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Chapter Text

People liked to say that family was everything. That blood mattered most. That a child would always be safest in the care of his own kin.

But Harry Potter was six, and none of that had ever felt true to him.

It didn’t matter that his aunt reminded him almost daily that he should be grateful to have a roof over his head. It didn’t matter that his uncle called it charity. None of those words helped when he was too tired to get out of bed, or when his chest ached so badly that even breathing felt like work.

Harry didn’t understand much about doctors or hospitals, or why the people in white coats frowned so much when they looked at him. He only knew that Aunt Petunia’s mouth pinched tighter with every visit, as if his sickness were some sort of inconvenience she couldn’t quite scrub away.

And so, one grey morning, when she packed his small bag and told him he would be “better off elsewhere,” Harry only blinked up at her, confused. He didn’t ask where “elsewhere” was. He didn’t ask why her eyes slid past him instead of meeting his.

Because Harry Potter was six.

And six-year-olds didn’t yet know what it meant to be left behind.

xx

The bag hung loosely on his shoulders, just a few shirts and a pair of socks, while his hands stayed curled around the small blanket he wasn’t supposed to have taken from the cupboard. Harry sat very still on the edge of the sofa, legs dangling, watching his aunt pace the room with tight, clipped steps.

Every so often she glanced at the clock on the mantel, then at the window, then back again, as if she were waiting for something unpleasant to arrive.

Harry tried not to fidget. He wanted to ask questions… Where was he going? When would he be back? but her thin lips pressed so firmly together that he thought he’d best stay quiet.

The knock came at last, a gentle rapping at the door that didn’t match Aunt Petunia’s restless tension. She went stiff, straightened her blouse, and hurried across the room.

When the door swung open, the man who stood there did not look like anyone Harry had ever seen before. He was tall, with a long silver beard that caught the morning light, and eyes that seemed almost too kind for this world. His clothes were strange too, heavy robes in deep blue that brushed the floor.

Harry might have giggled at the sight of such odd clothes, like the man had stepped out of one of Dudley’s storybooks, if not for the heavy silence pressing down on the room.

“Mrs. Dursley,” he said, voice calm, warm.

“Dumbledore,” she replied tightly. “He’s ready.”

Harry’s heart gave a nervous jump. Ready for what?

The man, Dumbledore, looked past her and found Harry on the sofa. His smile was small, but it reached his eyes. “Hello, Harry.”

Harry clutched his blanket a little closer. “Hello,” he whispered back.

Aunt Petunia’s hands twisted together at her waist, knuckles white. “I can’t—” she began, then pressed her lips together before the words burst out in a rush. “I can’t keep him here any longer. He takes up too much time. Too much of… everything. Dudley needs me, he deserves my full attention, and I can’t give that if I’m running in and out of hospitals every other week with him.”

She nodded toward Harry, though her eyes did not waver from Dumbledore’s face. “It isn’t fair to my son. You understand that, surely.”

Harry didn’t quite understand what she meant, only that somehow Dudley being happy meant Harry couldn’t stay. That made his chest ache in a way he didn’t have words for.

Dumbledore studied her for a long moment, sadness flickering across his features. “I understand,” he said at last, though his voice carried a sorrow she did not seem to hear.

Then he turned back to Harry and extended a hand, long fingers gentle and steady.

“Would you like to come with me, Harry?”

Harry hesitated, looking from the hand to his aunt. But she wouldn’t meet his eyes.

So, clutching his blanket tight against his chest, Harry slid off the sofa and put his small hand in Dumbledore’s.

And just like that, he left Privet Drive behind.

Chapter Text

The castle was bigger than anything Harry had ever seen. Its ceilings seemed to stretch higher than the sky, and the stone walls were dotted with flickering torches that cast long shadows. Paintings lined the corridors, and Harry thought he saw one of the people inside move. He nearly stopped to stare, but Dumbledore’s steps were steady, and Harry hurried to keep close.

