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Chapter Text

SEVERUS WOULD NEVER live to see the end of the world, but if he did, it would probably feel just like this moment had.

He could still remember the noise of the Gryffindors’ celebration, though now it seemed distant—like it was all a haze. The music had echoed faintly in his ears—so did the laughter, the shouts of triumph, the singing, the cheers—but it was all muffled to him, distorted, like something playing from the bottom of a deep well. Conversations had risen and fell, overlapping in waves, and yet not a single voice had stood out. His body had felt drenched—not with sweat, not with heat—but with something else, something heavier. It wasn’t cold exactly, not like ice slamming into him, but like something cool and slow. It had coated him, like rain sinking deep through his skin.

Severus remembered standing frozen, a jagged stone in the middle of a rushing river. His fingers had curled around the cup of beer someone had shoved into his hand earlier, its damp chill barely registering. It was untouched, still full, and he remembered his grip, how it had felt mechanical, like his hand wasn’t exactly his own.

He remembered the scents, how they’d hit him in waves, amplified to an unbearable degree: the acrid sharpness of sweat and damp air; the yeasty, metallic tang of spilled beer soaking into the carpet; the faint sweetness of something—perfume?—threading through it all, different versions of it mixing and floating in the air. It had pressed against him, too sharp, too much, and he felt the weight of it settle in his throat.

His joints had throbbed with a deep, dull ache, the kind that spread slowly, insidiously—radiating outwards like growing pains stretching him too far. His knees had tensed, his fingers ached where they wrapped around the untouched cup of beer in his hand. His eyes had burned—not a sharp sting, but a warm, dry discomfort, like he’d been staring too long without blinking, and now all the moisture was gone. His chest had risen and fell, his breathing shallow but present, each inhale barely scraping by. His heart had beat sluggishly, the weight of it dragging through his chest like a needle dragging across fabric, slow and deliberate like a broken metronome.

He remembered not being able to move. His legs had felt bolted to the floor. His body obeyed nothing—not the urge to turn away, not the instinct to blink or breathe or swallow. He remembered how he could see everything in front of him, his vision tunneled to one singular fragment: the swirl of movement, the blur of figures dancing, the bursts of scarlet and gold, Lily kissing James—but his mind… his mind had refused to process it.

It had felt like oil being poured over water—two realities repelling one another. He had stood apart from it all, rejecting it, but it refused to go away.

It was there.

He had seen it.

He had seen her.

Lily.

Lily and Potter.

Lily with Potter.

It had all been right in front of him.

Too real and not real enough.

Severus didn’t remember if he had made a sound or if she felt had the weight of his stare—heavy, desperate, unyielding—but he remembered Lily parting away from Potter and lifting her eyes. He remembered how, for the first time since he’d ever known her, he couldn’t tell the exact shade of green in her eyes… but he remembered the way they’d widened, the subtle parting of her lips, the way the flicker of something—surprise, recognition, realization, maybe shock—had filtered through her face.

Her lips had moved. Maybe she had said his name. Maybe she hadn’t.

Severus didn’t remember that.

He tried not to.

Instead, he remembered moving, the room blurring into motion as his body finally defrosted, obeying his command to move, keep moving, don’t stop moving. The cup of beer was still in his hand, heavy and cold and spilling droplets as he’d moved. He’d weaved through the throng of celebrating Gryffindors, his movements quick, practiced, his body moving as quickly as it could without breaking into a run. The air around him had seemed to close in on him, thrumming, pressing into his skull like a vise, but he pressed forward, his breaths growing shallower, the pressure rising in slow, agonizing increments.

Maybe it had been a trick of his mind, but over the cacophony of the music and laughter, he thought he had heard his name—Lily’s voice rising above it all. It had been impossible to tell if it was real, and he remembered not turning to check.

He remembered bumping into someone on his way out, the sudden jolt spilling the full contents of his beer down his front. He remembered how the sour, bitter stench had soaked into his robes, and how the nausea had risen swiftly, unrelenting. He remembered how his stomach had twisted violently, threatening to empty itself right there, and he remembered how he had raised his hand up, covering his mouth to stop it as he kept moving.

He remembered how his legs had carried him toward the portrait without hesitation, how he had shoved the portrait door open, and how it had felt like whiplash—the silence of the hallway slapping him like a physical blow compared to the chaos of the Gryffindor tower. He remembered how jarring it was, the absence of noise making his ears ring, amplifying the sound of his own ragged breathing, his heart pounding heaving, slamming against the cages of his ribs like a drum.

Two weeks had passed since then.

He didn’t remember much else.

Winter break had come to an end, and everyone that had gone home for the Yule holidays had returned.

Severus was the only Slytherin that never returned home during the holidays, and so he had had two weeks of solitude and silence to himself.

To think. To process. To dissect.

Now, the Great Hall was alive again.

The noise was unbearable.

It was a storm of sound, crashing and rolling, impossible to separate into individual pieces. Conversations overlapped in waves, clattering against each other, some shrill, some deep, all a ceaseless current of voices rising and falling, filling the vast space like an ocean at high tide. Cutlery scraped against plates, goblets clinked together, chairs scraped against stone, the shuffle of robes and the thud of elbows on tables wove into it all, a chaotic orchestra of motion and presence.

Students moved around him in fluid motion. A pack of Ravenclaws hurried past, their conversation breaking into fragments as they settled at their table—something about exams, something about a quidditch match, something about an experiment. At the Gryffindor table, someone had already started a game of exploding snap, the sharp cracks punctuating the air like miniature detonations. At the Hufflepuff table, there was more laughter. More shouts. The sound of someone playfully shoving someone else, the thud of a goblet slamming down on wood. First-years darted between tables, reuniting with friends, exchanging sweets and trinkets from their time away.

Severus felt a weight press against his skull—like the very air was crowding him, thick and suffocating. He heard everything but focused on nothing.

At the head table, the professors were gathered, their presence more formal than the students'. Dumbledore, as always, sat in the center, his eyes twinkling as he observed the scene before him. Minerva Mcgonagall’s sharp gaze flickered over the Gryffindor table, likely scanning for mischief, while Filius Flitwick was already in deep conversation with Septima Vector. Horace Slughorn, freshly returned from what was undoubtedly a holiday filled with fine dining and expensive gifts, chuckled heartily at something Pomona Sprout had said. Even Professor Kettleburn, who usually kept to himself, seemed caught in conversation with Professor Merrythought.

The enchanted ceiling above flickered with dim stars, the cloudy remnants of a snowstorm still lingering, reflecting the cold that clung to the stones of the castle.

Severus sat at the very edge of the Slytherin table, as far from the noise as he could get. The welcoming feast was mandatory. It was the only time he was ever in the Great Hall. He kept his head down, his fingers curled loosely around the goblet in front of him, his food untouched.

And through it all, he tried not to look at her.

But he could feel her eyes.

The weight of them, the way they tried to catch his. It was a force as tangible as the noise pressing in around him. He knew exactly where she was sitting—she always sat in the same place, surrounded by the same people. And yet, he refused to lift his gaze, refused to acknowledge the way the air between them seemed to hum with something heavy, unspoken.

So he busied himself.

His fingers rolled the stem of the goblet between them, his movements slow, deliberate, methodical. He traced the condensation along its surface, feeling the coolness seep into his fingertips. When that wasn't enough, he reached for a piece of parchment from his robes—one he had stuffed there absentmindedly earlier in the day. He folded it carefully, his hands working on autopilot, the creases sharp and precise. First into a triangle, then another, his fingers moving with quiet efficiency as he shaped it into a delicate crane. He had done this countless times before. Fold, press, shape. A small act of control amidst the chaos.

Even his breathing was something he tried to keep measured, careful. Inhale. Exhale. Keep it steady, because if he stopped thinking about it, he was half-convinced he might forget how.

Finally, Dumbledore stood.

The Great Hall dimmed slightly, as it always did when he commanded attention. The conversations slowly faded, voices dying out like embers, until all that remained was the occasional whisper and the rustle of robes as students shifted in their seats..

“Ah,” he said, voice rich with mischief and meaning, “the spring term begins. Welcome back to these ancient halls, which, I assure you, missed your footfalls terribly—even if your professors might not admit the same.”

A few scattered chuckles.

He looked over them all—hundreds of young faces lit by candlelight—and for a moment, said nothing. Just smiled, softly, like he saw something only he could.

“The winter holidays, I find, are curious things,” he said. “They offer rest, yes, and warmth and the very fine illusion that time has paused, just a little. But they also make excellent mirrors.”

He began to pace slowly behind the staff table, the hem of his robe whispering across the stones.

“They reflect back to us the faces we miss. The things we hoped would feel different. The people we once were—or hoped to become. Some of you returned to Hogwarts relieved. Others returned carrying… something a little heavier than your trunks.”

Severus didn’t look up. But he could feel Dumbledore’s words, curling around him like smoke.

“Now then,” Dumbledore continued lightly, “a few practical matters. The Forbidden Forest remains—as ever—very good at being forbidden. Those of you who wandered too close last term may remember that it bites. The Charms corridor will be undergoing some rather loud magical renovations, so if you hear singing bricks or find your hair levitating unexpectedly, do not panic. It is all quite intentional.”

Laughter again, this time a little easier. But Dumbledore’s smile faded, just a touch.

“And now, a word for our seventh years.”

The Hall quieted further. Even the shadows seemed to still.

“You, my dear students, are standing at a strange place,” Dumbledore said. “Not quite finished, not quite free. One foot in childhood, the other in whatever awaits you beyond these walls.”

He tilted his head, eyes twinkling.

“You are all, I’m afraid, growing up. Terribly inconvenient, I know.”

Everyone laughed.

“I speak, of course, as someone who is still quite young himself. Why, only the other day, I was reminiscing with my socks about my own adolescence. I was dreadfully over-serious, you know. Always brooding in corners and muttering about the meaning of life. Which is to say: some things never change.”

Scattered laughter, softer this time.

“But, the marvel of growing up stands the same: it does not happen all at once, and it does not always happen kindly.”

He paused. Then tilted his head thoughtfully.

“Growing up is not a matter of age, or even achievement. It is a series of small, invisible partings.”

He held their gaze, his voice growing quieter, but no less sure.

“There will be moments this term when you feel left behind. When someone you cared for takes a different path—or a different hand. No spell can protect the heart from that.”

“But,” Dumbledore said gently, “take comfort in this: nothing truly worth keeping is ever lost forever. The people who shape us are never really gone. And sometimes, letting go is not defeat, but the beginning of a new kind of magic.”

A long pause. Just candlelight and the low murmur of the wind outside the windows.

“So,” he said, brightening as though he hadn’t just cracked their chests open and rearranged their ribs, “whatever you are chasing this term—grades, glory, closure—I suggest you do so with great care. And greater courage.”

He clapped his hands once.

“Let the feast begin.”

Severus picked up his fork.

He didn’t eat because he was hungry. He ate because it was something to do. Because if he sat there, unmoving, it might betray something he didn’t want to show to the eyes that wouldn’t leave him. He ate steadily, without pause, without thought, until he felt full—uncomfortably so. Only then did he stop, setting his fork down with quiet finality.

And then he turned back to his parchment, fingers smoothing over the delicate folds of another crane, waiting for the moment they would finally be dismissed.

It was easy to ignore the world when the world was fond of ignoring you in turn.

Outwardly, he was the same as always. His lank, greasy hair hung limp around his face. His skin, waxy and pale, looked almost sickly under the glow of the enchanted ceiling. His long fingers rested idly on the table, their movements slow, deliberate, curling and uncurling like they weren’t sure what else to do. His expression remained impassive, unreadable, his dark eyes fixed on nothing in particular. He looked unaffected. Detached. The same as ever.

But inside, Severus wanted to hurl.

Heat prickled at the back of Severus’s neck, spreading in waves down his spine, pooling beneath his skin like fever. It was unbearable—this sensation of being too full, too present in his own body, yet somehow on the verge of slipping away entirely. His consciousness flickered, like a candle caught in a draft, threatening to snuff out entirely before surging back with startling clarity. The world around him swayed in and out of focus.

His face remained blank. His lips pressed together, a thin, unwavering line.

He forced his breathing to steady, exhaling slowly through his nose. He pushed everything down, every creeping discomfort, every rising wave of nausea, locking it away with the same ruthless precision he had honed for years. His mind was a fortress, reinforced and unyielding. Brick by brick, he reinforced his defenses, closing every open door, every crack where the outside world could slip in.

Occlumency.

The act was second nature by now. He withdrew inward, pulling the shutters closed, smoothing over the jagged edges of his thoughts until they were nothing but a flat, empty plane. The warmth in his skin, the tightness in his chest, the feeling of eyes lingering too long—they were all distant things. Things that did not matter.

His fingers found another scrap of parchment, folding it with methodical precision.

He felt her eyes.

He did not look at her.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS HAD ALWAYS been good at hiding—at folding into himself so completely that the world around him faded into something distant, inconsequential. It was a skill honed over years, a quiet mastery of vanishing without ever leaving the room.

He had just never expected to have to hide from her.

It had been one week since the school term began. Three weeks since that moment. Three weeks since the world had lurched beneath his feet, tilting him off balance, leaving him scrambling for footing that no longer existed.

And he had been avoiding Lily ever since.

It wasn’t easy. After six years of existing in tandem, of moving through the castle like twin veins, there was hardly a space untouched by her presence. Every class they took together, they had always sat side by side. Their routines had been set in stone, their paths so intertwined that unraveling them now felt impossible.

So he chose the easiest pass.

He didn’t go to class.

Not the ones he shared with her, at least.

He couldn’t sit beside her, pretend like nothing had changed, pretend like he wasn’t coming apart at the seams. He couldn’t stomach the way she would look at him—the way she always looked at him, like she could see through him, through every brittle defense, through every shield he threw up. He couldn’t bear the thought of what she might say, or worse, the possibility that she might not say anything at all.

So he skipped.

It was easier to let the hours slip by in the solitude of the library’s forgotten corners, where the silence stretched long and uninterrupted. Or to wander the castle’s lesser-used corridors, where the torches burned low, and the drafts carried whispers of voices long past.

He didn’t want to talk about it.

Didn’t want to hear her voice, to see the shape of his name on her lips.

Didn’t want to know if it still sounded the same after she had kissed the one person he loathed above everything else.

Maybe it was easy because of the convenience—because the first week back was always chaos for prefects. Meetings, rounds, new first-years to wrangle. Lily would be pulled in every direction, tasked with reassuring tearful eleven-year-olds while keeping a watchful eye on mischief-making fifth-years. She’d be darting across the castle, clipboard in hand, that precise, purposeful stride of hers echoing down the corridors. That was the thing about her—she was always in motion, always handling everything with that crisp, efficient kindness that made people trust her. Admire her. Want her.

Maybe she was just too busy to notice he was gone.

Or maybe she wasn’t looking.

Severus was good at hiding. Always had been. He knew the places in the castle where no one went, the alcoves behind old suits of armor, the shadowed crevices in the library stacks where the dust gathered thick on forgotten tomes, the bell tower. He could vanish when he wanted to.

But clearly not well enough.

“Severus.”

The name hit like a punch to the gut.

It sounded the same—each syllable curling just as it always had, the soft flick of her tongue against her teeth, the steady cadence, the unthinking familiarity of it. Unchanged. Undisturbed. As if nothing had shifted between them, as if the ground hadn’t cracked open beneath his feet three weeks ago, as if his entire world hadn’t tilted while hers remained perfectly intact.

Severus didn’t know whether to consider that a relief or another twist of the knife.

She looked the same.

Her red hair fell in loose waves over her shoulders, catching in the torchlight like strands of copper and gold. A few errant curls clung to the edges of her face, framing the curve of her jaw, the soft line of her cheekbones. Her winter-pale skin was tinged faintly pink from the cold, the kind of flush that made her look alive in a way he never had. And her mouth—that same mouth that had once whispered secrets to him in the dark, that had always quirked into a knowing half-smile when she caught him in a lie—was pressed into something unreadable, maybe sad.

And her eyes.

He knew their color. He had memorized it once, could have plucked the exact shade from memory with painstaking precision. But now, as he met her gaze, his vision blurred at the edges. He couldn’t pin down the green, couldn’t determine whether they were darker or lighter, couldn’t even tell if they had lost the warmth he once swore was there.

He didn’t know if he even wanted to remember.

His body betrayed him first.

For one breath, one fraction of a second, instinct took over. He swayed forward, drawn in like a plant tilting toward the sun. The years had carved out a path for him, one he had followed without question, and every part of him still wanted to follow it now. To turn to her, to listen, to exist in her orbit as he always had.

But then he flinched.

Because it burned now.

It still burned.

Severus turned away from her.

Lily lurched forward.

“No. Severus, please—”

Her fingers barely brushed the air between them before he recoiled so violently it was as if she had struck him. His whole body snapped back, muscles locking as if bracing for impact. His shoulders curled in on themselves, his breath hitching, and the force of his reaction shocked even him. But it was the look on her face—eyes wide, startled, something close to despair flickering behind them—that twisted the knife deeper.

She hadn’t expected that.

Maybe, deep down, neither had he.

Severus turned sharply on his heel, ready to leave, to disappear down the corridor before she could make it worse. But Lily moved before he could take another step. This time, she didn’t try to touch him. Instead, she stepped into his path, blocking his way.

“Severus, please—”

“Stop,” he said.

The words scraped against his throat like they didn’t belong there. His voice was hoarse, rough from disuse, barely above a whisper.

Without her to talk to, Severus hadn’t had much use for his voice. The silence had settled in quickly, thick and suffocating, curling in the spaces she used to fill. He hadn’t spoken much in the past three weeks, only when absolutely necessary—an occasional muttered spell, a clipped response in the common room, a grunted acknowledgment when prodded by a professor. But nothing more. His voice felt foreign in his mouth now, like something rusted and broken from being left untouched for too long.

“What?” Lily asked.

Severus closed his eyes, willing himself to stay steady, trying to force down the painful lump rising in his throat.

He didn’t want to talk about it.

He didn’t even know what to say.

So he repeated, “Stop.”

Like if he said it enough, it would end this conversation before it could begin.

Like if he could carve the word into the space between them—blunt, final, unquestionable—then maybe he wouldn’t have to bleed in front of her.

“I’m fine,” he said.

The lie cracked like a faultline between them.

And Lily, obviously, didn’t let it go.

“You’re obviously not fine, Severus.” Her voice was sharper now, her frustration breaking through the concern. “You’ve been skipping class. You haven’t been at the Great Hall. You’ve been avoiding everyone. Avoiding me.” Her eyes searched his, and when he didn’t answer, her expression wavered. “Please, Severus.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again.

There was a version of this moment where he told her everything. Where he said, I saw you. I saw you with him. I haven’t been able to breathe since. Where he admitted how the image of her, laughing with Potter, had embedded itself into his ribcage like shrapnel, aching every time he moved.

But instead, he said nothing.

He couldn’t do this.

Not now.

Not with her.

He turned away, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t do this right now.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Lily snapped, her voice low and taut.

He flinched.

“Just forget about it,” he muttered, as if dismissing it would somehow sever the tether pulling too tight between them.

Lily inhaled sharply.

Her face fell, her expression flickering through a cascade of emotions—confusion, hurt, disbelief—before settling into something raw and wounded. Her lips parted slightly, as if she’d been about to protest but lost the words before they could form. Her brows knitted together, not in anger, but in something far worse: realization.

“No,” she said finally, quietly. “You don’t get to do that.”

He turned halfway, jaw tight. “Do what?”

“Push me away. Pretend none of this matters.” She stepped toward him, and for the first time, he didn’t move. “You don’t get to disappear for days, ignore me, and then act like it’s all in my head.”

“I never said that.”

“You didn’t have to!” she burst, eyes shining now. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I haven’t been looking for you? Waiting for you to say something—anything?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” he said bitterly.

