physical blow. She said his name like it was something distasteful, something she wanted to spit out and be rid of. There was no warmth in her voice, no recognition of the years they had spent as friends, as best friends, as something more than friends before it all fell apart.
It felt like a gunshot going off in his chest. Like someone had reached into his ribcage, wrapped their fingers around his heart, and squeezed until it burst. The pain was so intense, so overwhelming, that for a moment he couldn't breathe. He could only stare at her, at this girl who was Lily but also wasn't Lily, who was alive but also dead, who was everything he had ever wanted and everything he could never have.
She turned and walked away. Her footsteps echoed in the quiet of the hospital wing, each one driving the knife deeper into his chest. The door opened, closed, and she was gone.
Silence fell, broken only by the sound of Severus's ragged breathing and the quiet drip of water from the cloth Madam Pomfrey still held.
And then, impossibly, Madam Pomfrey started laughing.
It wasn't a polite chuckle or a suppressed giggle. It was a full, belly laugh, the kind that shook her entire body and made her double over slightly. She pressed one hand to her stomach, the other still clutching the wet cloth, and laughed until tears streamed down her face. The sound was rich and genuine, completely at odds with her usual stern demeanor.
"Oh," she gasped, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand, "oh my. Oh dear."
She looked at Severus, and her laughter redoubled. She had to set down the cloth and basin, had to brace herself against the table, her shoulders shaking with mirth.
"I think," she managed to say between gasps, "I think she likes you, Severus."
She giggled, actually giggled, like a schoolgirl sharing gossip with her friends. The sound was so incongruous coming from the usually stern matron that Severus could only stare at her in disbelief.
"Did you see her face?" Madam Pomfrey continued, her voice high with amusement. "When you asked her to wait? I thought her eyes were going to pop right out of her head! And the way she looked at you, all confused and flustered. Oh, that girl is absolutely smitten, mark my words."
Severus scowled, his grief and confusion momentarily overwhelmed by sheer irritation. His head was pounding, his heart was breaking, his entire world had apparently turned upside down, and this woman was laughing at him.
"Shut up, Poppy," he growled.
The words were barely out of his mouth before he realized his mistake. Madam Pomfrey's laughter cut off as abruptly as if someone had cast a Silencing Charm. Her expression shifted from mirth to outrage in the space of a heartbeat, her eyes narrowing dangerously.
"What did you just call me?" she asked, her voice deceptively soft.
Severus opened his mouth to respond, to apologize, to explain, but he never got the chance. Madam Pomfrey's hand moved faster than he would have thought possible, and she whacked him smartly across the back of his head with her open palm.
The impact wasn't particularly hard, but given his already fragile state, it might as well have been a Bludger to the skull. Pain exploded behind his eyes, sharp and blinding, radiating out from the point of impact in waves that made his previous headache seem like a mild inconvenience. He gasped, clutching at his head with both hands, squeezing his eyes shut against the agony.
"That," Madam Pomfrey said primly, her voice once again crisp and professional, "is for your impertinence, Mr. Snape. I am Madam Pomfrey to you, and don't you forget it."
She picked up the cloth and basin again, turning back to her work table as though nothing had happened. But Severus could see her shoulders shaking slightly, could hear the suppressed laughter in her voice when she spoke again.
"Now, lie back down before you fall down. You're in no state to be sitting up, let alone having emotional outbursts over pretty redheads."
Severus wanted to argue, wanted to demand answers, wanted to understand what was happening to him. But the pain in his head was too intense, and his body was too weak. He let himself fall back against the pillows, which immediately adjusted themselves to support his head at the optimal angle. The movement sent fresh waves of nausea rolling through him, and he had to breathe deeply through his nose to keep from being sick.
As the immediate pain began to fade to a more manageable throb, Severus forced himself to look around, to take in his surroundings properly for the first time since waking.
The hospital wing was exactly as he remembered it, and yet completely different. The basic layout was the same: a long room with tall windows along one wall, rows of beds separated by privacy screens, Madam Pomfrey's office at one end and her supply closet at the other. But the details were wrong, or rather, they were right for a time that wasn't now.
The beds were older, their frames made of dark wood rather than the lighter pine that would eventually replace them. The linens were white and crisp, but they lacked the warming charms that would be added in later years. The privacy screens were simple fabric rather than the enchanted ones that could display calming scenes or provide complete soundproofing.