His bag bounced against his back with each stride. He hitched it up nervously, fingers never leaving the edge of his blanket.

“Where…where are we going?” Harry asked at last, his voice small in the cavernous hallway.

“To a place where someone can take care of you,” Dumbledore said kindly.

Harry nodded, though he didn’t quite know what that meant.

When the man pushed open a set of tall doors, the brightness inside made Harry squint. White sheets, neat beds, bottles lined in rows, it reminded him a little of the hospital Aunt Petunia used to take him to, though somehow cleaner, quieter.

A woman in a crisp apron looked up and came quickly forward. She crouched so her eyes were level with his, and Harry froze. They were the same kind of sad eyes Dumbledore had worn, the kind that made him want to look at his shoes instead of at her.

“My poor dear,” she murmured, though not unkindly. “You must be tired.”

Harry ducked his head, pulling the blanket closer. He knew he was thin. Too thin. The doctors always whispered about it.

She helped him sit on the edge of a bed, her hands careful, like she thought he might break. “Do you know what it is that makes you unwell?”

Harry nodded quickly. “Cancer.” The word came out matter-of-fact, the way Aunt Petunia always said it. “She…she tells me. A lot.”

The woman’s lips pressed together, but she only smoothed the blanket over his knees. “Well, we’ll do our best for you here.”

Harry didn’t know what to say, so he kept quiet.

After a while the doors opened again, and more grown-ups came in. They stood in a small cluster at the end of his bed, all of them watching him in different ways.

The tall woman with the square glasses looked like she might scold him if he spoke out of turn, but her eyes softened when she saw him holding tight to his blanket.

The tiny man gave him a quick bow that made Harry’s mouth twitch, though he pressed his lips together to keep the giggle inside.

The round, kindly woman smelled faintly of earth, and she smiled as if she wanted him to smile too.

Only one man didn’t change. He wore black robes that swept the floor, and his face stayed still, as if it were carved from stone.

Harry thought, in a six-year-old’s quiet way, that the man was hiding. But after more thought, maybe he wasn’t hiding at all. Maybe he really did just dislike him.

“Isn’t there a magical cure for this?” the man asked suddenly, his voice low and hard.

The question made Harry’s stomach flutter.

Dumbledore’s answer was gentle, but heavy. “If there were, Severus, we would not be here.”

The man gave a faint, dismissive scoff, and his dark eyes flicked over Harry without lingering.

The room went very quiet after that.

Harry pulled the blanket all the way up to his chin and stared at the grown-ups, wishing he could tell which of their faces was the real one.

Chapter Text

Seven months at Hogwarts had felt longer and shorter all at once.

Harry had never known a place like it. The castle seemed to breathe with life, staircases that liked to change direction, portraits that muttered and laughed as he walked past, ceilings enchanted to mirror the sky outside. Magic, Dumbledore had told him, and Harry still couldn’t quite believe it was real, even when he’d seen it a hundred times.

His room in the hospital wing was his favourite. Madam Pomfrey had said it was “for his comfort,” but Dumbledore had told him, eyes twinkling, that it was Hogwarts itself that had offered it. A small, cosy chamber tucked away at the end of the ward, just big enough for his narrow bed, a desk, and shelves lined with books and small trinkets. Harry liked to think the castle had made it just for him.

The months hadn’t been easy. The pain had clawed at him, sometimes so sharp it left him gasping into his blanket. But someone had always been there.

Dumbledore visited often, never empty-handed. Sometimes he brought lemon drops, sometimes he brought jokes so silly Harry laughed even when laughing hurt. And sometimes, when Harry’s face was pale and drawn, he would wordlessly wave his wand and fill the air with glowing birds, or tiny golden sparks that danced across the ceiling until Harry drifted off to sleep.

Professor McGonagall was sterner, but she always carried books in her arms, setting them gently by his bed. Fairy tales, history, even picture books. “A proper education begins early,” she would say briskly, though her lips softened when Harry eagerly opened them.