She reeled back like he’d struck her.

There was a silence then—hot, blistering, fragile.

And still, she didn’t leave.

Instead, she stepped in closer. Her voice softened, not in kindness, but in fury restrained only by heartbreak. “Why won’t you just talk to me?”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, his voice sharp and cold.

Severus looked at her. Really looked.

And he spoke again.

“Just forget about it, Lily.”

Lily inhaled sharply.

Her face fell, her expression flickering through a cascade of emotions—confusion, hurt, disbelief—before settling into something raw and wounded. Her lips parted slightly, as if she’d been about to protest but lost the words before they could form. Her brows knitted together, not in anger, but in something far worse: realization.

Her green eyes searched his face, desperate for some sign that he didn’t mean it, that he’d take it back, that this was just another one of those moments where he pushed and she pulled until they found their way back to each other. But there was something different this time, something distant in the way he looked at her.

Her breath hitched, and when she finally spoke, her voice was small, fragile. “Does that include forgetting me?”

The words hit him like a slow, twisting knife.

Does that include forgetting me?

Severus felt something inside him lurch, like the floor had tilted beneath his feet. It was the way she said it—soft, uncertain, almost hesitant, like she was afraid of the answer. Like she didn’t already know.

For a moment, his mind threatened to crack open under the weight of it all. Memories flooded in unbidden, sharp and unrelenting—the warmth of her laughter, the way she used to tug on his sleeve to get his attention, the smell of her soap when she leaned too close, the endless hours spent in hidden corners of the castle where they were just them, before everything had gone so horrifically wrong.

Forget her?

Severus had spent the past three weeks trying to. Trying to bury every trace of her, to cut her out like a sickness before she could rot him from the inside out. He had avoided the places they used to linger, had skipped every class they shared, had shoved his hands deep in his pockets just to keep from reaching out for something that wasn’t there anymore.

But forgetting her? That was impossible.

She was stitched into him, woven so deeply into his existence that the thought of tearing her away felt like ripping his own skin off. He had spent more of his life with Lily Evans than without her. Forgetting her would be like trying to forget how to breathe.

And yet—

Severus inhaled sharply through his nose, forcing himself still.

She had meant something by that question. A plea, maybe. A wound she didn’t know how to close.

And wasn’t that the cruelest thing? That she could stand there, searching his face like she still had a right to his answer, while he was the one left flayed open?

His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails biting into his palms.

Severus swallowed against the dryness in his throat. His voice, when it came, felt foreign in his own mouth.

“I don’t know what you want me to say.”

She flinched, just barely. He saw it in the way her breath caught, the way her lips parted slightly, searching for something—anything—to grab hold of.

“Anything!” she burst out. Her voice cracked at the edges, raw and desperate. “Severus, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry. I was drunk, and he was—he’s been—”

She was breathing too fast. He could see it, the way her shoulders trembled with each inhale, the way her fingers curled and uncurled against her sides like she didn’t know what to do with them. The words were spilling out of her in a rush, unfiltered, frantic, as if she could outrun them, as if saying them fast enough could soften the weight of them.

But Severus felt every word like a strike against bone.

Drunk.

She had been drunk.

A bitter taste coated the back of his tongue. A slow, creeping nausea curled in the pit of his stomach, twisting, knotting, until he thought he might be sick right there in the middle of the corridor.

He didn’t want to hear this.

He didn’t want to picture it.

But the image burned itself into his mind anyway—Lily with him, with Potter, her hands gripping his jacket, her lips moving against his like it was easy, like it was nothing, like it had meant—

Severus didn’t realize he was holding his breath until he forced the breath from his lungs, forced his voice past the raw ache in his throat.

“Did it mean something?”

Lily stilled.

“What?”

Silence.

It stretched between them, thick, pressing, suffocating.

Severus could hear his own heartbeat in his ears, the uneven thud-thud-thud as he watched her. He could see the moment she hesitated, the second of faltering doubt before she steeled herself, straightened her back, lifted her chin.

“I—” Her mouth opened, closed. Then, finally— “No.”

No.

“No,” she repeated. “No. It didn’t. It didn’t mean anything.”

She stepped toward him, frantic now, the words tumbling out as if she could bury the truth beneath them.

“We were at that party, the one in the common room after the match—Mary dragged me there, and Marlene was already drunk and dancing on the table, and someone handed me something in a cup and I didn’t even think, I just—I drank it. I wasn’t thinking, I swear, and Ja—Potter—he was just there, being… being— and I was just—I don’t know, it was loud, and stupid, and I didn’t mean for any of it to happen—”

She was crying now, not openly, but in that silent, shaking way that made it worse. Her voice cracked again.

“Kissing—Severus, it was a—a big, stupid, horrible—”

Her hands reached out, hovered like she wanted to take his, like she didn’t dare.

“Severus, please. You have to believe me. I didn’t mean it.” She looked at him desperately.

“It didn’t mean anything.”

Severus stood still, rigid, silent—because if he opened his mouth, he might scream.

Or worse, he might forgive her.

And he couldn’t do that.

A drunken mistake, then. What she had done was a drunken mistake.

Severus didn’t know what to do with that.

He had braced himself for a hundred different answers, had imagined them all in varying shades of pain, but this—this particular one—was something else entirely.

Because he wasn’t a stranger to drunken mistakes, was he? He had spent his childhood wading through the wreckage of them, watching as his father stumbled home reeking of cheap whiskey and bad decisions, slurring apologies that meant nothing, that fixed nothing, that only ever made things worse.

His body and mind were littered with them.

A chipped tooth from a backhanded swing that missed its mark. A hairline scar above his brow from being shoved too hard into the corner of a table. A permanent flinch stitched into his spine, instinctual, silent, honed by years of ducking when glass shattered or voices rose too quickly.

He had grown up knowing that sorry was just a word people said when they wanted to be forgiven without having to change. A drunken mistake was what people called it when they didn’t want to take responsibility. When they wanted to be told it wasn’t their fault.

So no—he didn’t know what to do with that.

Because he had never been allowed to make drunken mistakes. He had only ever been made to survive them.

And now here she was.

Lily.

Saying those same words, in that same voice, with those same pleading eyes.

A drunken mistake.

Could he forgive her?

Could he forgive this?

Severus looked at her—at her wide, pleading eyes, at the way she wrung her hands like she wanted to take it all back, like she wanted to turn back time and undo whatever this was, whatever they were now.

But that was the thing about mistakes.

They never really went away.

Suddenly, the bell rang, a sharp, resounding chime that cut through the thick silence between them.

Severus exhaled. His shoulders eased, just barely, at the easy escape, at the relief of not having to answer, not having to decide. Around them, students began pouring into the hallways, streaming in from the Great Hall, their voices rising in an indistinct hum. Laughter, chatter, footsteps against stone—mundane, ordinary things that felt almost intrusive after the weight of their conversation.

He adjusted his bag. “I have to get to class.”

Lily’s expression flickered—first confusion, then realization, then something that almost looked like hurt.

“Severus—”

But he was already turning, already starting to walk. She hesitated for only a second before falling into step a few paces behind, trailing after him in silence.

They had Potions together.

Neither of them spoke as they walked. The corridor felt too long, too quiet, even with the swell of voices around them—echoes of laughter, the scrape of shoes, the occasional flutter of parchment or burst of magical mischief. But all of it felt distant, muffled, as though Severus were moving through a dream he couldn’t quite wake from.

He kept his gaze trained forward, his pace steady, almost mechanical. His fingers curled tighter around the strap of his bag, the worn leather biting into his palm. Every step felt too loud, too deliberate. Like he had to remember how to move in the wake of everything that hadn’t been said.

The dungeons loomed ahead, cooler, darker, and somehow quieter than the rest of the castle. The torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that danced across the stone floor. His boots struck a steady rhythm, and behind him—no, beside him now—he could hear the softer tread of Lily’s shoes, light but persistent.

When they finally reached the dungeons, the Potions classroom looming before them, Severus stepped ahead and pulled the heavy door open.

Lily blinked at him, surprised by the small gesture of civility.

But it wasn’t civility.

Not really.

It was habit, the way almost all of his ingrained actions were still catered to her, despite everything.

For a moment, she looked like she might say something, but instead, her lips pressed together, and she smiled—a small, tentative thing, like she was afraid he might take it back.

Severus only stared at her.

She stepped through.

He let the door swing shut behind them, the click of the latch loud in the thick, potion-scented air. The classroom was cool and dim, lit mostly by the greenish glow of enchanted lanterns that flickered along the walls. The stone walls were lined with shelves of old jars and bottles, their contents suspended in murky fluid—beetle eyes, shriveled roots, slivers of silver bark.

Their usual table sat near the front, tucked between a high-arched window and one of the large workbenches laden with equipment. It was a sturdy slab of blackened oak, stained by years of spills and failed experiments of students before them. The surface was pocked with faint scorch marks and shallow knife grooves, worn smooth in the middle where two elbows had leaned a thousand times over the years. Their initials were carved into the underside, hidden just behind a low-hanging cauldron hook—something he had done at the start of the year, as they did every year after year as they moved classrooms.

Two stools stood on either side, slightly uneven in height, the left one always wobbling if you shifted your weight wrong. They had fought over that once—half-playfully, half-serious. She had always insisted he take the steadier one. That was back when he let her win.

She hesitated before sitting down, glancing back at him, expectant, hopeful.

Like maybe this—this desk, this space they had shared for so long—might still be theirs.

He stood by the door, surveying the classroom, his gaze sweeping past the other students settling into their seats, past the flicker of potion steam rising from the cauldrons, and finally, to her.

To their desk.

He didn’t move.

Not yet.

The weight of that small distance between them felt heavier than it should have. Like something was waiting to snap.

The usual hum of students settling in filled the space—the scrape of chairs against stone, the quiet rustle of books being opened, the low murmur of conversation. Everything looked the same as it always had, as if nothing had changed. As if he and Lily could simply sit in their usual spot, side by side, and pretend the last few weeks hadn’t happened.

His eyes landed on their table, the one they had claimed since the start of sixth year without ever needing to say it out loud. Lily was already there, perched at the edge of her seat, her hands folded on the desk like she was waiting.

For him.

Her posture was too careful—shoulders drawn in slightly, spine straight as if she were bracing herself. One foot tapped softly against the stone floor, barely audible but constant, a nervous rhythm she probably didn’t realize she’d started. Her fingers fidgeted, picking at the edge of her sleeve, tugging at a loose thread with small, jerky movements that betrayed the calm she was trying so hard to hold.

She kept glancing toward the door—toward him—then quickly away, like she didn’t want to be caught hoping. Like she was afraid that if she looked too long, he might vanish.

There was a tightness around her mouth. Not quite a frown, not quite a smile. Just the uncertain stillness of someone balancing on the edge of a choice they don’t get to make alone.

Severus swallowed.

He could still sit down. He could slide into the seat beside her, let her talk, let her smooth over the jagged edges of whatever this had become. He could let himself believe—for just a little while longer—that none of this had ever happened.

But it had.

His gaze flickered away, scanning the rest of the room. Avery and Rosier had already claimed their usual spot near the middle, half-slouched in their chairs, quills tapping lazily against parchment. A cluster of Ravenclaws whispered among themselves at the opposite end of the room, already assembling ingredients with practiced precision.

A few Hufflepuffs hovered near the front—earnest, wide-eyed, already unpacking their cauldrons and jotting down preemptive notes. Two Gryffindors lingered awkwardly by the shelves, clearly hoping they wouldn’t have to partner with anyone outside their house. Gryffindors were rarely seen in N.E.W.T.-level Potions. Rarer still to see them so quiet.

And in the very back, where he was the last available seat, sat Mulciber.

Alone. Asleep.

Severus shifted his bag higher on his shoulder.

Then, without a word, he started walking.

Each step felt too loud against the flagstones. He kept his eyes forward, but he felt Lily’s gaze track him, burning between his shoulder blades. He couldn’t help it—he glanced sideways as he passed her.

She was still perched at the edge of their desk, posture rigid, her hands now gripping the sides of her chair. Their eyes met for the briefest moment—just a flicker—and it hit him how naked she looked. Not physically. Emotionally. Like she’d taken off whatever mask she usually wore and had nothing left but raw hope, straining at the edges.

He walked past her.

She didn’t stop him.

Didn’t call his name.

Didn’t say anything at all.

But her smile faltered. Then collapsed.

Severus moved through the rows, passing the Ravenclaw table—Baddock scooted her chair in with a hiss of disapproval when he brushed her shoulder. Her friend made a faint sound of disgust and whispered something sharp under her breath. A Hufflepuff scowled and pulled their cauldron protectively closer as he passed, as if he might hex it out of spite.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t flinch.

As he lowered himself into the chair beside Mulciber, dropping his bag onto the desk with a dull thud, he didn’t have to look up to know she was still watching him.

Severus kept his eyes fixed on his desk, methodically pulling out his textbook, quill, and ink. His fingers worked automatically, arranging each item with careful precision, anything to keep his hands occupied.

Beside him, Mulciber had shoved his cauldron and tools carelessly to the edge of the table, making no effort to set up for class. Instead, he was fast asleep, head bent on the desk, arms folded beneath him like makeshift pillows. It was as if he’d never even intended to stay awake in the first place.

Severus didn’t acknowledge it—not outwardly, at least—but what surprised him more than Mulciber’s complete disregard for class was the fact that he had even made it into N.E.W.T.-level Potions to begin with. Slughorn had been known to be generous with his standards, especially if he saw potential in a student (read: the power of their name), but even that had its limits. Mulciber had always been more interested in brawls than any delicate art of brewing. Maybe, Severus thought bitterly, he’d slipped through the cracks the same way he did everything else.

The classroom door swung open, and Slughorn bustled in, his robes billowing slightly with the movement.

His deep green velvet robes were a little too snug around the middle this year, cinched just above a soft stomach that spoke of indulgent summer dinners and too many candied pineapple slices. A slight flush colored his cheeks, and his silver mustache twitched with every word as he made his way to the front of the room, radiating his usual blend of cheer and self-importance.

“Seventh years, welcome!” he announced, beaming at the class. He paused, surveying the room with a twinkle in his eye. “My, my, how grown you all are. I could’ve sworn some of you were still learning to chop dandelion roots just yesterday! Now look at you—nearly adults. Some of you taller, some of you wiser—hopefully both!”

A few students chuckled politely. Rosier smirked. Lily didn’t laugh.

“And of course,” Slughorn continued, warming to the sound of his own voice, “I had a simply marvelous summer! Spent a week with the Tillywethers in Kent—you wouldn’t believe the size of the flobberworms they’ve bred this year. As thick as my wrist! And I do mean my wrist, not anyone else’s—don’t look so scandalized, Miss Patel.”

He gave a jolly wheeze at his own joke, then gestured vaguely toward the shelves. “Now, now, I’ll spare you the rest of my holiday tales—you’re here to brew, not to envy my sunburn. Let’s get down to it, shall we?”

He flicked his wand toward the board, and today’s instructions scrawled themselves across the slate in looping white chalk:

“This is the final and most important stretch of your academic journey in Potions, and I do hope you’ll find it both challenging and rewarding.”

He clasped his hands together, looking over them with pride. “You’ve spent the last six years building your foundations—learning about the delicate interplay of reagent compatibility, the significance of dissolution rates, the balancing of catalytic agents. You have mastered the importance of precise temperature control, the sequencing of ingredient additions, and, of course…” He raised an eyebrow. “All those hours agonizing over whether to stir clockwise or counter-clockwise—ah, the thrilling mysteries of cauldron care.”

A few students laughed softly. Slughorn grinned wider, clearly pleased.

“By now, you should know the difference between adding belladonna at the boil and at the simmer—unless, of course, you fancy turning your cauldron into a cursed soup pot.”

Laughter rippled through the room. Slughorn beamed.

“This year,” Slughorn continued, with a conspiratorial lean forward, “you’ll be applying that knowledge not just to individual assignments, but to long-term, collaborative projects. I’m talking about multi-phase brews, spell-infused reagents, and potions that, when brewed correctly, could get you a foot in the door at St. Mungo’s or the Department of Mysteries. Real-world experience! As many of you are now of age—legal adults, Merlin help us all—you’ll be expected to act like it. That means teamwork.”

There were some snorts and groans at that.

“Now, I know, I know,” Slughorn chuckled, waving a hand. “Some of you are thinking, ‘But Professor, I work better alone!’ And to that I say: no one brews alone. Whether you end up as a Healer, a Curse-Breaker, or some grand researcher tucked away in the potions dungeons of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, you will work with others.”

“Yes, yes,” Slughorn said with a good-natured huff, “I know some of you think you’re lone alchemists, destined to create glory from silence and solitude. But even Dandelus Derwent had a partner when he developed the Boil Draught, even though it was to use them as the test subject.”

More chuckles followed. Mulciber shifted beside Severus, still asleep.

Slughorn clapped his hands, bringing the attention back to him.

“So, to save myself the headache—and to spare you all from my own unfortunate history of attempting to pair you by compatibility charts—whoever you’re seated beside now will be your partner for the term project.”

A collective reaction swept the classroom—some delighted, others groaning in dismay. A few Slytherins looked smug. A pair of Gryffindor girls high-fived under the table. Lily didn’t move.

Severus didn’t look at her.

She was already seated. And so was he.

With someone else.

Severus flicked a glance at Mulciber, whose head remained firmly down, his slow, steady breathing confirming that he hadn’t heard a word of the lesson so far.

Then, as if by instinct, Severus’s gaze lifted across the room—to Lily.

She was seated alone, picking at her nails absently, trying to focus on Slughorn but clearly not entirely present. Her brows furrowed just slightly, lips pressed into a line.

Her hand paused mid-pick, fingers curling against her palm as though catching herself in the act. Then, slowly—like she knew she shouldn’t but couldn’t stop—she turned her head. Her gaze slid across the classroom, deliberate and searching, until it landed on him.

Her eyes met his.

Not for long. Just a second—maybe two.

But it was enough.

The tightness in her jaw loosened, just slightly. Her shoulders dropped. Her lips parted like she might call his name, like she was waiting for something—a sign, an opening, anything.

Severus looked away.

He fixed his eyes on the instructions on the board and picked up his quill with fingers that trembled only a little.

Slughorn, oblivious, carried on. “Your term project will not be a mere replication of existing potions. No, no, you’ll be expected to engage in practical formulation—modifying known brews, testing the stability of new reagent interactions, and, ultimately, crafting something innovative.”

A murmur of interest rippled through the class. Slughorn smiled.

“You see, true mastery of potions is not simply following instructions. It is understanding the why behind each step. Why does powdered moonstone act as a conduit in Draughts of Tranquility but as a destabilizer in more aggressive stimulants? What happens when you alter the ratios of bezoar infusions in experimental antidotes? Can one adjust the bioavailability of healing draughts without sacrificing potency?”

Slughorn continued, his voice growing more animated. “And because we are focusing on practical application, this project will take several months, requiring research, testing, and meticulous documentation. It is not simply about brewing but about innovation and—yes, even failure.” He chuckled. “Because, as you all know, some of the greatest discoveries in magical science have come from things not going exactly as planned.”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, clearly pleased with himself. “Now then! I know what you’re thinking—‘Professor, what if I simply cannot abide the person beside me?’” He raised his eyebrows dramatically. “Well, my darlings, if you ever find yourselves dueling over cauldron space or sabotaging each other’s stirring rods, do try to do it outside of class hours. I’m far too old to referee spats, and Madam Pomfrey is still cross about the last time someone blew their fringe clean off.”

A few students laughed; someone near the back groaned in dread.

“But,” he said, voice softening, “this year is not just about passing your N.E.W.T.s—though Merlin knows I want to see every one of you walk out of here with an Outstanding on your parchment.”

He swept a look across the room, eyes twinkling.

