The dungeons were silent when Snape returned. His boots struck the stone floor with sharp, deliberate precision, but each step felt heavier than the last. By the time he reached his quarters, his hands were trembling.
With a flick of his wand, the door sealed shut behind him.
He stood there for a moment, rigid, his breath uneven. The chains of control he'd kept wrapped so tightly around himself all evening finally loosened—and the weight of it all crashed down.
---
The Private War
Snape collapsed into the chair by his desk, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Pettigrew's face burned in his mind. The sniveling voice. The pathetic excuses. The memories came unbidden—Lily's laugh, James's smirk, and then the sound of screaming.
He had dreamed of this night for years, of dragging Pettigrew into the light, of tearing away every lie. He should have felt satisfaction.
But all he felt was hollow.
"Second chance," he whispered bitterly to himself. His voice was sharp, rasping against the empty room. "And still, it isn't enough."
His hands curled into fists, nails biting his palms. He could have killed Pettigrew. Wanted to. The only thing that had stopped him was the boy—Potter—standing there, staring at him like… like what? Like he trusted him?
The thought made Snape's chest ache in a way he despised.
---
The Mirror of Salazar
He rose abruptly and crossed to the far wall. The mirror stood there, ancient runes curling around its frame.
"Show me," he commanded.
The glass rippled like water. His reflection stared back—but behind it, the past replayed: a younger Severus in tattered robes kneeling at Lily's grave, clutching a single white lily in shaking hands. His voice cracked through the memory.
"I'm sorry… I'm so sorry."
Snape's jaw tightened. The image dissolved.
"Pathetic," he hissed at himself. "All of it."
But when the glass stilled again, it no longer showed him alone. A boy appeared faintly in the background—messy hair, green eyes, standing behind him with a wary, searching expression.
Harry.
Snape's breath hitched, his composure faltering.
---
The Knock at the Door
A sudden knock jolted him from his thoughts. He whirled around, wand raised instinctively.
"Professor Snape?" Harry's voice.
Snape froze. "Potter," he bit out. "What in Merlin's name are you doing in the dungeons past curfew?"
There was hesitation, then: "I… wanted to check if you were okay."
Snape blinked, stunned into silence. For a moment, he wondered if he'd misheard.
He strode to the door and yanked it open, glaring down at Harry. The boy shifted under his stare but didn't back away.
"I'm fine," Snape said curtly. "Go back to your dormitory."
Harry frowned. "You don't look fine."
Snape's fingers twitched against the doorframe. No one had said that to him in years. Not even Dumbledore.
"Potter," he said, voice sharp but quieter than usual, "I assure you, your concern is misplaced."
Harry didn't move. "You stopped the Dementors from getting to me," he said suddenly. "You didn't even think about it."
Snape stiffened. "I did what was necessary."
Harry studied him for a long moment. "You keep saying that."
Their eyes locked. And for a fleeting second, Snape wondered if Harry saw past the walls—if he recognized the guilt that clung to him like a second skin.
But then Harry nodded once. "Goodnight, Professor."
Snape didn't reply. He watched silently as Harry walked back down the hall, his footsteps fading.
---
Alone Again
When the silence returned, Snape let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. His hand tightened around the doorframe until his knuckles ached.
He whispered to himself, voice low and strained:
"You're not him, Potter. You're not James."
But deep down, he wasn't sure who he was trying to convince anymore.