Professor Sprout and Professor Flitwick came less often, busy with their classes, but their visits were always special. Professor Sprout told him about the greenhouses and once brought a plant that danced when Harry clapped his hands. Professor Flitwick shared stories of Harry’s parents, his small voice trembling with affection as he described his dad’s mischief and his mum’s brilliance. Harry listened wide-eyed, clutching each word as if it were treasure.

Sometimes Hagrid would lumber in, filling the doorway with his huge frame and a grin that made Harry forget the ache in his chest. He always brought something, a plate of rock cakes (which Harry bravely tried once and never again), a carved wooden toy, or stories about the creatures he looked after. Harry liked those best.

It was through them, and through whispered questions answered by Dumbledore, that Harry learned he was not just any wizard. He was the Boy Who Lived. The words didn’t mean much to him yet; he only knew that they seemed to mean everything to everyone else.

Even the students came, though only when Harry felt up to it. He had made some great friends in two of the Weasley brothers, Bill, who always listened with quiet patience, and Charlie, who filled the room with laughter and stories about dragons he hoped to see one day. There were a few others, a Hufflepuff who left him sweets, a Ravenclaw who read him poems, an older Gryffindor who sent him a postcard from a Quidditch match, but the two he saw most were the Weasley boys, and a girl named Tonks, who could change her hair and face at will. Tonks was Harry’s favourite: she made him laugh when nothing else could, and she always said he was hers.

But the one who came most often was the man in black.

At first, Harry thought Professor Snape hated him. His visits were short, his words clipped, his expression unreadable. When Snape had taken Harry to his first check-up at the Muggle hospital, because he’d been judged the most suitable to do so, the silence between them had felt heavy, like a hand pressing on Harry’s chest.

Snape had sat stiffly beside him in the waiting room, hands folded, dark eyes darting away every time Harry glanced at him. It was unbearable.

“You don’t have to be here,” Harry blurted suddenly, his voice small but firm. “You don’t have to pretend just ’cause I’m sick.”

Snape’s head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing. For a moment Harry thought he’d finally say something cruel.

Instead, Snape’s mouth pressed into a thinner line. “I am here because it is required,” he said flatly. “Not because of… sentiment.”

Harry’s stomach sank, but when someone called his name, Snape rose at once and strode forward, one hand firm on Harry’s shoulder as he guided him inside. The touch was steady, grounding.

Harry still didn't quite understand, and the need to meet his doctor immediately left him no time to dwell on it.

That was the first time Harry met Dr. Daniel. He was kind, but not like Dumbledore. He didn’t smile too much and he didn’t look at Harry with pity. He simply explained things, clear and plain, as though he thought Harry clever enough to understand. Though he worked in the Muggle hospital, Harry later learned through Snape that Dr. Daniel was a Squib—he had no magic of his own, yet had found his place caring for wizarding children who needed Muggle medical attention. Harry liked that. From then on, every visit meant seeing Dr. Daniel again, and Harry began to look forward to the calm steadiness as much as he dreaded the needles.

Snape became the one who brought his medicine, setting them neatly on the bedside table with curt instructions Harry learned to follow without protest. He escorted Harry to every hospital visit after that, striding through corridors with Harry’s small steps scrambling to keep up. Sometimes, when the pain grew so sharp Harry thought he might split apart, it was Snape who ended up beside his bed.

He never spoke. He didn’t reach for Harry’s hand like Madam Pomfrey sometimes did, and he certainly didn’t murmur reassurances like Dumbledore. He just sat, arms folded, expression as unreadable as ever.

But Harry noticed things. How Snape’s eyes flicked to his chest with each passing minute to monitor his breathing. How his jaw tightened when Harry muffled a cry into his blanket. How he never left until Harry’s breathing evened out again.

Harry decided he liked that better than words.

He had come to depend on that steady presence more than he could ever say.