“No, no. This year is also about freedom. Every one of you is qualified, now, to experiment within the boundaries of proper safety and procedure, of course.” He grinned. “I once had a student attempt to create a self-stirring potion. Nearly lost his eyebrows—and half the ceiling—but heavens, what initiative!”

A few scattered snorts.

“So. You will brew what’s assigned, yes, but I will also expect you to think. To question. To test. Your term project will include a portion of original application—your own formulation, adaptation, or improvement on an existing brew.”

He leaned on his desk now, suddenly more earnest.

“This is the level where you begin to contribute. I want to see what you can do when no one is telling you exactly what to do. I want to see you flourish. Because that is what Potions is about—not just precision, but imagination. Not just rules, but risk.”

He straightened again and smiled.

“And of course,” he added with a wink, “if anyone creates a restorative that helps with my knees, you’ll get top marks and a box of crystallized pineapple.”

The class chuckled just a little bit.

Then, with a flick of his wand, the chalk on the board rearranged itself into a step-by-step brew.

“Well then! Let’s—”

Slughorn clapped his hands together, rings glinting under the torchlight, a burst of cheer echoing oddly off the dungeon walls.

He turned toward the board to jot a few final instructions. A low shuffle began across the classroom—stools scraping back, murmured names exchanged as students sought their usual partners. The scent of dried fluxweed and parchment stirred the air.

Before he could continue, a hand shot up.

Lily.

“Sir?”

Slughorn turned, mid-scribble. “Yes, Miss Evans?”

Lily’s voice was level, but there was the slightest tension behind it. “I don’t have a partner.”

Slughorn blinked, startled. “What?”

The shuffle in the room slowed. Heads turned subtly—Severus’s among them. His stomach clenched, even before he understood why.

Lily stood straight at her workbench, hands clasped in front of her. She didn’t look embarrassed. Not exactly. But there was something restrained in her posture, like she had braced for the answer before asking the question.

Slughorn looked down at the parchment in his hand. “That can’t be right,” he muttered. “This class is an even number—always an even number.” He squinted at the chart, lips moving as he counted.

Severus felt the way the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, right before the door burst open with a bang.

“Sorry—sorry! I know I’m late—!”

James Potter tumbled in like a gust of wind—robes askew, tie slung carelessly around his neck, hair even more of a disaster than usual. He was breathless and flushed, like he’d sprinted all the way from Gryffindor Tower, and he grinned—sheepish, charming sort of thing—as though being late were a kind of prank he’d played on the class.

Slughorn looked up, relieved. “Ah! Mister Potter. There you are.”

He chuckled, as if this were all very amusing.

“Well. That solves that, then.” Slughorn said.

A pause.

“You’ll be partnering with Miss Evans.”

Chapter Text

EVERYTHING SEEMED POSSIBLE when you were a kid. Even the concept of forever.

There were moments that hummed beneath the skin long after they passed. Even as time folded in on itself, memories like those refused to settle into sepia. They returned unbidden, intrusive in their brightness—scenes so soft and sharp they felt like they happened only yesterday, though you couldn’t remember the sound of the voices anymore.

It was the summer before third year. Before they understood what it really meant to grow up.

They were twelve and incandescent with the certainty of friendship, in the way only children can be. Lily had a freckle on the bridge of her nose that she insisted had appeared overnight. Severus had a cut on his left palm from fumbling a potion vial that morning, though he told her it was from “fending off a bloodthirsty gnome in the allotment.”

They were lying on their backs on a hill behind the park near Spinner’s End, a patch of green just wild enough to feel like escape. It was their place. Lily said it looked like Ireland here, though she’d never been. The grass was uneven and soft, and the air smelled of earth and dry leaves. Clouds rolled overhead, thick and full of story.

“I think,” Lily said, twirling a clover between her fingers, “if I had to choose a place to stop time, it’d be right here. Like this.”

Severus turned his head to look at her. The light caught in her red hair, turning it gold where the sun touched. “Why here?”

She shrugged. “Because we’re not grown up yet. Not really. And I don’t want to be. Not if it means things change.”

He didn’t answer at first. He was trying to press the shape of the moment into memory—the smell of the grass, the sunburn on his neck, the sound of Lily’s voice, unbothered and true. He looked at her and thought: This is what safety feels like.

She plucked another clover, a little too hard, and the stem snapped in her fingers. “Petunia used to be fun, you know. Not like us, obviously, but she used to make up stories about the neighbors and pretend to read tea leaves and stuff. Now all she talks about is curtains. And calories. She gets excited about going to appliance stores.”

Lily grimaced. “She told me she was thrilled about a new vacuum bag design the other day. Vacuum bags, Sev.”

Severus snorted under his breath, but Lily didn’t smile.

“She says I’m childish and need to grow up. But if growing up means turning into someone who gets mad about water spots on the glassware and flirts with boys while wearing sticky lipgloss, then I don’t want it.” Her voice dropped. “I don’t want to be boring.”

Severus stared at her. There was something brittle in her voice, like she was afraid of disappearing into a shape she didn’t recognize.

“You could never be boring,” he said quietly. “You’re Lily.”

She looked at him then, and for a second, she was all wide eyes and clover-stained fingers.

“Promise we’ll always be friends?” she asked.

Severus blinked.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“No, I mean really. Even if we fight. Even if—” she paused, her brow furrowing like she was trying to imagine something awful “—even if I start wearing pink lip gloss and you start brewing… I dunno, poisons or something.”

“I wouldn’t poison you,” he said.

“Oh, how romantic.”

He turned away, but she caught the edge of his smile. A real one, rare and lopsided. It made something in her chest warm.

They fell into silence. That was the other thing about being thirteen—there wasn’t this constant need to fill space. Some silences just meant comfort.

“Even if you start scowling all the time.” Lily added.

“I already scowl all the time.” Severus said.

She grinned. “Yeah, but you’d be doing it seriously. Like your dad.”

He winced. She noticed. She always did.

“Sorry,” she said quietly.

“It’s alright.” He paused. “He does scowl like that. Makes him look constipated.”

Lily laughed, loud and brilliant and unladylike. “Sev, you’re awful.”

He liked when she said his name like that—Sev. Only she could get away with it. Only she made it sound like something light and real, instead of something broken in the throat.

A breeze rolled over the hill and the clouds passed over the sun, casting shadows over their faces. She pulled her knees to her chest and rested her chin there.

“Do you think we’ll change?” she asked suddenly.

“I don’t want to,” he said.

“That’s not what I asked.”

He looked at the clouds instead of her. “Maybe a little. But not all the way.”

“That’s the dream, isn’t it?” she said, smiling a little. “Staying the same. Even when everything else doesn’t.”

They were quiet for a long time after that.

A ladybug crawled up Lily’s sock, and she watched it like it was a sign. Severus traced patterns in the grass with his finger, tiny runes he knew by heart, ones that could ward off bad dreams or heartache—at least, that’s what the books said.

Eventually, Lily leaned back again and whispered, “If anything ever happens to us, Sev—like, if we fight or something, like Petunia does with her friends—will you remember this?”

He turned his head again, met her eyes.

“I’ll remember everything.”

She reached for his hand. The same one with the cut. She held it gently, cradled it in hers like something precious, as if she knew it hurt even though he hadn’t said a word. Her touch was warm and a little rough from climbing trees and skipping stones. She traced a line along the wound.

“Then we’ll be fine,” she said, confident. “If we remember the good things, we’ll always find our way back.”

Everything felt timeless when you were twelve. Forever felt like something you could hold.

But here it was, sliding through Lily’s fingers like quicksand.

The bell rang.

Harsh.

Loud.

Final.

Severus was already moving.

Lily turned toward him instinctively, even as her stomach dropped. All she caught was his back—his robe catching on the edge of a bench, the streak of black hair, the way he slipped through the door without looking behind him, right on time with the bell. Like he hadn’t seen her at all.

Shit.

Her fingers scrambled for her ink bottle, nearly knocking it over. She shoved it into her bag without properly corking it, along with her half-capped quill and dog-eared notes, parchment bending where it shouldn’t. Her hand shook as she crammed everything in, the metal clasp of her satchel refusing to click shut on the first try. The sound of zipping and snapping and muttered swearing was drowned only by James Potter’s voice behind her.

“Hello there, Evans,” said James Potter, with an easy grin. “I remembered you hate talking during class.”

Lily didn’t respond. Her eyes were still on the door Severus had slipped through like smoke.

James didn’t seem surprised. He kept his tone easy, almost conversational. “I learned that the hard way, of course. Third year. You chucked that massive Arithmancy tome at my head—mid-whisper, mid-joke, mid-brilliance, if I recall—and hit me square between the eyes. Thought I was going to need a Healer.”

Nothing. Lily shoved her ink bottle into her satchel, uncorked, ink already bleeding into the lining.

“McGonagall told me I deserved it. I probably did.”

He shifted slightly, adjusting his bag over his shoulder.

“So. I thought I’d wait until the bell. Give you a minute.”

Her quill was still sticking out the top of her bag, bent at the tip.

He cleared his throat.

“I’ve been meaning to ask how your holidays were. I meant to write, but I figured… maybe that’d make it worse. Or weird. And you hate weird. Not in the fun way.”

Still, no answer. Lily turned slightly, like she might finally look at him. But then she didn’t.

“So,” he began, casual, cheerful. “What did you do over winter break?”

Lily didn’t answer. Her satchel refused to close properly. The latch kept slipping. She yanked it once, twice, teeth clenched. The ink bottle tipped sideways.

“I mean, I bet you went somewhere nice. You’ve got the freckles for it.”

She finally got the clasp to snap shut.

James didn’t seem to notice her silence.

“We went to Cornwall, actually. Sirius lost a bet and had to swim in December. Thought he saw a mermaid—turned out to be a dead seal.” He laughed, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I saw you at the train station, and you looked—” He hesitated, thumb tapping against the spine of the book under his arm. “I thought about saying hello, but it didn’t seem like meeting the parents was anywhere near our itinerary yet.”

He laughed under his breath. “So I ducked behind a Quidditch display like an idiot. Because Merlin forbid I ruin your afternoon by existing in it.”

Still nothing.

“But…I’ve been thinking about us,” he said, a bit quieter now. “And what happened. Before the holidays, you know. And I know you probably don’t want to talk about it. I thought we could—”

She stood.

He caught himself mid-sentence. “Evans—”

She adjusted her bag on her shoulder, fingers white-knuckling the strap.

“Evans?” he asked again, and this time there was no performance in it. Just that boy underneath all the polish, a bit startled.

But she was already walking away.

Through the door, into the corridor, into the cold.

All Lily could think about was how badly she’d messed up.

She’d messed up.

So bloody badly.

And she didn’t know how to fix it.

She barely noticed the way the corridor air was colder than the classroom until it hit her lungs like a gust of wind. She didn’t notice the students drifting around her like river current, or the chatter of voices rebounding off the stone walls. Everything had gone muffled, distant. Like she was moving underwater, with one thought beating in her skull like a drum:

Find him.

Severus was fast, and she had only a few minutes.

They didn’t have the same class after morning Potions—she had Charms next, and he had Ancient Runes. Opposite ends of the castle. The kind of separation Hogwarts was designed for. But she could cut through the second-floor corridor, take the winding staircases by the tapestry of the troll ballet troupe, and maybe—

“Evans—”

The voice was too close.

“No,” she snapped, not looking.

“Evans, come on. Let’s talk—”

“I don’t want to talk.”

She kept walking, quick, purposeful strides. Her bag thumped against her hip with every step, scrolls inside rustling with movement. The corridor was growing busier—students filing out from various dungeons and lecture halls, footsteps echoing and voices overlapping. She could feel the hum of morning energy settling into the air. It was harder to move quickly without drawing attention.

And still—

“Evans!”

Lily grit her teeth. She didn’t have time for this. Didn’t have time for him.

James Potter jogged to catch up. “Oi, I’m trying here! Look, I know things are complicated, but maybe we could—”

“Potter, stop.”

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

“Come on, Lily,” he said with that half-laugh in his voice, like this was something he could charm his way through. “You’re being dramatic. What if I told you I missed your temper? I crave the verbal abuse. It’s one of the many things I li—”

She said nothing. Eyes scanning ahead. Could she slip through the courtyard, take the north stair, maybe—

“Come on, Evans. Don’t punish me with the silent treatment,” James said, keeping pace with her. “Not when I’ve made so much progress! I sat through a whole Slughorn lecture today without—”

“No!”

She stopped short. The word exploded from her like a reflex. Her heart thudded. Around them, heads turned.

James blinked, confused, panting slightly from trying to keep up. “What? What did I—?”

And right there—right there—something shifted behind his eyes.

That was when Potter seemed to realize this wasn’t just one of their usual rows.

This wasn’t teasing.

This wasn’t a spat.

This was something else entirely.

His shoulders stiffened. His mouth opened, then shut. She saw his eyes flick across her face—searching, confused.

Lily turned away.

And for once, he didn’t try to joke. Didn’t try to charm. Just said, voice quieter this time:

“Lily—”

He reached out. Just a hand on her elbow, light but real.

And everything—

Everything she’d been holding—

The guilt. The grief. The panic. The bone-deep ache of seeing Severus turn away from her like she was nothing—

It all detonated.

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!”

Her voice cracked like a whip. And her hand moved before her mind did.

Crack.

The slap echoed off the stone. Sharp. Startling. Final.

The corridor went still. Not silent—still. Like a spell had frozen the very air. Conversations cut off. Footsteps faltered. A first-year dropped his bag. A group of Hufflepuffs in yellow and black robes stood open-mouthed, half a stairwell above.

James staggered back a half-step, stunned more by the sound of it than the sting. His hand went to his cheek on instinct. His face was flushed, mouth parted, like he couldn’t decide or comprehend what had just happened.

Someone whispered, “Bloody hell.”

Another voice: “Did she just—?”

Lily was trembling.

A fifth-year Ravenclaw gawked so hard she bumped into a pillar. A group of Gryffindors looked from James to Lily and back again, waiting for someone to break the spell.

The hush in the corridor still hadn’t broken. Only the murmurs—a few whispers like gasps passed from mouth to mouth. Lily stood rigid, her chest rising and falling far too fast, her palm still tingling from the slap.

Then, suddenly—

Footsteps. Fast.

Sirius Black appeared first, rounding the corner like a storm in human form, all wild dark hair and sharp motion. Behind him was Remus—slower, steadier, but pale and tight around the eyes. He looked tired in that quiet way he always did after a night in the infirmary—exhausted down to the marrow, like someone who hadn’t slept and wouldn’t, even if he could.

But Sirius didn’t look tired. He looked dangerous.

“What the hell—” he started, only to stop dead at the sight of James with his hand still pressed to his cheek.

And in an instant, Sirius was at his side.

“James?” His voice dropped low, urgent. “Are you alright?”

James didn’t answer.

He hadn’t moved.

Lily didn’t, either.

“Lily,” Remus said gently, approaching from the opposite side, “are you okay—?”

“Why the bloody hell are you asking her that?” Sirius cut in, sharp and incredulous. “She’s the one that slapped him—!”

He stepped forward, one hand already reaching for James’s arm, like he was ready to get him out of here—out of this mess, out of this crowd.

But James pulled his arm back.

“It’s fine,” he muttered.

Sirius blinked. “It’s not fine—”

“I said it’s fine.”

There was a beat of tension. Sirius clenched his jaw, then turned away with a scoff, muttering under his breath. Remus stayed still, watching James closely.

James turned toward Lily.

His voice was quiet. Uncertain. “Evans…”

And that was it.

“This is all your fault!” she shouted.

The sound tore through the corridor like lightning—fast, hot, impossible to ignore. The crowd flinched.

“Everything you touch,” Lily went on, her voice shaking with rage and something deeper, “it ends in mayhem and carnage. You ruin everything.”

James blinked like she’d just hit him again.

No one moved. Students stood frozen, trapped in the fallout. Some looked at their friends, unsure if they were allowed to react. A sixth-year leaned against the wall like it might open up and swallow him whole.

James swallowed. Then he spoke again.

“At the party—”

“A mistake,” Lily snapped. “A stupid, horrible, vile mistake.”

And then—

Silence.

James stared at her.

It came on slowly—the change in his face. Not all at once. It wasn’t some dramatic collapse of expression. It was quieter than that.

The lines around his mouth went still. The little crease between his brows that usually held confusion softened into something looser. His lips parted, then closed again like he’d lost the words halfway to his tongue. His hand dropped from his cheek. He didn’t even seem to notice.

And his eyes—those eyes that always glittered with something cocky or clever—just looked…open. Not pleading. Not hurt, exactly. Just—bare.

Lily didn’t look away.

“I regret every second of it,” she said. “It should never have happened.”

The words landed like stones in a frozen lake.

You could hear the cracks spreading.

James didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. But something in him tilted. You could feel it. Like a shift in gravity. Like something delicate inside him had been balanced too long on one thin edge.

And then it tipped.

Not loudly. Not visibly.

But completely.

They stood like that.

In the middle of the corridor, surrounded by a halo of hushed students and scattered gasps, Lily and James stared at each other like neither quite recognized the person in front of them.

A stillness had taken root—thick and unmoving. The kind that settles over you when something irreparable has just happened.

And for a long, breathless beat, no one said anything.

Then—

James moved.

Barely. Just a shift in posture, a quiet readjustment of the weight he carried like a cloak. He looked at her—really looked at her—and something behind his eyes caved in on itself.

He exhaled.

Not sharply. Not dramatically.

Just a soft breath out, like he’d been holding it too long.

Then he pursed his lips, gave the faintest nod.

And said, simply, “Alright, Evans.”

He raised one hand slightly, palm half-turned upward. A gesture of surrender. Or understanding. Or maybe both. The kind of motion you give to someone you don’t want to fight anymore.

He didn’t say anything else.

Just turned.

And began to walk away.

The crowd parted for him in silence. Sirius, stunned for once, looked after him before cursing under his breath and following. Remus lingered only a second longer, gaze flicking to Lily, unreadable—then went after the others.

And Lily?

Lily went to look for Severus.

The walk back to Gryffindor Tower was steeped in silence. The corridors, still bright with morning light, felt too loud with every footstep. James walked ahead, his shoulders held in a way that didn’t look like his usual confident swagger. It wasn’t proud, and it wasn’t angry. It was tight. Wound. Every muscle braced like he was preparing to be hit again.

Behind him, Sirius and Remus followed—Sirius noticeably jittery, his mind clearly spinning. He kept opening his mouth, closing it, then finally gave in.

“So what the hell happened?”

James didn’t answer. He just kept walking, eyes fixed forward.

“I mean, seriously. She just slapped you. In front of everyone. What the fuck was that about? Did I miss something? I mean, you’ve been flirting with her since third year and now she just—what, explodes? Is this about the party? I thought it was going well. Wasn’t it going well?”

James’s jaw twitched. He still didn’t speak.

“Because that whole morning-after thing—sure, it was weird, but you said you sorted it, didn’t you? Merlin’s tits, did you not sort it? Were you just pretending you sorted it? Prongs—”

“Pads,” Remus said quietly.

Sirius ignored him. “Because I’m trying to wrap my head around how you went from not being able to shut up about her and that stupid party to her slapping you in front of the entire corridor. And I get it—Evans is… complicated. But *bloody hell,*she could’ve at least—”

James didn’t answer.

“I mean, not that she hasn’t threatened to before,” Sirius went on, undeterred. “But that was next level, yeah? You looked like she punched you with her wand arm. What did you say to her? Or—hang on, did you—Merlin, did you say something about her hair again? You know she hates that.”

James kept walking.

“Or maybe it’s the Christmas present,” Sirius continued. “Did you get her something mad? Like perfume? Or that bloody jewelry box you had me transfigure into a lily pad? Because that was your idea—”

“Sirius,” Remus warned gently.

“What?” Sirius scoffed. “I’m just trying to understand! One second we’re back at school and everything’s fine, and the next she’s throwing words like carnage and vile and James is—”

“Padfoot,” Remus said, more firmly now.