Along the walls, shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, packed with bottles and jars of every size and description. Potions glowed in shades of blue and green and purple, their contents swirling lazily even though no one had touched them. Some bottles steamed gently, their vapors contained by cork stoppers sealed with wax. Others seemed to pulse with inner light, as though they contained captured stars. A few of the more dangerous concoctions were kept in cages of silver wire, additional protection against accidental breakage.
Several cauldrons sat on floating shelves, stirring themselves with invisible spoons. Severus could see the contents of the nearest one: a thick, golden liquid that gave off a faint smell of honey and something sharper, more medicinal. Pepperup Potion, most likely, or perhaps a variant designed to treat specific ailments. The cauldron next to it contained something dark and viscous that bubbled slowly, each bubble rising to the surface and popping with a soft hiss.
In the corner, perched on a golden stand, sat a phoenix. Severus blinked, certain he must be hallucinating, but no, it was definitely there. The bird was magnificent, its plumage a riot of red and gold that seemed to glow with inner fire. It watched him with intelligent black eyes, its head cocked slightly to one side, and as he stared at it, it let out a soft, melodious trill that seemed to ease some of the pain in his head.
"That's Fawkes," Madam Pomfrey said, noticing the direction of his gaze. "Professor Dumbledore lent him to me for the examination period. Phoenix tears are excellent for treating stress-related ailments, and we always have a few students who push themselves too hard during OWLs and NEWTs."
She approached his bed again, this time carrying a small vial filled with a potion the color of fresh blood. "Drink this. It will help with the headache and the nausea. And before you ask, no, it doesn't taste good. Nothing that works quickly ever does."
Severus took the vial with shaking hands and downed it in one gulp. She was right. It tasted like copper and bile and something that might have been rotted vegetables. He gagged, his stomach heaving, but he managed to keep it down. Almost immediately, he felt the effects. The pain in his head began to recede, fading from a sharp, stabbing agony to a dull, manageable ache. His vision cleared, the edges of his sight no longer fuzzy and indistinct. His stomach settled, the nausea fading to a faint queasiness that he could ignore.
On the wall opposite his bed, several portraits hung in ornate frames. Severus recognized some of them from his time as a professor, though others were unfamiliar. There was Dilys Derwent, looking stern and disapproving as always, her Healer's robes pristine white. Next to her hung a portrait of Hippocrates Smethwyck, the famous Healer who had pioneered treatments for magical maladies. He was currently asleep, his head tilted back, his mouth open in a silent snore.
But it was the portrait in the center that caught Severus's attention. It showed a witch with kind eyes and gentle smile, her hair pulled back in a style that had been fashionable centuries ago. As he watched, she noticed his gaze and smiled more broadly, giving him a small wave.
"Feeling better, dear?" she asked, her voice soft and maternal.
Severus nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His throat felt tight, his emotions too close to the surface. Everything was too much, too overwhelming. He was in the hospital wing as a student, not a professor. Lily was alive. Madam Pomfrey was younger. He had been taking his OWLs, examinations he had completed decades ago.
None of it made sense. And yet, it was all undeniably real. He could feel the scratchy hospital sheets beneath him, could smell the medicinal potions and the faint scent of phoenix feathers, could hear the distant sounds of the castle going about its daily business.
A clock ticked on the wall, its hands moving with steady precision. Severus watched them, trying to ground himself in something concrete, something that made sense. Tick. Tick. Tick. Each second passing, each moment bringing him further from the life he remembered and deeper into this impossible present.
Madam Pomfrey bustled about, checking on her other patients. There were three other occupied beds in the wing, Severus realized. A Hufflepuff boy who appeared to be covered in boils, a Ravenclaw girl whose hair had turned bright purple and was standing on end, and a Slytherin student who was completely encased in what looked like a full-body bandage, only their eyes visible.
"Examination mishaps," Madam Pomfrey explained, noticing his gaze. "Mr. Bones there decided to practice Transfiguration without proper supervision and managed to partially transfigure himself into a toad. The boils are a side effect of the reversal process. Miss Clearwater attempted to brew a Hair-Raising Potion for her Potions practical and added too much billywig sting. And Mr. Nott... well, let's just say that Charms examinations and overconfidence are a dangerous combination. He'll be fine in a few days, once the bandages have absorbed all the excess magic."