Chapter Text

And now, all the pain, the medicines, the long visits, had brought him to this day.

The Muggle hospital was brighter than Hogwarts, walls painted in colors Harry thought too cheerful to be real. But today the brightness did not bother him. Today Dr. Daniel had told him he was going to ring the bell.

All of the professors had come, dressed in plain clothes that made Harry blink in surprise. Dumbledore’s hat was gone. McGonagall wore a simple coat, and even Professor Sprout looked odd without earth on her hands. They had disguised themselves as Muggles, they said, to celebrate with him.

Harry couldn’t stop grinning as Dr. Daniel read the words on the wall to him. He didn’t quite understand why they were all here for him.

His friends couldn’t come, though he knew they wanted to. Tonks had begged, the Weasleys too, but in the end it was only the professors. And Snape. Always Snape.

The bell gleamed above him, bright and waiting. Harry reached up, his hand trembling a little, and gave it a hard tug.

The sound rang out, clear and triumphant, and everyone clapped. Madam Pomfrey’s eyes shone, McGonagall’s lips curved, Dumbledore laughed aloud.

And when it was over, when Harry lowered his hand, breathless with pride, it was Snape who leaned close, voice quiet but firm.

“You did well, Potter.”

Harry looked up at him, blanket clutched in one hand, and thought that maybe, just maybe, he really had.

xx

Recovery didn’t happen all at once.

It was slow, like watching the seasons turn. His hair grew back in thin, dark wisps. His arms and legs filled out; he didn’t tire as quickly when he walked. Madam Pomfrey measured him each month with a brisk, approving nod.

More than that, Harry began to feel different. Stronger. Lighter. He could walk the halls without needing to rest after a few steps. He even explored the grounds, wide-eyed across the lawns and down to the lake, where the giant squid sometimes waved its long arms.

The students knew him by name now. They waved when they passed. The younger ones ran to ask after him if he missed a meal. Harry never knew what to say, but he smiled anyway.

Still, the person he spent the most time with was Snape.

It had started with hospital visits for his checkups, Dr. Daniel’s office had become familiar, and Snape always accompanied him. Snape asked sharp questions Harry didn’t understand, then folded his arms and waited until the tests were done. Afterwards they went straight back, Snape silent, Harry clutching whatever papers they’d been given.

But the visits grew into something more.

There was the day Snape took him to Diagon Alley, striding through the cobbles while Harry tried to drink everything in. They ate lunch at a small café; Harry tried pumpkin juice for the first time and scrunched his nose. Snape had arched an eyebrow and muttered something about “developing taste,” but Harry caught the faintest twitch of his lips before he looked away.

There was the afternoon at a fair outside the castle, “for no reason,” Snape had said gruffly, though Harry didn’t believe him. Harry rode the carousel three times and when he glanced back expecting impatience, he found Snape standing with arms crossed, watching carefully as if guarding the world.

There were quiet evenings in Snape’s rooms. Harry curled up with a book McGonagall had given him while Snape worked at his desk, quill scratching steadily. They didn’t speak much, but Harry liked those evenings best. They made him feel safe.

One evening, when the silence stretched long, Harry asked, “Why do you spend so much time with me?”

Snape looked up from his papers, brow furrowed. “Do not mistake consistency for affection,” he said coolly. “Your care requires supervision. I am… suited to the task.”

Harry’s shoulders drooped. He fiddled with the edge of his book, trying not to let it sting.

But then, softer, so soft Harry almost missed it, Snape added, “And perhaps I do not find your company as intolerable as I first assumed.”

Harry’s head snapped up, eyes wide. Snape was already looking back down at his parchment, quill scratching steadily again, as if he hadn’t said anything unusual at all.

Harry smiled anyway.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t long before the adults began to whisper about the future.

Harry couldn’t live in the hospital wing forever, they said. He deserved a proper home. So one evening they gathered, Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, and a few others, and explained it gently.