Still, James didn’t stop. He walked with purpose but not direction. Down the final corridor. Past the Fat Lady, who tried to say something about breakfast, or the weather, or the fact that they were barely fifteen minutes into their day, but none of them acknowledged her. The portrait swung open with a scolding cluck of her tongue.

Inside, the common room was buzzing. Second years laughing by the hearth. A couple prefects chatting quietly in the corner. A group of sixth-year girls glanced up from their books, expressions lighting with recognition.

“Hey, Potter—”

“James, are you—?”

Remus gave them an apologetic smile. “He’s just got a headache. Bad one. Slughorn’s fumes, you know how it is.”

He offered a nod, herded Sirius forward with a hand at his back.

Sirius was still going.

“Okay, but I need to know what the hell she meant by ‘a mistake.’ Honestly, mate, what did you do to get yourself slapped like that? She was bloody furious. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you two—”

They reached their dormitory.

Sirius started to say something else—another theory, maybe, another sarcastic quip—but the sentence was torn from his mouth as James slammed the door open so hard it ricocheted off the stone with a deep thud.

Both Sirius and Remus flinched.

Inside, Peter let out a startled yelp and toppled backwards off the chair he’d been perched in, legs flailing in the air as he hit the rug with a whump. The chessboard he’d been studying clattered to the floor with a scatter of pawns and startled expletives.

That seemed to snap James out of it—just a fraction.

His eyes widened. “Shit—Peter—fuck, I’m—” He rushed over, crouching beside him. James reached down, hands gentle now, lifting Peter by the arms and dusting off his robes. “Sorry, mate. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

Peter looked up, slightly wide-eyed, but accepted the hand. James helped dust off his robes, shaking stray pieces of rook and bishop from the folds.

“You alright?”

Peter gave a short huff, brushing off his elbow. “I’ll live. I think the bishop died braver than I did, though.”

James gave a weak laugh.

Peter grinned. “Mate, next time you want to make a dramatic entrance, can you not aim the door at my head?”

A breath of real amusement broke through James’s tightly-drawn features. Brief, but there.

James gave his shoulder a soft pat, then let out a long, thin breath and sat on the edge of his bed. He put his elbows on his knees, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes like he could rub everything away.

Behind him, Sirius and Remus exchanged a look.

Peter, brushing himself off, looked between the three of them.

A long silence settled into the dormitory.

James sat hunched forward on the edge of his bed, face buried in his hands, his elbows planted on his knees. He hadn’t moved since helping Peter up — hadn’t spoken either. The tension in his body was different now: not hot and furious, but slumped and brittle, like something cracked under pressure.

The others sat awkwardly around him, caught between wanting to speak and not knowing what to say.

Then, after a beat—

Peter cleared his throat. “Is this… about the kiss?”

The silence was deafening.

James’s fingers twitched where they pressed into his forehead.

Sirius’s jaw dropped so hard it was almost audible.

Remus’s spine straightened, his expression slacking in shock as his fingers curled tightly around the head of his cane again.

They both turned slowly to Peter, then at each other, eyes wide—telegraphing what neither dared to say out loud.

Not now. Don’t explode. Not yet.

Sirius, for once, bit his tongue.

Remus gestured silently toward James, and together, they moved—sitting carefully on either side of him, like someone might with a wounded animal. Or a friend who was unraveling in real time.

James didn’t flinch. But he didn’t speak either.

So Sirius asked, voice lower now, softer. “Prongs… mate… what happened?”

It took a moment. But then, without looking up, James exhaled and said, almost too quietly to hear:

“I kissed her.”

The words sat heavy in the room.

James slowly dropped his hands from his face, rubbing the heels of his palms against his eyes before letting them fall uselessly into his lap.

“I didn’t plan it,” he said. “We were at that end-of-term party. The one McGonagall said was a reward for not burning the school down.” A weak huff of laughter followed, humorless. “She was sitting alone in the corner. Looking out the window like she didn’t want to be there. Everyone was dancing or getting sloshed, and she was just—quiet. Still.”

He shook his head, voice growing rough.

“I don’t know why I walked over. I just… couldn’t not. I thought she’d tell me to piss off, honestly. But she didn’t. We talked. And it was different this time. Not just bickering. Not teasing.”

Remus listened carefully, something shifting behind his eyes.

“It was quiet,” James murmured. “It felt like—like time had slowed down around us. She laughed, properly, for once. At something I said. And when she looked at me… it didn’t feel like she was thinking about anyone else. ”

He swallowed hard. “And then I kissed her.”

He ran a hand through his hair, voice fraying at the edges.

“It wasn’t planned, and it wasn’t rough, or desperate. It was just… soft. And slow. Like we were both wondering why we hadn’t done it sooner. And when she kissed me back—Merlin, Moons, she did—I thought maybe… maybe things could change.”

He glanced at the ceiling now, as if expecting some divine explanation to fall from it.

“But then she pushed me away and ran out of the room. And she hasn’t spoken to me since.”

He slumped again, rubbing the back of his neck, defeated.

Peter, who had stayed still this whole time, murmured, “She didn’t talk to you after?”

“Not a word,” James said. “I figured she’d just been spooked and needed some space to come to terms with it, so I didn’t write to her during the holidays, no matter how hard I wanted to. But then… she and Snape haven’t been, you know.” He gestured vaguely. “Stuck together since term started. Like something’s off.”

“You think that’s why?” Remus asked. “You think he saw you?”

“Or found out?” Sirius asked, eyes narrowed.

“I don’t know…” James trailed off.

Peter blinked, processing. Then he said, “Snape came into the tower during that party.”

James’s head snapped up.

“What?” Sirius barked. “He what?”

“I saw him. I was coming back from the loo, and he was headed upstairs.”

Sirius exploded, leaping to his feet. “What the bloody hell for? That slimy greaseball—who told him he was welcome?”

Peter shrugged. “Maybe Lily invited him.”

Sirius scoffed. “And he actually showed up? In our common room? God, if I’d seen him, I would’ve—”

“Sirius,” Remus said quietly, cutting across him before the fire could catch.

He turned back to James, eyes narrowed in thought. “So… you’re saying she kissed you back, didn’t say anything after… and now she’s furious?”

James nodded once.

Remus sat back slowly, piecing it together. “And Snape showed up that night…and now they’re not speaking...”

Silence.

James exhaled sharply through his nose, pressing his thumb to the center of his brow like he could physically push the memory away.

Peter reached over without looking and handed him a pawn from the chessboard.

James blinked down at it.

Peter shrugged. “Here. Thought you might need a piece that doesn’t run away.”

That earned a soft laugh from James—short, dry, but real. For just a moment, the tension in his frame eased.

Remus and Sirius exchanged a look again—one of quiet, tentative relief. A breath held.

But it didn’t last.

Because James looked back down at the pawn, and the shadows crept into his expression again.

“I thought we’d finally found our timing,” he said.

And the silence that followed felt heavier than anything that came before it.

James sat there, fists curled on either side of his legs like he didn’t know what to do with them. His mouth parted, then closed again.

“What should I do?” he asked, finally.

Sirius didn’t hesitate.

“Well, first off, we find Snape, right?” he said, sitting up straighter, shoulders squaring. “Teach him a lesson for sticking his ugly nose where it doesn’t belong. We’ll hex his hair clean off—he’d probably thank us for it, but—”

“Padfoot,” Remus cut in, quiet but firm.

James let out a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan.

Sirius blinked. “What? He did something. Look at James. Look at Lily—this is textbook Snape, he’s been in the middle of their mess since first year—”

“It’s not about him,” Remus said. “Not really.”

Remus shifted his cane and leaned forward, his voice quieter. Measured. “This isn’t one of those things we can blast our way through. It’s not a Slytherin prank gone wrong or a detour through the Forbidden Forest.” His eyes, tired but kind, met James’s. “This isn’t something we can fix for you.”

James stared at the floor, jaw tightening, like he wanted to argue but didn’t have the energy to.

“You kissed her, James,” Remus said. “And she kissed you back. That meant something. But whatever’s happened since… it’s between the two of you now. ”

James frowned, a hollow between his brows. “So what, I just let it sit like this?”

“I’m saying you have to figure it out,” Remus said. “Yourself. Talk to her, if you think there’s something left to say.”

Sirius scoffed but didn’t interrupt. He folded his arms, slumping back against the bedframe, lips tight.

Chapter Text

THE WEEKEND folded in on itself.

Severus spent most of it in his dormitory, not asleep, not awake—just there, stretched across the narrow bed like he was waiting for something to stop. He didn’t light the lamps. Not even as his roommates came and went from the room. He kept his drapes closed, the greenish murk from the underwater windows being enough to tell him the hours were moving, though it felt more like sinking than time passing.

Once or twice, he thought about bathing. He didn’t. He changed his shirt once, then put the old one back on again after he couldn’t stand the feel of clean cotton against his skin.

He tried reading. A copy of The Atrocity Exhibition sat open on his chest for most of Saturday, spine bent too far back, as if the pages were trying to tear themselves away. He read the same paragraph twelve times. The words stayed strange. Like a language he’d once spoken and forgotten. Like his mind was buffering and never quite catching up.

By Sunday evening, he realized he’d eaten nothing but two chocolates from his bedside drawer—gifts from a past Christmas that had gone white with sugar bloom. He chewed them slowly anyway. They stuck to his molars and made his stomach turn.

The worst part wasn’t the quiet. It was the nothing. No thoughts. No fight. No tears. Just a quiet, dull ache in his chest like a bruise forming beneath the skin. He knew this kind of silence. It was the same kind that filled his house in Spinner’s End when his parents went cold with fury. The kind that didn’t shout. The kind that waited.

Monday morning was a muscle torn too many times: sore, raw, and useless.

He got dressed without thinking. School robes. Shirt still faintly stained at the collar. He combed his hair with his fingers, winced when they caught in a tangle, and left it. There was no use fixing anything. No one was looking.

He didn’t go to the Great Hall.

Instead, he wound down to the kitchens. The elves there knew him, didn’t ask questions. He gave them a look that meant please don’t speak to me, and they obeyed with uncanny ease. One of them handed him a small cloth bundle—fruit, mostly. Something to hold in his hand. Something he could eat without needing utensils or effort.

The warmth of the kitchens clung to his sleeves as he left, but it faded by the time he made it back into the dungeons. The stone sucked the heat out of everything.

He made his way to the Potions classroom before the torches had been lit. It was still half-dark, the only illumination a dim grey glow through the barred windows. His footsteps didn’t echo here. That was the thing about dungeons—everything stayed close to the ground. Sound. Breath. Shame.

He took the back seat.

He didn’t drop his bag. Didn’t move much. Just folded his arms on the table and rested his chin there like he was trying to disappear into the wood grain.

His hands itched, long fingers curling slightly, unconsciously. They looked too elegant for the rest of him—narrow, pale, with knobbly knuckles and scars thin as thread. Piano fingers, someone had called them once, soft. But the skin was ruined in places, scarred from glass and cut and flame, nail beds bitten down and sore.

He picked at a hangnail. Peeled it back. Blood welled, but only a little. Enough to sting.

The classroom was silent.

Not peaceful. Not comforting, either. It was the kind of silence that pressed down, that had a weight to it. The kind that made you aware of your own heartbeat in your ears. The shuffle of dust as it settled. Every breath like an interruption.

An hour passed.

Then the door opened.

And all of it—the quiet, the numbness, the bruised stillness—shattered like glass underfoot.

The noise came back.

Lily.

She walked in early, just like she used to. Habit. Maybe something more.

She paused at the door.

She didn’t move, but her presence flooded the space anyway. Like perfume you couldn’t scrub out of your clothes. Like the sound of laughter from behind a closed door you weren’t invited to open.

She paused at the threshold, eyes scanning the room like she’d expected it to be empty—like she was seeing something impossible. She looked straight at him, and for a second—just a second—her face cracked open with something that could’ve been sorrow. Or guilt. Or maybe she was just surprised he was still breathing.

Severus didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. He watched her like he might a passing train—fast, loud, and not stopping for him.

She stepped inside, slowly, her bag clutched to her chest like armor. She didn’t speak. Didn’t smile. Just hovered near the door, unsure, suspended between habit and hesitation.

He stared down at his hands.

There was a small bloom of red at his thumb now.

He wiped it on his robes.

The silence, broken by her breath, didn’t settle again. It hung between them, a ghost of every conversation they weren’t having. Every apology she seemed ready to offer. Every word he didn’t dare say.

But then she spoke.

“Severus…”

Her voice was quiet, but it cracked through the heavy air like the first sound after a long snowfall. He didn’t look up.

Each word she spoke came with a hesitant step, slow and deliberate, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to cross the space between them.

“Don’t.”

His voice cut the air clean. Flat. Final. But not sharp. There was no edge to it, only a blunt kind of exhaustion. It didn’t matter how gently he said it—she still flinched.

“Severus, please.” Her voice broke on the second word. She clasped her hands in front of her as if to keep herself from reaching for him too soon. “You don’t have to avoid the Great Hall because of me.”

He didn’t answer.

Not even a flicker.

Only silence followed, but it wasn’t empty. It was thick with everything unsaid, with all the weight she hadn’t expected to carry when she’d walked in. It was the kind of silence that accused. That filled your throat with the things you wanted to say but couldn’t without sobbing.

“If you don’t want me there,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “I’ll leave. Don’t starve yourself because of something I did.”

“I ate,” Severus replied, his voice tight and quiet, like he was trying not to breathe too deeply.

A beat passed. Then another.

“Oh,” she said softly, her voice catching. “Okay. That’s—that’s good.”

The quiet crept in again. It swelled in the arches of the stone ceiling, curled in the shadows under the desks. It rang in the space between their bodies like the echo of a slammed door.

She took a tentative step closer, then another. Her shoes barely made a sound against the floor, but he felt each movement like a pulse in his jaw.

Lily came to stand in front of his desk, folding her arms against herself like she was bracing for the wind. Her expression was cautious. Raw. She looked as though one wrong word might shatter her, but still—she stood there.

Close enough to touch.

“Severus,” she said, quieter now. “Can we—please, can we just talk?”

“We have,” he said curtly, eyes fixed on the parchment in front of him. He wasn’t reading it. Just staring at the words until they blurred. His quill sat in his hand unmoving, the ink drying to a clot at the tip.

“Sev,” she said, and her voice—oh, it ached. He could hear her trying not to cry.

He didn’t move.

So she sat beside him.

The bench creaked slightly as her weight settled into it. He felt the shift in the wood, the nearness of her warmth. Still, he didn’t look at her. Not even a glance. He gripped the edge of the desk with his fingertips until they went white.

She hesitated. Then, gently—too gently—she placed her hand on top of his.

And it was like the world collapsed inward.

Her touch was warm. Familiar. And utterly unbearable.

He felt his throat tighten, stomach clench. That nauseous, untethered feeling like he’d just stepped off a ledge and was waiting for the fall. His skin crawled beneath her fingers, even as part of him begged her to hold on.

“I miss you,” she whispered.

He let out a breath, shaky and sharp, the kind that felt like it scraped his ribs on the way out. His shoulders trembled. His lungs felt wrong, like they weren’t filling properly. Everything in his chest hurt. He blinked once, slow, his eyes hot.

He didn’t say anything.

Couldn’t.

His breathing was getting louder. Faster. He was trying to hide it, but his chest kept heaving against his will. Like there wasn’t enough air in the room. Like she had taken it all with her.

“I can’t do this, Lily,” Severus rasped, barely above a whisper. “Let’s just let it go.”

“I was drunk,” Lily said, panicked now, her words rushing out. “I was stupid, and I—”

“Lily.” His voice cracked.

But she wasn’t listening. Couldn’t stop.

The classroom door groaned open behind them. The first few students entered, their chatter a distant blur, muffled under the weight of everything unraveling.

Boots thudded against the stone floor. Bags dropped. Chairs scraped. Someone laughed too loudly. Another muttered about forgetting their textbook. The mundane noise of a Monday morning, indifferent and cruel in its normalcy.

And still, Lily kept speaking.

“It didn’t mean anything,” she said, almost desperate now. “It was a mistake—“

“Stop,” Severus said, his voice a breathless plea, but it barely reached above the din of students filing in.

She leaned in, her face crumpling. “I made a mistake—a huge, awful mistake—and I’m trying to fix it. Severus, I’m trying. But I can’t fix it if you won’t let me.”

More students now. A blur of black robes and bustling motion. The room was filling fast. The professor would be here soon.

But for Severus, the walls were already closing in.

He couldn’t breathe.

He wanted to vanish, to rewind time.

Instead, he sat there.

Silent. And entirely alone, even with her sitting right beside him.

“I’ll do anything,” Lily whispered, desperate now. “Just—just tell me what to do, Sev.”

He didn’t move.

“Please,” she said, her hand still resting lightly on his. “You’re my best friend.”

The silence that followed was long and unbearable.

It stretched like a held breath, like time itself was trying to give Severus room to answer—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. His throat felt like it was closing, chest hitching with each shallow inhale. His fingers twitched slightly beneath hers.

He wanted to say something. He wanted to forgive her. To believe the things she was saying. But all he could feel was that terrible ache inside him, that gnawing void where her trust used to live.

Then a sudden, muted tap against the leg of Lily’s chair cut through the moment like a knock on glass.

Severus startled.

He hadn’t even heard him come over.

Mulciber stood just to the side, tall and broad-shouldered, his presence like a shadow suddenly cast over them both. He wore his uniform half-loose as usual, the sleeves pushed up to the forearms, and his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His skin was dark, luminous in the morning light filtering through the dungeon windows, and his amber eyes—sharp, unreadable—fixed on Lily with a calm that felt more like challenge than curiosity.

“Get out of my seat,” he said.

The words weren’t cruel, but they held a weight. A finality.

Lily frowned, incredulous. “Can’t you see that I’m having a conversation?”

Mulciber looked down at her, and his expression said everything he didn’t.

I don’t see how that’s my problem.

He didn’t speak again. Just stood there, eyes unreadable and steady. The silence from him felt different—less loaded, less pleading—just there, like a wall.

His gaze flicked to Severus, a quiet acknowledgment, and Lily’s followed.

Two gazes, heavy and loaded, landing on him. One expectant, one imploring. Both waiting on him.

Suddenly the decision was his.

Severus felt it immediately—the spotlight of it, the pressure. Both their eyes on him. Waiting. Expecting. His hands started to tremble. His chest ached with the effort of breathing. His wrists burned with a phantom pain, like the skin there was too tight.

He looked up at Mulciber. Then down again, to Lily. Her eyes were wide, full of hope and guilt and something else—fear, maybe.

But something to the side snagged his attention.

The door opened. Potter and Black tumbled in, laughing too loud and talking over each other, Lupin trailing behind with a book under one arm. Just another day in their world.

But Potter’s laughter stopped mid-sentence when his eyes landed on the scene by Severus’s desk. His brow furrowed. He glanced at Lily, sitting beside Severus. Then at Mulciber, looming over them. Then back to Severus.

And Severus saw it happen—the slow tightening of Potter’s jaw, the narrowed eyes. The misunderstanding taking root in his brain like poison. The wrong assumption. The wrong conclusion. Black followed his gaze and elbowed Lupin, who looked up and hesitated, uncertain.

Severus wanted to vanish.

He felt sick.

He let out a long breath, barely audible. His ribs hurt.

“Class is about to start,” Severus said, his voice low and flat. Not cold—just distant. Like the last embers of something that had once been warm.

Lily blinked. For a moment, she didn’t move. Her brows knit slightly, as if she hadn’t heard him right. As if she thought maybe he meant they should stop talking, not that she should go.

But the silence stretched between them again, and he didn’t say anything more. Didn’t look at her. Didn’t reach for her hand after she pulled it back. His shoulders were tense and drawn in, like he was bracing for impact. His eyes stayed fixed on the edge of his parchment, blank.