She returned to Severus's bedside, pulling up a chair and sitting down with a sigh. Up close, he could see the lines around her eyes, the slight sag of her cheeks, the way her hands showed the first signs of age. She was younger than he remembered, yes, but she wasn't young. She had already spent years tending to students, dealing with their injuries and illnesses, their dramatics and their genuine crises.
"Now then, Mr. Snape," she said, her voice taking on a more serious tone. "I need you to tell me exactly what happened. Professor Slughorn said you were writing your examination one moment, and the next you had collapsed onto your desk. He said there was blood, quite a lot of it, and that you were unresponsive when he tried to rouse you."
Severus opened his mouth, then closed it again. What could he possibly say? That he had been living another life, a life where he was a professor, where Lily was dead, where he had spent decades in service to Dumbledore and the Order of the Phoenix? That he had memories of events that hadn't happened yet, of wars and deaths and sacrifices?
She would think he was mad. She would probably dose him with Calming Draught and send an owl to St. Mungo's.
"I don't know," he said finally, which was perhaps the most honest answer he could give. "I remember writing the examination, and then... nothing. Just pain and confusion."
Madam Pomfrey studied him for a long moment, her grey eyes sharp and assessing. "Have you been sleeping properly? Eating regular meals? I know examination period is stressful, but you need to take care of yourself, Mr. Snape."
"I've been fine," Severus said, though he wasn't sure if that was true. He couldn't remember the past few days, couldn't remember studying for OWLs or eating in the Great Hall or sleeping in the Slytherin dormitory. His memories were a jumbled mess, two lives overlapping and contradicting each other.
"Hmm." Madam Pomfrey didn't look convinced, but she didn't press the issue. "Well, you'll be staying here for the rest of the day at least. I want to monitor you, make sure there are no lingering effects. You can return to your dormitory this evening if all goes well, but you're to take it easy. No studying, no practicing spells, no strenuous activity of any kind. Understood?"
Severus nodded, too tired to argue. The potion she had given him was working, but it was also making him drowsy. His eyelids felt heavy, his thoughts slow and syrupy.
"Good." Madam Pomfrey stood, smoothing down her robes. "I'll let Professor McGonagall know that you're in no condition to speak with her today. Whatever she wants can wait until tomorrow."
She started to walk away, then paused, turning back to look at him. Her expression had softened slightly, the stern matron replaced by something almost kind.
"For what it's worth, Mr. Snape," she said quietly, "Miss Evans is a lovely girl. But she's also a Gryffindor, and you're a Slytherin, and... well. These things are rarely simple, are they?"
Before Severus could respond, before he could even process what she had said, she was gone, disappearing into her office and closing the door behind her with a soft click.
Severus lay back against the pillows, staring up at the ceiling. The wooden beams crossed and recrossed, creating patterns that his tired mind tried and failed to make sense of. Somewhere in the castle, a bell tolled, marking the hour. Students would be finishing their examinations, filing out of the Great Hall, heading to their common rooms or the grounds to decompress.
And Lily would be among them. Lily, who was alive and fifteen and had looked at him with confusion and wariness. Lily, who had called him Snape with such coldness, such distance.
What had happened between them? In this time, in this version of events, what had he done to make her look at him like that?
The memories were there, he realized, buried beneath the other life, the other memories. He just had to reach for them, had to sort through the tangle of experiences and find the thread that belonged to this time, this place.
He closed his eyes and let himself drift, let the potion pull him down into sleep. And as he fell, he remembered.
He remembered being eleven and meeting a red-haired girl in a park, a girl who could make flowers bloom with a thought. He remembered Hogwarts, the Sorting, the way his heart had sunk when she went to Gryffindor and he to Slytherin. He remembered years of friendship, of studying together in the library, of sharing secrets and dreams.
And he remembered it falling apart. Remembered the other Slytherins, the ones who spoke of blood purity and the Dark Lord. Remembered being torn between two worlds, between the girl he loved and the power he craved. Remembered saying things he shouldn't have said, doing things he shouldn't have done.
Remembered, with sickening clarity, calling her Mudblood.
The memory hit him like a physical blow, and he gasped, his eyes flying open. But it was too late. Sleep was already pulling him under, dragging him down into darkness where memories and dreams tangled together until he couldn't tell which was which.
His last conscious thought was of green eyes, wide with hurt and betrayal, and a voice saying, "I can't pretend anymore. You've chosen your way, I've chosen mine."
And then there was nothing but darkness, and the distant sound of a phoenix singing.