“Harry,” Dumbledore said softly, “we would like you to think about where you might be happiest living. With whom you might feel most comfortable.”

Harry’s chest tightened. His blanket was in his lap and he clutched it until his knuckles went white. They wanted him to choose? What if he chose wrong? What if no one wanted him?

Faces blurred in his vision, and he stared at the floor, heart hammering.

He thought of the Dursleys. He thought of the hospital wing, the first place that had felt safe to Harry, and the thought of leaving it made his stomach twist.

His breaths came quicker; panic rose like a tide. His fingers dug deeper into the blanket, the world narrowing to the sound of his own heartbeat.

Then the doors banged open.

Severus, he’d told Harry he could use his name now, swept into the room, robes billowing, dark eyes fixed only on Harry. He didn’t pause or hesitate; he strode straight to the bedside.

“I will take him,” he said, his voice sharp, decisive.

No one looked shocked. Not really. Madam Pomfrey merely pressed her lips together to hide a smile. While Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled faintly, as though this had been inevitable all along.

But to Harry this was a surprise. He stared up at him, heart hammering. “You… you want to?”

Severus’s gaze flicked down, dark eyes softer for just a heartbeat. “I would not say it if I did not mean it.”

McGonagall still asked gently, “But only if that is what Harry wants.”

Harry swallowed. Severus stood beside him, tall and steady, waiting. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just waiting. His hand rested at his side, fingers curling slightly, as though he were holding himself back from reaching for Harry’s shoulder like he always did.

Harry’s mind raced. He thought of the nights Severus sat by his bed, keeping watch until he drifted to sleep, of how he never once complained about the endless appointments. He remembered the trips Severus had no reason to take him on—Diagon Alley, the fair—until he overheard him telling Dumbledore softly, ‘He deserves what every child does.’ He thought of all the quiet afternoons spent together, and at last he made his decision.

“Yes,” Harry whispered shyly. “I want to.”

The relief in Severus’s eyes was small, but it was there, and Harry clung to it.

xx

His seventh birthday came weeks later. The staff decided to mark it all at once, his recovery, his guardianship, his birthday.

The Great Hall was full of candles and quiet music. Hagrid had hung bunting that drooped comically low; Tonks had charmed confetti that kept popping out of nowhere. Harry tried to smile as everyone sang and clapped.

After a while he grew quiet, fingers picking at the edge of his plate. The laughter blurred around him, warm but far away. A knot formed in his stomach.

Severus noticed, as he always did. He leaned down so only Harry could hear. “What is it?” he murmured.

Harry hesitated, then whispered, “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That you’ll leave.” His voice cracked. “Everyone does. I’m… I’m too much trouble. Too sick. Too… everything.”

Severus blinked once, slowly. For a long moment he said nothing. Then he crouched so they were eye to eye. His face was softer than Harry had ever seen it, the sharp lines of his expression gentled, his voice a low rumble meant only for him.

“Harry,” he said quietly, “I will not leave. Not because of difficulty, not because of inconvenience. You are not too much. You are mine to look after, if you will have me.”

Harry swallowed hard. “You promise?”

Severus inclined his head, a single, deliberate nod. “I do not make promises lightly.”

Relief washed over Harry so strong it nearly hurt. He reached out, hesitated, then tugged at Severus’s sleeve.

Severus did not pull away.

And for the first time in his life, Harry believed he might really have a home.

Chapter Text

Harry had come to love living with Severus at Spinner’s End in a way he never thought possible. It was small and a little dark, with narrow windows and walls lined with endless books, but it was his. Severus had cleared out the room at the very top of the stairs and told him it belonged to him now. Harry had stood in the doorway for a long time that first night, staring at the wardrobe, the shelves, the little desk tucked neatly under the window. He kept expecting someone to take it all back, as if the moment he reached for a drawer, it would vanish. But nothing did. The room stayed.