That’s when she knew.

He wasn’t just stating the time.

He was telling her to go.

Lily’s face didn’t fall all at once. It crumpled slowly—something in her mouth twisted first, then her eyes, like her body had to register the heartbreak in stages. She nodded, small and unsure, as if hoping for him to stop her. To say wait.

He didn’t.

“Oh,” she said quietly, and her voice trembled around the single syllable. “Okay.”

She sat frozen for another breath, eyes flicking from him to Mulciber, whose expression hadn’t changed. Then back to Severus—hoping, still. But his face was unreadable now. Hollowed out. He wouldn’t even give her the cruelty of anger.

Just…nothing.

Lily stood slowly, the scrape of the bench legs muffled against the stone. She didn’t meet Mulciber’s eyes again. She looked down at Severus one last time, like she was about to say something else. But no words came.

Her throat moved as she swallowed it all down.

“But we’ll talk later?” she asked, voice soft, hopeful. Fragile as a page on fire. “After class?”

Severus didn’t answer right away.

He was quiet so long it felt like another dismissal.

Then, finally: “Sure.”

They both knew he was lying.

Mulciber had slouched into his seat at the start of class, arms folded, and promptly fallen asleep as usual—chin to chest, breath soft and even. It never ceased to baffle Severus how someone that tall could fold himself so comfortably into those cramped dungeon desks. The warm column of his throat was visible above his collar, a slow pulse ticking beneath smooth skin. He didn’t even twitch when Slughorn called his name during roll. He looked completely at ease—too at ease, like the world around him couldn’t touch him if it tried.

Severus didn’t glance at him more than once. He didn’t glance at anyone. His eyes stayed on the same corner of his parchment, and he copied instructions mindlessly as they appeared on the board. He didn’t register a single one. He didn’t hear the bubbling of the cauldrons or the rustle of pages. Class passed the way days passed when you were locked inside your head—quiet and fast and strange.

Before he knew it, Professor Slughorn was closing his notes with a sharp snap and the murmur of students collecting their things swelled in the dungeon like fog.

From the edge of his vision, Severus saw her. Lily stood the moment the class was dismissed—no hesitation, no pause to pack her things. Just an almost urgent shift in her posture, her satchel abandoned on her desk as she turned toward him.

She was coming. He could feel it. She didn’t even try to pretend otherwise.

But she didn’t get far.

Before she could cross the full distance—before she could even take more than two steps forward—a breathless figure darted into the room from the corridor beyond.

The classroom door slammed open with a sharp bang, startling more than one person. A tiny third-year girl stood in the doorway, panting, her robes rumpled and her eyes wide and wet. She had dark skin and small braids swinging around her face, her accent thick and quick as she stumbled over her words.

“‘Scuse me—sorry—’scuse me please—are there any prefects in here?”

Everyone stilled.

The girl’s voice broke a little, and her lip trembled. She looked barely twelve.

Lily turned instantly. “I’m Head Girl,” she said, voice calm, stepping forward. “What’s wrong? It’s okay, just breathe for me, alright?”

The girl sucked in a sharp, shuddering breath, but it came out shaky. “It’s—it’s Jason,” she said, eyes darting to the hallway, “we was by the greenhouses an’ he got too close to one o’ them plants, y’know the sharp ones—”

“The Veneficus Draconis?” Remus asked quietly from the back, already gathering his things.

“I dunno what they called, miss,” the girl stammered, blinking rapidly. “It’s the big one that hisses—an’ it got his hair, like proper tangled in it, an’ he’s screamin’ an’ bleedin’ an’—please, can you come?”

“I’m coming,” Lily said quickly, already grabbing her wand. “Take me there.”

Remus slipped out behind her without a word, his prefect badge flashing briefly in the lamplight. The girl didn’t wait to see if they followed—she turned and bolted, her shoes slapping unevenly against the flagstones as she ran.

Severus watched them go, the room emptying around him.

The chaos bled slowly into silence again.

He hadn’t moved once.

The door had shut for multiple beats behind Lily and Remus before Severus finally stood, slow and stiff, as if movement itself had become foreign to him.

He didn’t get far.

A sharp pressure seized his hand—strong fingers curling around his wrist, tugging him back just in time for a jinx to crack against the floor where his foot had been. A low, glimmering pulse of red fizzled out across the stone.

Sirius Black, standing near the door with James Potter and that ever-ready wand of his, let out a little tsk of disappointment. “Almost.”

From the front of the room, there was a soft smack—the sharp, open-palmed kind that only ever came from James Potter smacking Sirius Black upside the head.

“Ow—what?!” Black whisper-yelled, ducking away and rubbing the back of his skull. “He had—”

“Not the time,” James muttered, low and heated, barely audible to anyone else.

Black looked back once—over Potter’s shoulder, through the last drifting students still packing up, toward Severus and Mulciber. His mouth was curled in frustration, something darker simmering behind his storm-grey eyes.

But he didn’t argue again.

Potter didn’t give him the chance. He dragged Black out of the classroom, shoulders tense.

Severus didn’t react—not to Black, not to Potter, not even to the sting in his shoulder from being yanked back so quickly. He turned instead.

Mulciber still had hold of his wrist, but his grip was loose now—almost gentle. His amber eyes were lazy, half-lidded, and unreadable. Like always. His voice came low and smooth, carrying with it that distinct lilt of sleep-warm bass that always sounded too casual to be threatening, and yet—

“We have a project to do together,” he said, slow, like each word was being selected from a pile and dusted off before use. A voice like cracked velvet. Drowsy, not bored. Careless, not unaware. “…We should probably get on that.”

Severus blinked at him.

Then—without acknowledging Black or the jinx or the fact that he’d almost just been cursed—he sat back down beside Mulciber with a graceless sort of exhaustion.

He took out his planner, ink smudged in the corner. He got straight to the point. “Does Monday after dinner work?”

“No,” Mulciber said.

“What about Wednesday evening?”

Mulciber shook his head. “Gobstones.”

Severus frowned. “You’re in Gobstones Club?”

“No,” Mulciber replied. “But the meetings are loud.”

Severus pressed his lips into a flat line. “Fine. What about Friday?”

“Practice,” Mulciber said, tipping back in his chair until it creaked. “We’ve got a match next week.”

“Saturday?”

“Still practice.”

“Sunday?” Severus asked, voice tight.

“Detention.”

“Detention for what?”

Mulciber’s lips tilted up faintly, not enough to be called a smile, like even he didn’t know. “It’s a bit of a standing appointment now. Keeping me out of trouble.”

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, restraining the urge to jab the nib of his quill into the desk. This was the most he’d spoken to anyone outside of Lily in days—and somehow he could feel the pressure in his temples building into a slow, throbbing headache.

“Does this day work?” Severus asked.

“No.” Mulciber said.

“…What about this one?” Mulciber asked in turn now.

“No.” Severus answered.

“Okay… this one?” Mulciber asked.

“I have Astronomy.” Severus answered, shaking his head.

“What about Friday morning?”

“I’ve got research,” Severus said tightly. “Field data’s due before next week.”

Mulciber didn’t say anything.

Severus rubbed at his temple with the heel of his hand.

“What days are you free?” he asked eventually, voice flat. He finally looked up—eyes ringed with sleepless bruises, his mouth drawn into a slight, downward curve.

Mulciber blinked slowly. His amber eyes rested on Severus’s face for one long moment. Then he looked down and tapped a thick finger against the corner of the parchment.

“Tuesday. After seven,” he said. “And Thursday. If you don’t mind late. Saturday after practice—seven-thirty, maybe eight. Depends on how Captain’s feeling.”

Severus exhaled through his nose.

Tuesday after seven.

If he skipped dinner, he could move his Arithmancy reading to the late afternoon, which freed up the post-seven hour block. That meant three hours for the project, assuming Mulciber didn’t waste time. He’d lose prep time for Ancient Runes, though. Maybe if he consolidated study on Monday nights—

Thursday.

Late. Which meant after Astronomy prep. He could write the last of his Thursday notes at lunch instead. No naps on Thursday. He could maybe finish his independent research at midnight—if he worked fast.

And Saturday after practice.

That one was harder. If Mulciber came in fresh from the pitch, they’d have to work around his attention span and the smell of grass and sweat. Severus could shift his DADA readings to Sunday morning—but that meant less time for sleep. Again.

He did the math in his head, every calculation slotting into place like blades.

Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.

Three evenings a week gone. Five hours of sleep max, most days. Barely any left to keep up with his studies. Even less if Lily insisted on talking.

Severus reached up with one hand, fingers slow and slightly tremulous, and brushed the curtain of black hair away from his face. The strands were limp from too many days unwashed, dark and heavy with a natural oil-sheen that caught the light in flickers. His fingers moved with delicate precision, like he was used to handling volatile ingredients and not his own body.

He tucked the hair back behind his ear with practiced motion, his nail grazing the sharp edge of his cheekbone in the process. His ear, slightly red from cold or whatever else, stuck out a bit awkwardly. The hair didn’t quite stay. A few stubborn strands slipped forward again, brushing against the sharp shadow of his jaw.

He didn’t fix it.

Just let it fall.

He exhaled.

Finally, he muttered, “Fine. Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday.”

“Done,” Mulciber said without looking at him, scratching something onto his own schedule.

Chapter Text

THE GREENHOUSE WAS chaos when Lily and Remus arrived—utter, sprawling chaos. Students screamed, wept, or giggled inappropriately. Someone had conjured a water charm that was now spraying in a fine mist from the rafters, and the enormous snapdragon-toothed plant—whatever breed of carnivorous flora it was—was still gnashing idly in its enclosure, long strands of black hair dangling from its puckered jaws.

The third-year with the accent, panting and wide-eyed, kept pointing toward the plant and muttering about “Tembeleza’s braid” and “someone dared ‘er” and “she put her head too close—too close, I said it, I said it—!”

Remus had immediately gotten to work trying to unstick the mess with a Severing Charm, but the plant flinched like it could feel the magic. It growled. Lily had barked at three older students to step back, then tried a firm, coaxing tone like it was a nervous animal. She flicked her wand with a focused precision that made even Remus glance sideways at her.

Eventually, the plant released the braid. Tembeleza was in tears, her thick accent further muddled by sobs, hiccuping something about “It nearly bit my bloody ear, Miss—!”

The other third-years were a blur of pale faces, whispering, some too stunned to speak. One of them had wet their trousers.

By the time Professor Sprout burst in—her gloves half-on, hair askew—it was mostly under control.

Mostly.

“Merlin’s green lungs,” Sprout breathed as she surveyed the damage.

Lily and Remus met her at the front of the room, both of them damp, rumpled, and glassy-eyed. Lily’s ponytail had come half undone. Remus had soil under his nails.

“Handled for now,” Remus said, voice mild. “Mostly shock, no blood. Bit of trauma, though.”

“I’ll need a full report,” Sprout muttered, stepping over a shattered pot.

“We figured,” Lily replied, biting back the weight in her voice.

Sprout exhaled, pinched the bridge of her nose, and then disappeared into the carnivorous plant’s enclosure, muttering something about children and boundaries.

Outside, the sun was setting low over the courtyard, painting the castle walls a tired gold. The air bit at their fingers. Cold, but not enough for breath to fog—just that kind of chill that gets into your sleeves, makes you feel raw and real and somehow more awake than you want to be.

Lily tucked her hands into her pockets. Remus fell into step beside her.

They didn’t speak for a while.

“Well,” Lily finally muttered, flicking a dried leaf off her shoulder. “That got wildly out of hand.”

Remus huffed a laugh, the kind that’s mostly breath. “Understatement.”

She shook out her arms like she could fling the stress off her body, but it clung. In her hair, her sleeves, under her fingernails.

“Did you see the way it grinned?” she said, glancing sideways at him. “That bloody plant?”

“Oh, yeah,” Remus nodded. “And I swear it burped after it let go of Tembeleza.”

“She’s going to have nightmares. I’m going to have nightmares.”

They kept walking, their boots scuffing against the flagstones. A few students passed them on their way to dinner, whispering behind cupped hands. Someone gave Lily a wide berth like she was still trailing the danger behind her.

She shook her head. “Where the hell do I even start with a report for that? Do I open with ‘a child nearly lost her scalp, but I was very brave about it’ or just skip straight to the part where the plant swallowed a Ravenclaw tie?”

“You could just push it off on Bagman,” Remus offered. “He’s Head Boy. It’s his job too, technically.”

Lily scoffed, loud and without grace. “Bagman couldn’t write his own name if it wasn’t already on the back of his robes. I’d have better luck teaching the plant to do it.”

Remus chuckled. It slipped from him like an old habit. “True.”

For a while, that was enough. Their shoes tapped against stone, the castle humming faintly around them, alive in that quiet way it always was when classes ended and trouble was just beginning. The cold slipped into Lily’s sleeves, and she didn’t bother to shake it out.

Then, slowly, the laughter drained from her face. Her shoulders sank a little lower. Her gaze dropped to the cobblestones.

Remus noticed. He always did.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

It was gentle. Not prying. But direct enough to crack the thin, brittle shell she’d stretched around herself all day.

She didn’t answer at first.

She just looked forward, lips pressed together, her eyes shining too much for the hour. And then it was all there on her face again—the sadness, the shame, the ache that had sat quiet while her hands were busy saving someone else. The way she swallowed hard and blinked like it might stop her throat from closing.

Her breath hitched. Just a little.

And Remus, kind Remus, didn’t say another word. Didn’t push. Just walked beside her like he knew how heavy silence could be.

She finally spoke, her voice barely more than air:

“It’s like… every time I try to fix it, it just gets worse.”

And the cold hung between them.

No spells, no answers. Just a grief too complicated for names.

But Remus knew.

“Snape?” He asked gently, his voice carving the silence like a spoon through frost.

Lily didn’t answer.

She kept walking, just barely. Her feet dragged slightly, like the wind was stronger than it was, pulling her backward. Her arms were still in her pockets, shoulders hunched like she was bracing for something. She didn’t even blink at the name—just kept her gaze on the flagstones as if they might split open and tell her what to do.

A beat passed.

Then another.

Then three more.

The cold in the air began to nestle in around them, sharp and invisible. The tips of her ears had gone pink. Her lashes were damp but not from crying—just the kind of damp that comes with too much holding in. She looked like she was trying to stay very still, like moving might let the ache spill out.

Remus waited. He always did.

Remus’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, then drifted ahead again.

He cleared his throat gently. “Y’know… I never had siblings or anything.”

That got Lily’s attention—barely. Her brow twitched. Not a full glance, but she was listening.

“But I had this cousin. Little menace named Timmy. From my mum’s side. Proper wild, that one. Grew up on a hill farm in Carmarthenshire—miles of nothing but sheep and mud.”

At that, Lily blinked, and the corner of her mouth tugged up, barely perceptible.

Remus smiled to himself. “He was a few years younger than me, but we used to spend summers together when we were kids. He’d come stay with us and we’d get up to all sorts. Swore like a bloody stevedore by the time he was six—just copied whatever he heard back home. His mum once caught him calling their cat a ‘manky little shit-goblin’.”

Lily gave a small snort—almost a laugh—but bit it back. Remus caught it.

“Sweetest kid under it all, though,” he went on, his voice softening. “Loved birds. Knew the names of every one of them in Welsh. Used to follow me about with a stick like it was a wand, telling me he was my sidekick.”

Remus paused, the air cooling as they turned a corner of the path. His breath came out in puffs.

“Thing is, we fought constantly. Just—petty, stupid stuff. He was stubborn, proper hard-headed, and I was… well. I was moody, and tired, and just trying to keep him alive and out of trouble. We’d argue all day and night. Bloody hell, he was good at making people angry—could take down a grown man with a sentence.”

Lily’s lips twitched. “Sounds familiar.”

Remus glanced at her sideways, amused. “Yeah, I figured you’d appreciate that part.”

He shook his head fondly.

“He used to rile me up on purpose. Pinch my sweets, muck up my books, say something rotten about one thing or the other—‘cause he knew it’d get to me. And then when I’d snap, he’d go dead quiet and act like I’d just murdered his goldfish in front of a priest.”

Lily laughed gently, hand brushing her hair back behind her ear. “Little manipulator.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Remus said, snorting. “Proper drama queen. But clever. Too clever for his own good. You couldn’t stay mad at him long. He’d just… look at you like you were the villain in some story he’d already rewritten, and you’d feel like the world’s worst older cousin.”

Lily looked at him, something gentler in her eyes now—almost reverent.

“He sounds like trouble,” she murmured.

Remus smiled down at the path. “He was.”

The air quieted between them again, this time soft with the weight of memory and affection.

“Every time,” he added, voice lower now, “I’d still apologize first. Not because I was wrong—but because I loved the little idiot. Because I wanted us back on good terms more than I wanted to be right.”

Lily looked away then, blinking hard, her throat tight.

The wind moved through the trees above them, sharp and thin like string, pulling everything just a little more taut. The castle loomed ahead, but she didn’t rush toward it. Neither did Remus.

“You’re a good person, Remus,” Lily said.

He shrugged. “Don’t know about that. I mainly just did it so my parents wouldn’t knock me upside the head. Said I was older, so I had to be the example.”

Lily smiled. “That’s a bit unfair.”

“Yeah well,” Remus shrugged, hands deep in the pockets of his robes. “I’d always try to apologize like the adults told us to. Say ‘I’m sorry.’ Say what I did wrong.”

He paused. His voice got a little softer.

“Didn’t mean a thing to him.”

Lily blinked slowly, still not looking at him, but slower now. Like the motion took effort.

“See, he was raised mostly by his mum’s side of the family,” Remus went on, “and they didn’t do apologies much. His mum’s family didn’t say sorry when they were wrong—they just bought you a sausage roll and told you to sit the hell down.”

That earned a real, if soft, chuckle from Lily.

“So after a while,” he continued, “I stopped apologizing. I’d just turn up with a bag of crisps, chuck it at his head and say, ‘truce?’ That meant something to him. That word. Didn’t ask either of us to admit we were wrong, just… meant we were done fighting.”

Lily’s expression folded inwards.

Finally, she glanced at him, eyes glassy and tired.

“A truce,” she repeated, like she was tasting it.

Remus nodded, the corner of his mouth tugging just slightly. “Sometimes people don’t want you to say the right thing. They just want to know you’d still sit beside them even when it’s all gone to shit.”

Lily didn’t speak right away.

She turned her head forward again and blinked once, slowly. Her breath was visible now in the cooling air, faint clouds curling past her lips.

A truce…

Lily had made cinnamon buns.

It had been a disaster.

The kitchens still smelled like scorched sugar and clove, like sweetness cooked too long into something bitter, clinging to the walls like regret. There was flour in her hair. On her elbows. A streak of cinnamon across her cheek where she must’ve wiped her face without thinking. Her sleeves were rolled up and sticky with dough. She had used her Head Girl privileges for the first time in a way that wasn’t stern or responsible or even particularly dignified—just desperate.

The elves had looked scandalized.

They’d let her in, of course, with tight smiles and wary bows. She was polite, stumbling over her explanations, clutching the recipe in her hand like a holy text. “It’s for a friend,” she’d said, voice too thin, smile too wide. “He’s not—well, he’s not talking to me. But these are his favorite. It’s my mum’s recipe. He used to like them. Back when we…”

She trailed off. They nodded. They let her cook.

They kept a wide berth.

Lily didn’t know if it was because she was doing their job, or because she was doing such a spectacularly bad job of it. When she’d looked up, red hair falling into her eyes, she’d seen their small, horrified faces watching her attempt to roll the dough too thin, spill the melted butter down the side of the counter, scrape scorched glaze off the bottom of the pan with a knife. A crime scene, in sugar and flour and too much hope.

But the buns were there now, cooling lopsidedly in their tray. A little burnt at the edges. Too much filling in some, barely enough in others. Sticky. Messy.

Real.

