The Great Hall smelled of blood and smoke. The echo of curses still clung to the rafters, though the shouting had stopped. Harry lowered his wand, his chest heaving, his ears ringing in the unnatural silence.
He didn't see the curse until it struck. A sharp streak of silver, straight at his chest——and a dark figure moved before him.
Snape.
The spell hit hard. His body jolted, his robes flaring, then he collapsed, heavy and limp, into Harry's arms.
For a moment Harry just stared. He had spent years imagining this man as immovable, sharp as steel. Yet the weight in his arms was fragile, shockingly light, his breath ragged.
"You—saved me," Harry whispered.
Snape gave something between a snort and a gasp. "Don't… flatter yourself." His voice was thin, strained. His eyes, always cold, were fixed on Harry with startling intensity.
Harry fumbled for words, but Snape's hand gripped his sleeve with surprising strength.
"You know," he rasped, . He coughed, the sound wet. "You have your mother's eyes."
The words pulled Harry under.
"I'm listening professor." Harry whispered.
The ruined hall blurred; the world shifted.
Stone walls.
The dungeons.
Severus Snape sat at the far desk, parchment untouched, quill idle between his fingers. Around him, laughter rose from a knot of Slytherins gathered in their usual pack. Their voices were low and sharp, and every so often, a glance cut toward him.
He didn't look up. He was used to it. He had long since stopped giving them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Still, the air carried their words.
"Forgot your scent again, Snape?" drawled Narcis Black. Even from across the room, his tone cut easily, smooth and cruel. "Or is it simply not there?"
A ripple of laughter followed. Severus's jaw tightened. His ink blotched on the page.
"You'd almost pass for one of us," Narcis went on lazily, his omega pheromones sharp as steel. "Almost."
The scrape of the door broke the tension.
Before Severus could register the interruption, someone slid into the empty seat beside him. A waft of gentler pheromones reached him, warm and annoyingly soft.
"Don't mind him," said Lillian Potter, voice light but steady. His auburn hair was untidy, his smile mild. "Narcis only bites because no one taught him manners."
Severus's quill scratched a single line across his parchment. "I didn't ask for your commentary."
Lillian shrugged, unfazed. "You never do."
A booming voice cut through before Severus could retort.
"Lily! Stop wasting your pity." James Potter strolled in, wand spinning in his fingers, his scent bright and smug as fire. "Some alphas like sulking in corners. Makes them feel dangerous."
Lillian rolled his eyes; their bickering sparked instantly, warm and familiar. Their laughter filled the dungeon, pushing against Severus like a hand against a bruise.
He pressed his quill harder, ink blotting again.
Then the door opened.
Silence fell at once.
Lucius Malfoy walked in.
The laughter died, the air shifting. His presence was a weight of its own—calm, unreadable, dangerous. His pale hair caught the candlelight; his robes were immaculate, each step deliberate. Even Narcis's smirk faltered, just a little.
Lucius's gaze swept the room like a blade. It landed on Severus and lingered.
Against his will, Severus met the look.
Lucius smiled. Not kindly. Not cruelly. Simply as though he had seen something worth his time.
It was enough to make Severus's breath hitch. He looked down quickly, ashamed of the heat in his chest.
He only ever wanted someone to see him, only wanted… someone to stay...