He decorated it slowly, carefully, as though testing the edges of a dream. The old blanket he’d carried from the Dursleys, patched and thin, was folded neatly at the end of his bed. The stack of books Professor McGonagall often pressed into his hands sat in the corner, their spines worn already from being opened again and again. A moving photograph of all his friends—grinning, waving, pulling faces—was pinned crookedly to the wall above his desk, and Harry sometimes fell asleep watching them, comforted by the tiny gestures that never faded. It wasn’t much, but it was his.

Once a storm at Spinner’s End had sent him creeping down the stairs, heart pounding with the certainty that Severus had left. He found him slumped in a chair, book still open in his lap, dozing in the glow of the fire. Harry had stood frozen until Severus stirred, blinking awake. “What are you doing out of bed?” he asked, voice rough with sleep. Harry whispered that he thought he’d been left. Severus regarded him for a long moment, then shifted to the side, wordlessly allowing Harry to curl up in the chair beside him. They stayed like that until morning, the storm forgotten.

At Hogwarts, his room in Severus’s quarters was a little different. Severus had given him the room next to his own, lined with shelves too tall for Harry to reach, though he liked the thought of filling them one day. The bed was so soft he thought he might sink into it forever, and the stone walls carried the hum of the castle itself. Magic lived here; Harry could feel it in the way the portraits whispered to him when Severus was away, in the way sunlight spilled golden and warm through the tall windows, painting patterns on the floor. Spinner’s End was quiet and steady, a place to rest. Hogwarts was alive and brimming with enchantment. Harry loved them both with equal fierceness.

Life with Severus soon fell into a rhythm. Breakfast together—though Severus always had a mug of tea while Harry devoured toast. Afternoons sometimes spent in silence, Harry sketching or reading while Severus brewed at his worktable, the air full of the sharp scent of ingredients. Evenings often ended with a book, Harry half-curled in his chair as Severus read aloud when the text grew too difficult. It was ordinary, but to Harry, it was extraordinary.

Though Severus had been firm about one thing: Harry’s education.

“No child should come to Hogwarts without the basics,” he had said in a tone that brooked no argument, and that was that. Harry had groaned and complained, but in truth, he liked learning with Severus. In the end, he didn’t mind nearly as much as he pretended. The man was strict, yes, but patient in a way Harry hadn’t expected. He never snapped when Harry stumbled over his words or numbers. Instead, he explained things differently, sometimes twice or three times, until Harry finally understood. And when Harry did, Severus would give the smallest approving nod that would make it all worth it.

One afternoon, as they sat together with parchment and pencils, Severus guiding him carefully through a reading exercise, Harry’s pencil rolled off the desk. He frowned at it, stretching out his hand to catch it—only for it to bounce straight back up, landing neatly in his palm. Both of them froze.

Harry’s eyes went wide, heart hammering. “Did you see—?”

Severus raised an eyebrow, his voice even but softer than usual. “Well. It seems we’ve discovered another talent of yours.”

Harry stared at the pencil, then up at Severus, and for a moment it felt like the whole world had shifted.

“Really?” he whispered.

“Really,” Severus said.

Harry beamed. It was the first time he’d truly felt like magic was his, not just some story Dumbledore had told him.

Chapter Text

Severus never missed a single detail when it came to Harry’s health. There were charts pinned to the inside of a cupboard at Spinner’s End where he tracked Harry’s weight and height, a small notebook where he jotted down what Harry had eaten each day, and a set of vials lined neatly on the mantlepiece to monitor his blood. Harry sometimes jokingly complained it felt like Severus cared more about his numbers than about him, but deep down, he knew it wasn’t true.

Still, every so often, Severus took him back to the Muggle hospital, insisting that “external confirmation never hurts.” Dr. Daniel was waiting for them, clipboard in hand, the same gentle smile Harry had come to trust.