She’d made them from memory—her memory—of all the nights they’d sat in her kitchen with the light off and the oven humming. When Severus would show up after dark with a split lip and refuse to say what happened. Or when his father had screamed too loud through the walls and he couldn’t sleep. Or when he flinched if someone brushed past his shoulder in the hallway. Or when they’d fought over something petty, something stupid—her correcting his tone with Marlene, or him calling James a slur he knew would make her furious—and they’d sulked in opposite corners of the sitting room until she passed him a cinnamon bun on a paper napkin without saying a word.

That had always been their truce. Not an apology. Just the quiet offering of something warm, something safe. A peace offering in brown sugar and butter and cracked icing.

She didn’t know if it would be enough this time.

She didn’t even know if he would take it.

But she’d made them anyway. Her fingers ached from kneading, her eyes burned from holding back tears she didn’t have time to spill, and her pride was a small, trembling thing in her chest that she pressed down as hard as she could.

There they sat—twelve imperfect little knots of dough and hope.

Lily stared at them for a long time.

The steam curling off the buns looked like breath in cold air.

Lily finally looked up, making eye contact with one of the elves.

“Can I borrow a tupper for this?”

She ran into Potter as she was making her way toward the dungeons, arms full with the slightly overbaked, still-warm container, nerves burning holes through her fingertips.

“Lily.”

Her name from his mouth made her freeze.

“Potter—” Her voice came sharp, defensive. The tray in her hands wobbled slightly. Fury was already flickering at the base of her throat, green eyes sharp like sea glass. There was something about James Potter—always had been—that made her want to be twice as strong, twice as guarded. He always took up too much room, always acted like she belonged to some imagined story in his head.

But he didn’t move closer. Didn’t push or pester.

James raised his hands. “I know. I know—I’m not trying to bother you, Evans.”

She frowned, instantly suspicious. His tone was low, too calm. No arrogant lean, no grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. His voice didn’t crackle with humor or challenge—just… stillness.

“What do you want then?”

James stood straighter, but not taller. There was something small about him today—smaller than she’d ever seen him. His collar was askew, robes wrinkled, dark circles under his eyes. His hair, as always, was a mess—but not the carefully tousled, charming kind. He looked like he’d pulled at it all morning without realizing.

“The project,” James reminded her. “We’re partners, remember?”

The project. Right.

She blinked.

So much had been happening—spiraling, crashing—that she hadn’t realized how completely Severus had become the only thing taking up space in her mind. He had—somehow—rearranged the furniture of her life, and everyone else, everything else, had fallen behind him like clutter she couldn’t bring herself to look at.

“Right,” Lily murmured. Her posture slackened by a fraction. “I forgot.”

“Yeah.” James’s reply was quiet, flat. Like he had nothing better to say. Like he wasn’t sure she’d listen even if he did.

It was strange. Off. This docile version of Potter—no teasing, no puffed-up charm—was more disarming than anything he could’ve shouted.

She noticed, then, the way he wasn’t meeting her eyes.

It was strange, seeing James Potter like this. No grin. No swagger. No deflecting with a joke that made half the room roll their eyes. Just stillness. It made something twist in her chest—a memory, maybe, of the boy who used to sneak sugar quills into Mary’s bag just to make her laugh. The boy who’d conjured an umbrella in second year to cover her when her ink pot spilled all over her notes.

She thought of the slap again.

Of her palm connecting with his cheek, the stunned silence afterward.

Her stomach twisted. Maybe she should apologize. Maybe she’d gone too far.

But no—no, she stood by it. He’d earned it. She wouldn’t take it back now. Doubling down felt safer than uncertainty.

“Will you be in the common room later tonight?” she asked, her tone tight, cautious. “We can look at each other’s schedules then.”

“Yeah, Evans,” James nodded. “I’ll be there.”

“Good,” she said, briskly, and turned.

The container felt heavier with every step she took away.

She was halfway down the corridor when he called out behind her suddenly, too quickly, like the words slipped out before he could stop them.

“Where are you going?”

Lily stopped, exhaled once, and didn’t turn around.

She shot a glance over her shoulder, a look like a blade—sharp, tired, and meant to wound. “None of your business.”

Then she kept walking, and didn’t look back.

Behind her, the stone hallway swallowed the silence between them.

The common room had grown dim with the slow crawl of late afternoon, firelight flickering low across the stone walls. James hadn’t moved from his spot on the worn corduroy couch in over an hour—not really. He’d gotten up once to “stretch,” once to check the time, and once to glare out the window as though it might cough up an answer. Otherwise, he was seated, legs spread, one foot bouncing endlessly while his eyes darted toward the portrait hole every time it creaked.

He wasn’t worried. That’s what he told himself. He wasn’t worried because it was Lily. Brilliant, capable, never-late-unless-she-meant-to-be Lily. She’d said she’d meet him here after her oh so secretive errand. To the dungeons, no less. That was four hours ago.

James ran a hand through his hair for the umpteenth time, only to make it worse, sending a few pieces sticking up like he’d been electrocuted. He tugged at the collar of his sweater, tapped his fingers on his knee, sighed heavily for no one but himself.

She could have gotten caught up. She could be in one of the potions labs. She could be talking to Slughorn or Merrythought. She could’ve… forgotten. The thought made his stomach twist—not in anger, but in that quiet, hollow way it always did when Lily was involved.

Finally, he stood up too fast, muttered something vague to the room that no one acknowledged, and made for the girls’ dormitory staircase. Of course, it didn’t let him up. So he stood there a moment, chewing on his bottom lip the way he did when he was trying to convince himself to do something dumb but possibly necessary.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, fixed his glasses with a thumb to the bridge of his nose, then gave in to the anxiety gnawing at his ribs. Sod it.

He rapped lightly—then again, louder—on the door to Marlene and Mary’s room. His knuckles felt weirdly cold.

As he waited, a pair of fifth-year girls in uniform skirts and over-accessorized jumpers passed by, one elbowing the other and whispering too loudly to be subtle.

“Hi James,” they said in unison, all grins and fluttering lashes.

James grinned, all reflex, easy and warm even when he felt anything but.

“Hey, ladies,” he said, pushing a hand through his hair with muscle memory more than intent.

The resulting chorus of giggles behind him was enough to make him cringe slightly, even as he tucked a curl behind his ear in pretend nonchalance.

The door opened, saving him.

Mary stood there, one brow raised like she’d been expecting him. Her hair was in rollers and her wand was tucked behind her ear. The scent of lavender oil drifted out into the hallway.

“Evans isn’t here,” she said before he could speak, folding her arms.

James deflated just a little, letting his hands fall to his sides. “Right. Yeah. I figured. I just… Thought maybe you’d know where she went.”

Mary’s expression softened a touch, though her voice stayed dry. “Not a clue. Last I saw her, she was heading to the kitchens.”

He nodded, once, teeth pressing into the inside of his cheek. The light behind Mary was golden and warm, filled with quiet laughter and floating music. Something about it made him feel like he was very much outside of something. Again.

“Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

She gave him a once-over, eyes narrowing slightly, not unkindly. “You alright?”

James hesitated. Then he shrugged, half a smile twitching on his lips, a performance for her sake. “Yeah. Course. Just being dramatic.”

Mary didn’t laugh. She just nodded, slowly. “Right.” She said.

“It’s just…” James started, and now he knew he wouldn’t stop, “She was heading down to the dungeons earlier? Had some tray with her. Didn’t say much.”

That earned nothing. Not even a blink. Mary’s face closed up like a cupboard.

He waited.

She didn’t answer.

James shifted his weight. “Look, I’m not trying to—if she’s fine, then that’s fine, but I’ve been sitting in the bloody common room for hours like some kind of Victorian ghost, and I—”

“James,” Mary said, firm. “Mind your own business.”

That landed sharper than it was probably meant. He flinched, stepping back a little, brows twitching down, mouth parting like he might argue.

But then the door creaked again, and in walked Marlene, shaking out her freshly-washed hair with a towel. Her fringe looked a little jagged, like she’d snipped it herself over the sink. She had a lollipop in her mouth and no idea what she was interrupting.

“Hey Mary, have you seen my—oh! Hey, James.” She stopped mid-sentence, blinking at him with a little surprised smile, towel still slung around her neck.

“Hey, Mars,” James said, with a little lift of his hand, his voice gentler with her than it had been a moment ago.

“What’s up?” she asked, stepping into view.

“I was just—”

“Leaving,” Mary cut in, her tone brisk as she looked over her shoulder. “He was leaving.”

James ignored her, jaw tightening. “I just wanted to know if either of you’d seen Lily.”

“No,” Mary said flatly. “We haven’t.”

Marlene looked between them, towel paused halfway through drying her hair. She squinted. “Didn’t she go to see Snape?”

Silence fell like a dropped book.

James blinked. Once. Twice. Like the words took a second to reach him.

Mary let out the faintest sigh. Marlene’s eyes widened, realizing too late what she’d just said.

“Ah,” he said.

Marlene looked up, wide-eyed, like she’d just set a match to something flammable. “Oh. Shit.”

He gave them both a jerky nod, already turning. “Cheers.”

The walk back to the common room was quieter than it had any right to be. The castle hummed low with distant laughter and the scraping of chairs in study groups. He ran a hand through his hair again, but this time there was no vanity in it, no performance—just something to do with his fingers before they curled into fists.

When he stepped down the stairs leading to the girls’ dormitory, the fire was lower now, casting long shadows. The Marauders were spread out around the hearth, casual and too-loud: Sirius balancing a cushion on Remus’s head while Peter tried to roast marshmallows on a bent quill.

“Oi,” Sirius said without looking, “you find her?”

James dropped into the armchair with a thud. Didn’t speak for a second. Just stared into the fire like it might save him.

“She’s off to see Snape,” he said finally.

A beat.

“Ah,” Remus said, and something in the way he said it—gentle, knowing.

Peter whistled low.

Sirius didn’t say anything at first. Then he made a face like he’d bitten into something sour. “Seriously?”

“She told me to wait here so we could work on our project,” James muttered, voice flat. “It’s been four hours.”

They were all quiet for a while after that. The fire popped. James leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, fingers laced so tightly his knuckles were white. No one asked what he was thinking, but they didn’t need to. It was obvious in the way his jaw clenched, in the way he wouldn’t look at any of them.

James sat forward in his chair, elbows balanced on his knees, the fire throwing flickering gold light across his face. The light made the angles of his jaw look sharper, made the circles under his eyes darker. His glasses slid slightly down his nose, but he didn’t bother pushing them up.

Across from him, Peter was cross-legged on the floor, still nursing the pathetic excuse for a marshmallow he’d half-incinerated earlier. He looked between them all with wide eyes and hesitant curiosity.

“Aren’t they still having a tiff though?” he asked, licking some ash off his thumb.

“Guess she’s still trying to apologize,” Remus said, quietly, shifting where he sat curled up in the corner armchair, a book closed on his lap now, forgotten.

“Merlin knows why,” Sirius scoffed. He was sprawled upside down on the sofa, his head dangling over the side, hair brushing the floor, arms crossed loosely over his chest. “Girl’s a bit bent in the head, if you ask me.”

“Sirius,” Remus said, sharp but not unkind. A warning. A flick of the eyes.

“Oh, piss off,” Sirius muttered, not looking up—or down, technically. “You can’t tell me she isn’t a little mental to be chasing after Sniv like that.”

James didn’t flinch, but something flickered behind his eyes, like a match threatening to catch. He stared straight into the fire.

“That’s not the problem,” he said. His voice was quiet, but clipped. Controlled. Even though, yes, actually, that was the problem. That was precisely the problem. The image of Lily—his Lily—taking a tray of something down to the dungeons for Snivellus was like sandpaper scraping through his chest. But he couldn’t let them see that. Not really. He had to focus.

“She’s in the dungeons,” he said again. “Probably alone.”

“And…?” Remus looked up now, brows drawing slightly together.

“Come on, she could be in danger or something,” James said, a little too quickly.

Remus gave a flat look. “She’s a Prefect, James. Head girl, as a matter of fact.”

James’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Okay? but since when have Slytherins ever kept the rules?”

Remus groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I would unpack how horrendously generalized and hypocritical that statement is, but when have you lot ever listened to me.”

“Oi, we listen to you,” Sirius said, turning his head so he could squint at Remus upside-down. “You’re practically our moral compass.”

“Right,” Remus said dryly, “because compasses work great when you throw them into bonfires and ignore the smoke.”

Sirius grinned.

But James was still staring into the fire, chewing on the inside of his cheek. His silence stretched a little too long, the way it always did when something had sunk in and was now festering into action.

(That combination—James and thinking—never boded well.)

Then he stood up suddenly. “I’m going to check where she is.”

“No, you’re not,” Remus said immediately, sitting up straighter. “Prongs. Come on. Don’t be stupid.”

“I’m not being stupid,” James said, grabbing his wand and heading toward the staircase like that settled it. “I’m just checking.”

“She’s not your responsibility.”

“She could be in trouble.”

“She’s not,” Remus insisted, rising now too. “She’s not helpless. You’re not her minder.”

“I’m not—! I’m not saying she’s helpless,” James snapped, turning back around. His hands were fists at his sides. “I’m saying Slytherins are bastards. I’m saying it’s dark down there, and she’s kind, and people like Snape twist that until it breaks.”

The room went quiet.

James took a breath, jaw ticking. “I’ll wear the cloak. I’ll stay under the whole time. I just want to make sure she’s alright.”

James looked at Remus with the intensity of someone trying very hard not to beg. “Mate,” he said. “Give me the map.”

Remus blinked. “No.”

James raised an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Remus repeated, firmer now. He leaned back into the armchair, folding his arms across his chest like he’d been preparing for this exact moment since third year. “Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Moony—”

“James,” Remus cut in, voice low and measured. “You don’t need the map.”

“I do, though,” James argued. “I’m not wandering around blindly. I just want to make sure she’s okay—”

“You just want to spy on her,” Remus said flatly.

James flinched, then rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t be dramatic.”

“You’re literally going down to the dungeons, under an invisibility cloak, to check if your crush is spending time with someone you hate. That’s dramatic.”

“It’s not like that,” James muttered, but his voice didn’t carry the conviction it should’ve. “It’s just—she’s down there. With him.”

“So?”

“So, anything could happen!”

Remus rubbed his eyes, clearly trying not to lose patience. “James, you’re not worried about her safety. You’re angry she went to see Snape at all. You think if you catch her in some moment that confirms whatever betrayal you’ve already decided she’s committing, you’ll be justified in feeling like this.”

James opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Remus went on, quieter now. “Look, I get it. Really. But that map—it’s for all of us. We made it for mischief, not for monitoring people we… care about.”

James looked at him, and for a second, something softened. Something almost remorseful flickered in his eyes. “So what,” he said, quieter now, “I just sit here? Just wonder what’s going on?”

“Yes,” Remus said. “You trust her.”

James gave a half-laugh, bitter. “It’s not her I don’t trust.”

“Even worse,” Remus said dryly.

The room went still for a moment.

Then, from the couch, Sirius stretched, swung himself upright, and casually reached under the cushion. From it, he pulled the familiar silvery shimmer of the Invisibility Cloak and tossed it toward James.

It landed in his hands with a whisper.

“There,” Sirius said, smirking. “Cloak’s yours. Go haunt the dungeons like a jilted Victorian bride. But leave Moony and his morals alone, yeah?”

Remus muttered something under his breath.

James hesitated, the cloak heavy in his hands.

“Thanks,” he mumbled.

Sirius shrugged. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“That doesn’t really narrow it down,” Peter chimed in.

But James was already moving, the cloak sliding over his shoulders like moonlight. He paused just before vanishing completely.

“I’ll be quick,” he said.

Remus didn’t respond. Just watched as the portrait hole creaked open on its own, and then shut quietly behind no one.

Remus looked at him long and hard, searching. Then, eventually, he sighed, rubbing at his temple. “Brilliant,” Remus muttered to himself. “Go stalk your not-girlfriend. We’ll be right here when it all blows up in your face.”

The corridors beneath the castle always felt different at night—damp, echoing, as though the stones themselves were holding their breath. James moved under the Invisibility Cloak with practiced steps, careful to avoid the trick stair, his wand held loosely in one hand. He hated being down here. Even more than he hated the way the walls seemed to sweat. It was the quiet that got to him. Too still, too secretive.

And then he saw her.

Lily Evans stood just a few feet outside the Slytherin common room, in front of the blank, serpentine stretch of stone that served as its entrance. She was hugging a small container to her chest like it was the only thing grounding her. Her hair was a mess—windblown and knotted, with little wisps curling around her face—but somehow she was still radiant. Her expression, though, was tight. Anxious. Her brow was furrowed, lips pressed into a line. She kept glancing at the wall like she expected it to open at any moment. Like she needed it to.

She looked like she’d been standing there a while.

James stayed still, just watching. The pain that hit him then was stupidly sharp, stupidly loyal. God, she was beautiful—even when she was wrecked.

The first footsteps that echoed down the corridor were deliberate—each one spaced exactly apart, tapping out a rhythm like clockwork. And then came Edmund Avery Jr.

He was all cloaked in that sickly, slow-moving energy James had always hated. He was the kind of boy who smelled like old books and blood pudding and was always in the infirmary for some suspiciously ill-defined ailment.

He looked like a boy plucked out of an old family portrait and told to walk. His posture was perfect—military perfect—with his spine straight as a broomstick and his chin held high like he thought gravity didn’t apply to him. One hand gripped a sleek black cane with a silver head, and he walked with the air of someone who used it less out of need and more out of want (which was odd, given him and Remus had the exact same limp).

He was pale in the way some porcelain dolls are pale—more death than elegance. Thin, sickly, with skin like damp parchment and lips too colorless for someone his age. His hair was neatly parted and combed down, his robes pristine. He was seventeen going on eighty.

James had always hated him. Not because he was loud, but because he wasn’t. Because he was quiet in that way that turned sinister the moment you weren’t looking. Because more than once, when they’d snuck into the infirmary to check on Remus, he’d been the one who reported them. Said he had a “moral obligation,” as though that mattered more than a bleeding boy in a hospital wing who needed his friends.

Lily straightened when she saw him. Her voice, when she spoke, was clear and careful—polite in the way girls are taught to be when they’re asking for something.

“Hi, sorry—my name’s Lily. I’m a Gryffindor, I—well, I’m Headgirl—and I’m here—” she gave a small, awkward laugh, holding up the container like a peace offering, “and I was wondering if you could call Severus—Severus Snape—down for me? I wanted to—”

Avery didn’t even pause. His eyes slid right over her like she was a stain on the floor. His footsteps didn’t falter, the cane ticking rhythmically beside him, steady as a metronome. He passed her without so much as a flicker of recognition.

Lily’s face didn’t fall all at once—it was more like the breath left her. Like something inside her deflated, quietly, without ceremony. Her mouth parted slightly, as if she’d been about to say something else, but thought better of it. Her eyes didn’t widen in surprise. No—this wasn’t new.

It was just happening again.

James’s jaw tensed. His hands curled into fists beneath the cloak. He wanted to yell after Avery. Oi, you damned maggot—forgot how to hear or what?

But Lily was already pulling herself together. Swallowing it down. Like she always did.

James watched her watch Avery disappear.

How long had this been happening? he wondered. How many times had she come down here, holding whatever scrap of apology she could scrounge up, only to be treated like she was the one who didn’t belong?

Then came Mulciber.

Bruce Mulciber turned the corner, tall and broad-shouldered, the kind of boy who always looked like he was headed to a fight or from one. His skin was rich and dark, smooth and clean-shaven, and the sleeves of his robes rolled up just slightly, exposing strong forearms. He moved like someone used to people making space for him.

James hated him.

Not in the same way he hated Avery, or even Snape. Mulciber was good—annoyingly so. A hell of a Beater. Maybe the best in the school. James had learned the hard way: Mulciber had an arm like a battering ram and the timing of a devil. He’d cracked two ribs on a single swing last winter, and James had still had to shake his hand after the match. As a Chaser, James could outrun most things. Mulciber wasn’t one of them.

James tensed instinctively. Watched him approach Lily without slowing.

But Lily didn’t let him pass.

She stepped into his path with both hands held out, blocking him like a human dam. “Please,” she said. “Just—wait a second.”

Mulciber paused.

He looked at her like she was something strange. Not cruel, exactly. Not exactly kind, either.

“Could you—“ Lily paused. Her voice sounded strained. Like she was going to cry. “Could you tell Severus I’m here? Just that—I’ll wait here until he comes out.”

Mulciber looked down at her with a raised brow, his expression unreadable. A beat passed between them.

“You planning to sleep here, Evans?” he asked, not unkindly, but not warmly either.

“He’ll come out,” she said with that same impossible certainty. She looked at him with those fierce green eyes, willing it to be true. James had seen her glare down professors with less fire than she used in that moment.

Mulciber blinked once, then shrugged like it didn’t matter. “Fine. I’ll tell him.”

And then he was gone. Through the wall. Into the common room.

Minutes dragged on.

Ten. Fifteen. More.

The door didn’t open again.

Lily stood still at first. Then she sat. Then, slowly, she lowered herself to the floor, sliding down until she was curled near the wall, arms around her knees, the container placed gently beside her like it, too, had lost its purpose.

Eventually, she pressed her hands to her face.

And James stood there, cloak pulled tight, fury creeping up his spine.

Either Mulciber had lied—or Snape knew she was there and didn’t care.

James felt his fury rise in his throat like bile.

Who the hell did Snape think he was?

How dare he—how dare he—treat her like this? Let her stand there, talk to Mulciber, get ignored by Avery, and still not come out? Lily had always been fierce, stubborn, sure of herself. But she looked so small now, curled at the base of a stone wall like some discarded thing.

James didn’t move. Couldn’t. The anger pressed against the edges of the cloak, hot and sparking.

Because she deserved better.

And Snape—Snape—wasn’t going to give it to her.

Footsteps again—lighter, quicker. James didn’t think much of them until they slowed. Paused. And then—

“Lily?”

The voice was soft, surprised. Familiar.

She looked up, blinking the haze from her eyes. “Wilkes?”

Wilhelm Wilkes stood at the end of the hall, his prefect badge catching a glint of torchlight as he stepped forward, brows drawn in genuine confusion.

“Merlin,” he breathed, already shrugging off his long Slytherin coat. “What are you doing here?”

Before she could answer, he was crouching down beside her, his expression shifting from surprise to concern. Without asking, he draped his coat over her shoulders. It was warm, rich wool, still carrying the clean, herbal scent of whatever Wilkes always smelled like—mint leaf and pine and something faintly magical.

His hands, pale and sure, moved to her forearms, rubbing gently to coax the warmth back in. “You’re freezing.”

Lily gave a tired, grateful laugh. “I didn’t realise how long I’d been sitting here.”

James, under the cloak, bristled. His fingers twitched, nails biting into his palms. He’d expected another Mulciber, maybe even Rosier. Not Wilkes.

Of all the Slytherins, Wilhelm Wilkes was the one James didn’t trust most—not because he was cruel, or cowardly, or conniving. No. Because Wilkes was none of those things. He was perfectly pleasant.

Wilkes was the boy who smiled at everyone, who helped Hufflepuffs pick up their books in the corridor, who offered compliments without edge or agenda, and remembered the names of Ravenclaws in other years. Teachers adored him. Students did, too, even if they couldn’t articulate why.

James Potter was popular. Everyone said it. He didn’t even have to try for it, most of the time—people just liked him. Or they said they did. Because sure, he was loud, and a bit of a show-off, but he was also funny, and decent at Quidditch, and quick to defend his friends, and—

And people still hated him.

Some outright. Some silently. Some because they thought he was a tosser, or a bully, or too clever for his own good. James could handle that. He wore his reputation like his broom gear—stiff leather, padded at the elbows, scuffed from a dozen scuffles and a hundred hallway insults.

But Wilkes?

Wilkes was clean.

Wilkes smiled, and everyone melted. Teachers handed him extra patrols like compliments. Girls followed him with their eyes. Even Sirius, who hated nearly all Slytherins on principle, had once muttered, “He’s not the worst.”

There was no dirt on him. No scandal. Not a whisper. People didn’t talk behind Wilkes’s back—they just smiled as he walked by and kept their envy to themselves.

It was unnatural. It was suspicious.

He had golden-blond hair that curled slightly at the nape, blue eyes that always seemed amused but never mocking, and a voice like warm honey over tea. He was too good. Too smooth.

“I was waiting for Severus,” Lily said, her voice quieter now. “I tried asking Avery—he ignored me. And Mulciber said he’d tell him but…” she trailed off, letting the silence finish the sentence.

Wilkes exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close. “Yeah… forgive us Slytherins,” he said, giving her a lopsided smile, “None of us were really raised with proper social skills.”

Lily gave him a look, but her lips curved faintly.

Wilkes leaned in, voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. “We’re mostly only children, you see. It gives us a bit of a complex.”

Lily laughed for real then—low and tired, but real. James’s stomach twisted.

“Still,” Wilkes said more gently, “you shouldn’t be out here.”

“I need to talk to him,” Lily said. “I won’t go until I do.”

Wilkes looked at her for a moment. Then nodded, standing fluidly.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll get him.”

And James could see it—the way Lily exhaled like she hadn’t dared hope anymore. The way she pulled his coat tighter around her, let her head fall back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut.

And he hated it.

Because Wilkes was the one who made that happen. Because he got to swoop in and be warm and gallant and useful.

The wall to the Slytherin common room opened silently as Wilkes slipped inside. The stone sealed shut behind him.

And Lily waited.

And James watched.

And neither of them saw how tightly his hands were clenched at his sides.

Lily was trying to sit straighter again, folding the coat neatly over her lap. She rubbed her hands together for warmth, eyes still on the wall, until—

The stone groaned. The passage opened.

Wilkes stepped out, and behind him, for just a moment, James saw a flicker of black robes deeper in the common room.

Wilkes turned back to her. “He’ll be out in a second.”

Lily’s breath hitched. She looked up at Wilkes with something like disbelief. “You really told him?”

He tilted his head, a little mock-offended. “Would I lie to you?”

She blinked. “No—no, I just—thank you.”

He crouched again beside her, this time not to fuss, just to be there. “He was probably waiting too,” Wilkes said gently. “You shouldn’t worry.”

But Lily didn’t answer that. She looked down at the container in her hands again, rotating it slowly. Her thumb brushed the lid.

Wilkes watched her for a second. Then asked, very softly, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Her head shook before he even finished the question. “It’s not—” she stopped. “It’s not something I can explain.”

Wilkes studied her for a moment, like he was trying to find the words behind her silence. But he only nodded, respectful in the way that made James want to punch something.

And then, just as quietly, he said, “Well, if you ever want to, you can always write us up for a patrol.”

Lily smiled a little, then nodded, her fingers stilling on the lid.

“Thank you.”

The corridor was quiet. Peaceful. The air between them warm, despite the cold.

Too warm, if you asked James.

Wilkes stood again. Gave her shoulder the lightest squeeze. “Good luck,” he murmured.

Then he turned and walked away, as casually graceful as always, like he knew exactly how long to stay before overstaying—and exactly how much of himself to leave behind.

James’s eyes stayed fixed on his back until the green of his robes disappeared around the corner.

Still hidden, still unseen, James watched Lily as she slowly stood up and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Chapter Text

BOOKS—OLD AND dog-eared, some with cracking spines—were laid out in careful rows before him. His candle burned low, wax pooled into the base of an old ink jar he’d repurposed as a holder. The flame flickered over a list he’d written in his precise, no-nonsense script:

• Astronomy (NEWT): Celestial Bodies and the Magical Observer
• Arithmancy (NEWT): Numeromantic Logic: From 3 to 333
• Ancient Runes (NEWT): Runic Languages of the North
• Magical Theory: Thaumic Structure and Flow
• Defense Against the Dark Arts (Advanced): Practical Protections & Counterspells

And that was just quarter three.

He stared at the parchment, fingers drumming lightly against the wood of his desk. His mind was already calculating.

Cost if bought new: 48 Galleons, 14 Sickles.

Secondhand: 19 Galleons, give or take (if he could beat Mulpepper’s markup).

Library-accessible volumes: Runic Languages of the North (Reference Only—can’t check out), Thaumic Structure and Flow (might be missing pages, though).

Borrowable books from graduates (Lucius? Narcissa?) : Possible.

He’d mapped it out to the last knut. He had maybe 8 Galleons saved—9, if he skipped on buying himself a new quill even though his kept leaking ink. The numbers still didn’t work.

He leaned back in his chair, dark eyes narrowing at the candlelight. He hadn’t even accounted for parchment, ink, fresh robes. He could live with holes in his socks, but not with not being able to pass the NEWTs. Not now. Not with the path he had chosen—was choosing—every day he stayed at Hogwarts.

The dormitory door creaked open.

Clack.

Clack.

Clack.

Severus didn’t need to look up. He knew that rhythm.

Edmund Avery Jr. crossed the room like he belonged in it, like it had been built for him. He moved slowly, but never with weakness. He had the bearing of an aristocrat out of place in modern time—a sickly Victorian heir pulled out of a painting and made to room with Severus Snape.

His posture was impeccable. One hand on his cane, the other unfastening the top button of his uniform robe. His face was pale, almost luminous in the firelight, and his hair, the color of charred bone, was combed neatly back even now. His lips were faintly blue from the cold, or maybe from the curse in his blood.

He said nothing. Neither did Severus.

It had always been like this. They detested each other in a way that only two highly-strung, tightly-wound boys could. Detested, yes—but never underestimated. They’d been roomed together since first year and had long since realized that open warfare was inefficient. They’d struck a silent détente in second year: shared silence, shared space, shared academic dependence.

Avery dropped his satchel on the floor and began to untie his shoes with a grace that made the act look like theater. Deliberate. Controlled. Every movement performed as if someone were always watching.

Severus waited until Avery’s second shoe was halfway off before he reached over and flicked a tightly rolled scroll of parchment onto the edge of Avery’s bed.

It landed next to his elbow.

“Ancient Runes,” Severus said without looking at him. “You missed two lessons. We covered Icelandic bind-runes—three branches of them, and their adaptation into proto-Germanic hex structures. I added cross-references and margin notes. The translation for Hraust’s Curse is halfway through, but I included mine. I labeled the visual charts. Don’t be thick about it.”

Avery glanced down at the parchment, then lifted a brow. He didn’t immediately reach for the scroll.

Severus didn’t press him.

“You owe me 100 galleons.”

Avery tilted his head a fraction. “Do I?”

Severus turned slightly in his chair, face impassive. “Yes. You do.”

There was a pause as Avery unlaced his left shoe with delicate precision, then the right. “Give it a week.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” Severus said flatly. “You paid Thorne last night for whatever disaster you considered a tincture.”

Avery clicked his tongue but made no protest. He slid open his bottom drawer, reached inside, and pulled out a small velvet pouch. It jingled as he tossed it underhand toward Severus, who caught it with one hand and placed it on the desk.

And then, he counted.

His fingers moved fast—sorted into tens, fives, singles. He muttered under his breath, as if he didn’t trust the coins to stay still. It was an old Muggle habit from Spinner’s End, taught to him by necessity: Trust no coin until you’ve seen it twice.

When he paused, Avery was already back at his bed, reclining with one leg crossed over the other.

“You’re two galleons short.”

Avery didn’t even blink.

“Am I?” he murmured.

“Yes.” Severus turned his head. “Would you like me to itemize it?”

A beat passed.

“No,” Avery murmured, voice calm. “I believe you.”

Then Avery reached into the pocket of his inner robe and extracted two galleons like he was flicking ash off his sleeve. He tossed them toward Severus. They clinked off the floor and spun in slow, mocking circles before resting by his feet.

“There. For your troubles.”

Severus didn’t thank him. He gathered the coins and slid them onto his desk.

Avery tilted his head slightly, considering him. “I know you’re poor, Snape, but do try not to haggle like a fishmonger. It’s unbecoming.”

Severus stilled, his jaw working once.

But he said nothing.

Avery watched him a moment longer, then leaned back against his pillows, folding his hands neatly over his stomach. “Is there anything else?”

There was so much else. But none of it worth saying to him.

He gathered the coins into his pouch, tied it tight, and slipped it into the locked drawer of his desk with hands that didn’t shake.

This was their arrangement.

It had started in second year, when Avery had been assigned as his partner in Ancient Runes. Then again in Arithmancy. And again in Magical Theory. The Professors had seen two clever minds and thought them a match. But Severus quickly discovered the flaw: Avery missed classes. A lot. His malediction—an old family inherited blood curse—left him bedridden in the infirmary more often than not.

And so Severus, loathe to fail by association, had picked up the slack. His notes had become lifelines. He knew how to transcribe a lecture like a court scribe. He knew how to annotate like he’d invented ink.

And Avery had paid. Always. Promptly. Sometimes handsomely.

It wasn’t kindness.

It was commerce.

And commerce, at least, was honest.

So he began to write Avery notes. Clear, organized, obsessively detailed.

And in the darkness of the dormitory, it was one of the only things in Severus Snape’s life that came with an equivalent exchange.

He blew out the candle with a sharp breath, the scent of melted wax and dry ink lingering in the still air.

His mind was already turning over the next week’s work. He would need another three galleons to cover the last book—Tangled Threads: An Interpretive History of Nordic Bind-Runes in Wandless Enchantment, a title he’d been chasing for weeks. The shopkeeper at Flourish and Blotts had said it was rare to find a school-age student asking about wandless channeling matrices. But he wouldn’t need to buy it for his NEWTs class. Not if the library finally had a copy.

He pushed his chair back and stood, shoulders stiff from too many hours hunched over parchment. If he hurried, he could catch Madam Pince before she locked the Restricted Section—

A solid figure filled the doorway. Severus collided with him hard enough to jostle his bag. His shoulder tipped sideways. He stumbled. A hand closed around his arm. Firm, steady.

Severus tensed instantly, breath locking in his throat. His body went taut, drawn bowstring tight. He wrenched his arm back by instinct, a reflex that snapped his thoughts clean in half.

Mulciber blinked, releasing him instantly. His expression didn’t change—still that low-lidded calm he always wore—but his brow lifted slightly, as if clocking something.

He didn’t comment on it.

Instead, he stepped aside from the door just enough to block it with his body, broom still across his shoulders. “Where you off to?”

“The library.” Severus’s tone was clipped, sharper than he intended.

Mulciber nodded slowly. He didn’t step aside. Instead, he leaned his weight against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, like he had all the time in the world.

“You forget Slughorn’s project?”

Severus blinked, then cursed inwardly. Of course. The NEWT-level assignment—meant to show independent research ability. They’d agreed to partner up. Fixed their schedules around it, even. And he’d completely forgotten, promptly pushing the entire thing out of his mind in favor of balancing Galleons and predicting which professor would assign what essay next.

He let out a soft exhale, just shy of a sigh.

“No,” he admitted.

Mulciber tilted his head a fraction, gaze trailing from Severus’s face to the empty space behind him.

“Figured out what you want to cover yet?” Mulciber asked.

“Not yet.” But then his mind was already racing—because of course everyone would go for the obvious choices. Amortentia, Felix Felicis, Draught of Living Death, maybe Polyjuice if they were bold and stupid. Flashy. Predictable. Nothing that would stand out in Slughorn’s bloated memory.

“It’ll be…” Severus muttered, more to himself now, “something simple enough to brew under classroom conditions, but complex enough in theory to be worth talking about. Something with variables we can manipulate—something that has theoretical flexibility, not just practical results.”

Mulciber raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

Mulciber’s voice was mild, as if this was just something to pass the time. But there was a slight tilt to his head, a stillness in the way he listened that was… attentive.

Severus didn’t answer right away. He was already running through options, mentally eliminating each one—either too simple, or too volatile, or too overdone. Then—

“Calming Draughts,” he murmured. “With targeted emotional modifiers. The standard version just dulls the sympathetic nervous response, but if we recalibrate the infusion periods and control for trigger-specific reactions…”

Mulciber tilted his head. “You mean like making one for guilt versus panic versus, what, grief?”

Severus blinked. A beat too long.

“Yes,” he said slowly. “Precisely.”

Mulciber nodded again, chewing the inside of his cheek absently. “How would you test it? Mood’s not exactly measurable.”

“We’d need a controlled group. Double-blinded would be ideal, but unlikely in a school setting. We could design a standardized questionnaire, or—” Severus stopped himself. His hands had started moving as he spoke, sketching outlines in the air. He hadn’t even realized.

“That’d require test subjects.” Mulciber interrupted, his voice even. “You’d have to trigger those moods to measure how the potion reacts.”

That gave Severus pause. The current of momentum stalled. He frowned.

“It’d make the write-up more complicated,” Mulciber went on, watching him steadily. “You’d have to defend the ethics of it. Dosing classmates with potions after messing with their heads? It’s a hard sell.”

A flicker of irritation stirred under Severus’s skin—not at Mulciber, precisely, but at the fact that he was right. It was the entire reason it was a theory that had remained untested in his textbooks instead of marked as completed. The logic made sense. The logistics didn’t.

Before he could reply, Mulciber added, almost idly, “Let’s circle back to it.”

He shifted slightly, brushing invisible lint off his sleeve to cover his sudden case of unbridled annoyance.

Severus stepped back into the room.

“Sit down.” Severus said.

They must have been talking for over an hour.

Severus had moved back to his desk, ink smudged faintly on his fingers, the parchment that listed his needed textbooks flipped over and repurposed into a mess of notes and crossed-out titles. Mulciber sat on the edge of his bed across the room, hands behind him, legs stretched long, looking as though this were a lazy Sunday chat rather than a deep dive into potion theory.

Severus tapped his quill against the desk, jaw tight. “All right,” he muttered. “So far, we’ve rejected five.”

He ticked them off with quick precision, his writing sharp and slanted.

“One: Veritaserum. Illegal. Immediate fail. You suggesting it was a waste of breath.”

Mulciber only nodded, agreeable.

“Two: Wit-Sharpening Potion. Too shallow. Everyone brews it in fifth year. You could finish the project in a week with your eyes closed. Which might appeal to you, but doesn’t help me.”

Mulciber snorted faintly from his bed.

“Three: Swelling Solution. And if you’d actually read the syllabus, you’d know someone did that last year. Slughorn still tells the story about the girl who accidentally doubled the size of her nose and quit the class.”

“That was user error.”

Severus shot him a look. “Do you want to be remembered for that?”

Mulciber gave a lazy shrug.

“Four,” Severus went on, ignoring him, “Forgetfulness Potion. Theoretically interesting, but it’s impossible to test without magical ethics clearance. Too difficult to prove results without Obliviation-level safeguards too, which neither of us are licensed for. We’d essentially be manipulating people’s memory retention during exam season. It’s suicidal.”

“And five,” Severus added, voice flattening, “your winterlong draft suggestion, which I already told you is structurally flawed.”

“You said it was lazy,” Mulciber corrected, calm and maddening. “Not flawed. Lazy implies potential.”

Severus turned to glare at him. “It’s lazy and flawed.”

Mulciber shrugged, one shoulder rising with that same infuriating nonchalance. “Not if you compensate for heat loss. The dilution window is what ruins the consistency. Replace the thyme infusion with powdered frostwort and it becomes self-regulating.”

“That destabilizes the sedative base,” Severus snapped, pointing his quill at him. “Which you would know if you actually understood how any of it works, but you don’t—you just regurgitate things you’ve heard me say.”

“I understand enough to know you’re overcomplicating it,” Mulciber replied, voice low and even, but his foot tapped once against the floor. “It’s a class project, not a publication. You want brilliance, I want a pass. There’s a middle ground.”

A soft snore came from across the room. Avery had fallen asleep, one arm flung over his face, dead to the world.

Severus turned back toward his parchment with a noise of disgust. “There is no middle ground. Not for this. Slughorn expects—”

“—to be dazzled by whoever’s going to end up in his stupid slug club diary one day,” Mulciber cut in, not quite rolling his eyes. “You don’t need to build a masterpiece to be noticed.”

Severus frowned. “A slow-metabolizing sedative isn’t groundbreaking, it’s just diluted. All it does is take longer. It’s passive, uninspired, and the kind of thing Slughorn would wave away in a sentence.”

Mulciber lifted an eyebrow, not bothered. “You forgot to mention it’s technically sound.”

“It’s forgettable.”

“It works.”

“That’s not enough.”

Mulciber crossed his arms lazily over his chest. “You’re obsessed with novelty.”

“No,” Severus snapped, “I’m obsessed with doing something worthwhile with my time. If that’s difficult for you to grasp, that’s not my fault.”

There was silence. Neither of them spoke for a beat.

“I’m not trying to get just a pass,” Severus muttered.

“I know,” Mulciber said.

No, as a matter of fact, he didn’t.

Mulciber didn’t know what it felt like to stand on the edge of a future that might vanish if he scored one mark too low. He didn’t know what it meant to need excellence—not just for pride, but for survival. Severus’s entire future hinged on these bloody NEWTs. Every lecture he transcribed, every potion he brewed, every night he spent hunched over some borrowed textbook under flickering candlelight—it all added up to this.

A single missed mark, and it would all be for nothing.

So no, Mulciber didn’t know.

But Severus didn’t say any of that. He just looked away, jaw tight, notebook trembling slightly in his lap.

“And I’m not doing this to impress Slughorn.”

Mulciber’s mouth tilted, just barely. “I know that too.”

Severus’s mouth opened, something sharp forming—

And then the door creaked open.

They both turned.

Wilkes stepped into the dormitory, his scarf still half-wrapped around his neck. He paused in the doorway, taking in the sight of Severus tense by his desk and Mulciber standing across from him, brows faintly raised.

“Did I interrupt a duel?” Wilkes asked mildly.

Severus sat down stiffly, too fast, the legs of his chair scraping the stone floor. He didn’t respond.

Mulciber didn’t look away from him. He only sat back down on his bed, his tone light again as he responded,

“We’re collaborating.”

Wilkes snorted. He walked into the room, pulling off his scarf as tossed it onto his bed. But then, over his shoulder, offhandedly, he added,

“Snape—your Gryffindor’s waiting for you. Out in the dungeons.”

Then he left.

The sentence was almost a joke. Tossed out like it meant nothing.

But it hit Severus like a punch to the chest.

The room tilted.

It wasn’t the words so much as the shape of them.

Severus didn’t move. For a full second, the only thing that stirred was the rhythm of his breath, which had gone faint and uneven. His heart began pounding—not fast, exactly, but deep. Like it was trying to push against his ribs.

Outside.

Waiting.

Lily.

Of course it was Lily. It couldn’t be anyone else. There was no need to say her name. Wilkes wouldn’t have smirked like that for anyone else.

A slow, cold feeling crept up the back of Severus’s spine, lodging itself beneath his ribs. He didn’t know why she was here. Or what she wanted. Or how long she’d been waiting.

His fingers curled, stiff, around the edge of his desk. Breath shuddered out of him.

She was waiting.

What was she—

“Snape.”

It was Mulciber’s voice. Low. Steady. He hadn’t moved from his bed, but his eyes hadn’t left him.

Severus looked up, startled. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped breathing.

The back of his neck was damp. His palms felt wrong, like they belonged to someone else. He pushed back his chair with an awkward scrape, stood too quickly, and swayed a little.

Mulciber straightened without standing, watching him. Concern flickered across his face—barely. But it was there.

“I—” Severus tried. His mouth was dry. “I’ll—”

He looked at Mulciber, meaning to finish the sentence.

But the words caught somewhere in his throat.

Nothing came.

Instead, he gave the faintest shake of his head. Then he turned and walked out, fast, without looking back.

Mulciber stayed where he was.

The castle had grown quiet. That eerie kind of quiet that only came after curfew—when the torchlight flickered low and every sound carried just a little too far.

Lily waited at the base of the stairs, hands tight around the small container in her grasp, her breath misting faintly in the cold. She could hear the blood in her ears, the scrape of a hinge further up the corridor.

Then footsteps. Measured, slow.

Severus appeared around the corner a moment later.

He looked—

Older. His skin was sallow, paler than she remembered, with hollows beneath his cheekbones and dark crescents under his eyes like bruises carved by sleeplessness. His hair was longer now, limp around his face, falling over the shoulder of his robes in a way that looked unintentional, unbothered.

He stopped a few feet away, his gaze steady, unreadable.

And just like that, Lily forgot every version of the words she’d rehearsed.

She opened her mouth, and nothing came.

For a moment they just stood there, the silence loud in its awkwardness. Then Severus shifted slightly—barely a tilt of his weight, but it broke the stillness.

That movement jarred her out of it.

“Oh,” she said, too fast, voice thin. “Um. Hi.”

She gave a nervous little laugh that didn’t sound like her at all and tucked her hair behind one ear, fingers fumbling through a strand that had already been tucked once.

“I—I brought you something. It’s stupid, I just—”

She looked down, cheeks colouring faintly, then glanced back up with a huff of breath as if mocking herself. The container was in her hands, small and round, wrapped in a folded cloth napkin. She unwrapped it, hands clumsy with the chill and nerves, then extended it out toward him.

He didn’t take it.

He stared.

And not at her. At the jar.

Not with suspicion, exactly, but with a kind of distant calculation. A stare like he was working out the variables in silence: what it was, what it meant, what it cost. The way he always used to when facing something new.

But this wasn’t new. It was her.

And that—somehow—made it harder.

Lily felt the weight of his gaze like pressure in her chest. Severus had always been difficult to read, even when they were nine and inseparable, even when they’d shared everything from sweets to secrets. He didn’t wear emotion plainly—not even when he was angry, not even when he was hurting.

But she’d always known anyway. She used to read him in the silences, in the curl of his fingers or the tension in his shoulders, the way his mouth twitched before he spoke.

Now she couldn’t read him at all.

And still—still—she watched his face shift.

His eyes didn’t move, but the rest of him did. Something fluttered just beneath the surface of his expression: a flicker of confusion, then suspicion, then something too fast and fleeting to name. Sadness, maybe. Disbelief.

Then stillness again.

His face settled.

Blank, but not cold.

She hated that she didn’t know what it meant. Hated that whatever rhythm had once tied them together was gone now, replaced by something she couldn’t follow.

Lily swallowed. Her hand was still outstretched, the jar hovering between them.

“It’s cinnamon rolls,” she said quietly.

Severus didn’t speak.

He kept staring at the container—at her hand still offering it—as if it required some silent internal negotiation. His eyes flicked up once, meeting hers, unreadable as ever. But instead of turning away, or cutting the moment short with one of his famously cruel remarks, he did something entirely unexpected.

He moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. Not all at once, but with the cautious heaviness of someone deciding against his better judgment. His robes whispered against the stone floor. He turned, letting the wall catch his shoulder, and without a word, he slid down.

His back hit the cold stone with a quiet thud. His knees bent. He settled beside her, legs drawn in loosely, arms draped over them. He didn’t look at her.

Lily’s eyes widened.

It took her a beat too long to react—like something had stuttered inside her—and then she scrambled to sit down too, more awkwardly than she meant. Her skirt tangled at the knees. She tugged it down as her heart thundered uncomfortably behind her ribs.

The silence stretched.

So she reached out. Carefully. As gently as she could. Like she was trying to hand something to a wounded creature that might bite if startled.

The container passed between them.

Severus took it soundlessly, his fingers brushing hers for half a second—cool and calloused, brief enough to feel like a memory.

He opened the lid.

Lily watched him, every nerve drawn tight.

Inside were cinnamon rolls, still warm. She’d spelled the container to keep the heat in, to keep the icing from sweating too much in the cold. A few of the rolls had shifted slightly during the walk, soft dough bunched up, the spirals imperfect. One had nearly unraveled in transit.

Severus looked down at them like he didn’t quite believe they were real.

The light caught in the gloss of the icing, and his eyes—so often dull from exhaustion—reflected a flicker of something. He didn’t smile. But his gaze rested on the pastries with a kind of wary consideration, like they were a foreign object he remembered from a former life.

He reached in.

Deliberate. Quiet. He peeled a roll from the edge of the container, fingers careful not to disturb the others. The dough clung gently to the side before giving way, the cinnamon-sugar center stretching slightly before yielding.

The scent released with the motion—warmth, sugar, spice.

It drifted into the corridor, cutting through the dungeons’ usual damp chill like a memory of someone else’s kitchen, someone else’s home.

Severus lifted it to his mouth.

Lily didn’t move. She couldn’t.

He took a bite.

Just one, small.

Lily held her breath.

This meant something, didn’t it? That he was sitting beside her? That he’d taken what she brought, even if he hadn’t spoken, even if he hadn’t looked at her properly yet? That had to count for something. That had to mean he wasn’t—

But doubt crept in. Of course it did. It always did now.

She watched his jaw shift as he chewed, slow and methodical. His lips pressed tight as he swallowed. He didn’t hum, didn’t react.

Then he paused.

Mid-chew.

His teeth stilled.

And Lily’s breath caught.

Her heart crawled up her throat. Her fingers dug into her lap, twisting the hem of her sleeve. Had she done something wrong? Was it too sweet? Too sour? Was he angry again, and just hadn’t said so yet?

She wanted to ask. She ached to.

But she didn’t.

She just watched as he slowly resumed chewing, expression unreadable.

And in the quiet that followed, it occurred to her that maybe this was the closest they’d come to speaking for a long time.

That maybe—for now—it had to be enough.

Severus swallowed.

It was unhurried, like everything he did—like he was giving his body time to decide whether to accept the offering or reject it on principle. Then his gaze dropped to the cinnamon roll in his hand.

For a long moment, he only looked at it.

Then he glanced sideways, slow and guarded, his eyes flicking from the soft spiral of bread and icing to Lily herself.

“You made this?” he asked.

His voice was low, hushed not by shyness but by the thick quiet of the dungeons pressing around them.

Lily blinked. She hadn’t expected him to speak.

“Yeah,” she said softly. “With Mum’s recipe. Every step.”

Her voice faltered just slightly at the end—hope and nerves threaded tight through each word. She tucked her hair behind her ear again, more from habit than purpose, and tried to read his expression. But Severus had always been difficult that way.

He didn’t nod. Didn’t offer praise or criticism. He just kept chewing—slow, methodical, like the cinnamon roll required deciphering.

And the silence stretched.

Too long.

“Is it—” Lily began, uncertain, “do you like it?”

There was a pause.

Not just stillness. Suspension. Like the corridor held its breath alongside her. The low torchlight flickered against the walls, the scent of cinnamon still hanging faintly in the air between them.

Severus didn’t answer right away. He looked down again, toward the container balanced on his lap.

Then—

“Your cooking is still so shit,” he muttered, dropping the half-eaten roll back into the container.

Lily’s mouth fell open, startled.

She blinked once. Then again.

A shocked sound escaped her—half laugh, half breath. And then the laugh fully broke free, jagged and uncontained, bright and a little helpless.

Severus didn’t smile. But his shoulders jerked faintly, and then he let out the ghost of a laugh himself—more breath than sound, more instinct than decision.

And for a few seconds, they laughed together.

It wasn’t like it used to be—those rolling, breathless, stomach-aching laughs they used to have in the grass or over pumpkin juice. This one was older. Sharper around the edges. It cracked the silence, but it didn’t break anything open.

When the laughter faded, it left a silence behind.

Not empty.

Just… still.

Severus looked forward again. His fingers brushed crumbs from the hem of his sleeve. He didn’t speak.

Lily folded her hands in her lap, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. There was a faint shine in her gaze—warmth, sadness, something she didn’t have a name for.

Neither of them moved.

But they were still sitting side by side.

And then there was silence.

They sat in that quiet for a long time.

Severus still held the container in one hand, balanced carefully on his knee. He wasn’t looking at it now. He was staring ahead, the space in front of him dimly lit, the shadows long and soft across the stone floor.

Then he spoke.

“Do you like him?”

It was barely a question. Barely a sound. It left his mouth as if he didn’t really want to know the answer—but needed to hear it all the same.

Lily froze. Her breath caught faintly in her throat.

And just like that, the sadness returned. Not the sharp, panicked kind she’d felt earlier when she hadn’t known if he’d come at all, but something slower, heavier.

The kind that made her eyes sting.

Because of course it came back. It always did—when James’s name was spoken like a bruise, when she was reminded how much had been twisted and broken between her and the boy sitting beside her.

She turned to him. Reached without hesitation for his hand.

“I like you,” Lily said, voice quiet but firm, her fingers curling around his with gentle conviction. “You’re my favorite person, Sev.”

He didn’t answer. His other hand still held the container.

She squeezed his hand tighter. “There is nothing,” she said, her voice trembling now, “nothing that James Potter could ever offer me that I can’t find in you. My best friend. And he’s hurt you. So much. I know he has. And I hate him for it. I do. How could I ever—”

She broke off.

Severus turned to her.

And for the first time in what felt like ages, he really looked at her.

Her eyes were wide and wet and achingly sincere, no hint of performance or caution. No polished, Gryffindor-girl confidence. Just Lily. Earnest. Transparent in a way only he had ever seen.

He held her gaze, searching it for the trick, the lie, the shift in tone that would ruin it.

But it wasn’t there.

He shook his head once, slowly. Almost disbelieving. Then his eyes dropped to the floor between them.

“…Okay,” he said.

The word was small, hoarse. A surrender, not a solution.

And Lily didn’t waste a single second.

She flung her arms around him so fast the container nearly slipped from his lap. Her body curled around his, warm and tight and trembling. She tucked her face into his shoulder, laughing breathlessly through the swell of relief that crashed over her like a wave.

“Oh, thank God,” she whispered. “Oh, thank God, Sev.”

He didn’t hug her back right away, startled by the sudden closeness, the press of her breath against his neck, the way her joy trembled through her. But then he let the container rest between them and, awkwardly at first, lifted one arm to hold her.

There was a sound at the end of the corridor—a shuffle, a scrape on the floor.

Neither of them moved.

Neither of them cared.

They stayed tucked in that narrow hallway for what felt like a small eternity, cradled in the hush of stone and shadow, the only sound their shared breathing and the faint flicker of torchlight crackling in the sconces.

Lily hadn’t let go of him yet.

Even after the initial embrace had loosened, she still had one arm looped lightly around his back, her temple resting against his shoulder. Her eyes were damp, and every now and then she’d blink too quickly, wiping at them like it was just the cold.

Severus sat still beside her, holding the now slightly askew container of cinnamon rolls on his lap like a borrowed object he didn’t know what to do with.

“I honestly thought I’d given you food poisoning,” Lily murmured after a long pause, her voice still hoarse from crying—but smiling now, almost shy. “I was so scared when you paused mid-chew. I thought that was it. You were going to spit it out and walk away and I’d die right there in front of the Slytherin common room.”

Severus huffed, barely a sound. “Would’ve been a little dramatic.”

“I’m a Gryffindor,” she said, mock-wounded. “We specialize in tragic endings.”

He glanced down at the cinnamon roll still sitting half-eaten in the container. “It was… edible.”

“Oh my God,” she groaned, pulling away enough to shove his shoulder lightly. “I followed the recipe exactly! Mum’s been making those since I was five.”

“Your mum,” Severus said dryly, “is competent.”

Lily laughed—an actual, bubbling laugh that cracked something open in her chest. She wiped her eyes again, this time without trying to hide it.

And then, suddenly, she was crying for real. Not with sadness—nothing like that—but with that kind of strange, bewildering happiness that leaks out in tears when the body doesn’t know what else to do.

“Oh,” she gasped, burying her face in her sleeve. “I didn’t mean to—this is so stupid—”

“Stop crying.”

“I can’t.” She hiccuped through another laugh, tears slipping freely now. “I’ve been so scared you’d never—God, Sev, you were so far away. I thought I’d lost you.”

She reached for him again, arms wrapping around his shoulders in a tighter, firmer hug this time. And this time, he returned it immediately. No hesitation. His arms came up around her back, anchoring her to him with surprising strength.

They held each other like that for a long time.

No explanations. No plans. Just warmth. Contact.

Eventually, her tears slowed. Their posture eased. The space between them softened.

They didn’t talk about the biggest things—the fight, the word he’d said, the silence that followed. Not yet.

But they talked about her cooking.

About the time she once forgot to put sugar in a cake and swore the salt container was labeled wrong. About how she always burnt the bottoms of toast and tried to scrape them off like that made it better. About how she once spilled an entire bottle of cardamom into a stew and blamed the cat.

“Tuney wouldn’t eat anything I made for weeks after that,” she confessed, sniffling but smiling. “She said he could still taste it in her dreams.”

Severus shook his head. “Only thing me and her ever agreed on. You are genuinely awful at this.”

“I know! But I made these for you, you git, so you’re contractually obligated to say they were fine.”

He gave the faintest twitch of a smile. “They were fine.”

Lily sighed dramatically and leaned against him again. “You prat.”

And then they just sat.

Not talking. Not needing to.

There was something holy in the quiet. Not the kind of silence that had filled the air between them for months—the cold kind, the distant kind—but a silence that rested. A silence that healed.

She sat with her eyes closed, head tilted toward his shoulder.

He sat with his chin lowered, hands folded around the empty container, body slowly unwinding after too many months of tension.

They breathed in sync without realizing it.

No one passed them. The castle felt still, suspended.

And when at last they stood—slowly, limbs stiff from the stone floor—they still didn’t rush.

He walked her back to Gryffindor Tower, neither of them saying much. Her arm brushed his every so often as they walked, and he didn’t move away. She smiled up at him as they stopped outside the portrait, her face pink with the cold and her eyes so full of quiet joy that it nearly hurt.

“I’m so happy we’re okay again,” she whispered.

Severus nodded, looking at her for a long moment. “Me too.”

She hugged him outside the Fat Lady’s portrait, arms wrapped tightly around his waist, her cheek pressed to his chest. She was smiling. Not politely, not cautiously—smiling like they were little again and everything made sense.

She pulled back, gave him one last smile, and slipped inside.

Severus stood for a moment in the corridor after the portrait swung shut. He blinked.

He rubbed a hand over his face. Every muscle in his body ached with the heaviness of something unnamed. Not grief. Not quite.

Just exhaustion.

He turned and walked back to the dungeons.

When Severus finally made it back to the dorms, the sconces were dimmed, casting the room in a soft, flickering gloom. Avery and Wilkes were already in their respective beds, breathing deep and even, the occasional rustle of a blanket or sigh of sleep punctuating the quiet.

Mulciber was awake.

He sat cross-legged on his bed, parchment resting on his lap. He was folding it—slow, deliberate movements—as if the creases themselves held meaning. One by one, he launched the little shapes across the room with idle flicks of his wand, then summoned them back with a lazy wave of his fingers. The folded scraps floated like pale birds in the half-light before returning to him.

Severus paused in the doorway just long enough to see it.

He didn’t have enough in him to wonder whether Mulciber had been waiting up for him or not. Not that he would have. None of the people in this dorm were friends…at least not with him.

They barely had time to link eyes—just the briefest flicker, a glance, a thread of something taut and unreadable between them—before Severus looked away. His gaze dropped, his shoulders sagged, and without a word, he made for his bed.

Severus toed off his shoes, climbed into bed, curled onto his side as he pulled the blanket over himself, and shut his eyes.

He was so tired.