The appointment went much the same as before, blood drawn, numbers checked, a stethoscope cold against Harry’s chest, but this time, Harry had stories to tell. He sat on the edge of the examination table, swinging his legs as he explained in excited bursts about learning to read properly, his increasing bursts of accidental magic, Tonks’s hair turning green when she made him laugh too hard, Bill and Charlie, the photograph of him and Severus that Dumbledore had taken in secret and his new friend, Ron.

Severus said little, as usual, but Harry noticed he didn’t stop him either. His dark eyes watched carefully, and once or twice Harry caught what looked like pride flickering across his face.

By the time Harry finished, Dr. Daniel was grinning so brightly it made Harry blink.

“You’ve been busy,” the doctor said warmly, jotting a note on the chart. “You look stronger than last time… and you’ve grown a lot. I think this is the first time I’ve had to ask a patient to slow down so I can keep up.”

Harry ducked his head, pleased, and Severus’s hand rested briefly, firmly, on his shoulder as if to say, good job.

As they left, Dr. Daniel caught Severus at the door.

“You’re doing more than keeping him healthy, Professor. You’re giving him a life.”
Severus inclined his head, expression unreadable, but Harry noticed the way his grip on his shoulder tightened just a little.

xx

When summer came, Severus had insisted Harry spend some time at the Weasleys’ house, despite his own reluctance. “A child should have peers,” Severus had muttered, voice low and reluctant, though Harry suspected he had gone soft. Harry had been nervous at first, but Mr and Mrs Weasley had welcomed him warmly, showing him the ropes of their home. And there was Ron, the youngest, who was scrappy, loud, and endlessly curious. They had hit it off instantly, playing magical games in the garden, trading jokes, and writing letters to each other whenever they were apart. Harry treasured Ron’s friendship as much as he did the moments with Severus.

He still kept in touch with everyone at Hogwarts. Professor McGonagall sent books with little notes tucked inside. Hagrid wrote letters covered in blotches of ink, sometimes smudged with what Harry suspected were tears. Professor Sprout and Flitwick visited when they could, and Tonks’s letters always arrived with doodles in the margins. Bill and Charlie occasionally sent small enchanted toys that Severus pretended to disapprove of, though Harry sometimes caught him smirking.

And before Harry knew it, another year had passed.

For his eighth birthday, Severus did something Harry never imagined he would: he took him to the beach. The sand was warm under his bare feet, the sea stretching out endlessly in front of him. Harry laughed when the waves lapped at his ankles and shrieked when cold water splashed his legs.

He ran circles around Severus, daring him to chase, daring him to step closer to the tide.

Severus stood a little apart, his robes exchanged for plain black trousers and a shirt. He looked oddly out of place and perfectly at ease all at once, his dark eyes soft as they followed Harry running along the water’s edge. When a sudden gust of wind threatened to toss Harry’s hat into the sea, Severus’s hand shot out, steady and precise, catching it before it could fly away.

At one point, Harry begged him to come closer to the water. To his astonishment, Severus did, rolling up his trousers and stepping into the foam with a look that was equal parts distaste and resignation. When a larger wave soaked the hems, Harry laughed so hard he nearly toppled into the surf, and—though it was brief, almost hidden—he saw Severus’s lips curve upward.

Later, Harry knelt in the sand, filling his pockets with shells—some chipped, some whole, one shaped almost like a star. He brought them to Severus proudly, who examined each as though it were a precious potion ingredient before slipping the best one into his own pocket.

As the sun dipped low and painted the sea in gold and crimson, Harry sat beside him on the sand. They didn’t speak much; there was no need. The crash of the waves filled the silence, and Harry leaned against Severus’s shoulder, breathing in the salt air.

On their way back, they passed a tiny stall selling seashell trinkets. Harry slowed, eyes wide, but didn’t dare ask. To his astonishment, Severus stopped, exchanged a few coins, and pressed a simple string bracelet into Harry’s palm.
“Lose it and you’re not getting another,” he said.

That night, Harry wore it to bed, turning the smooth shell between his fingers until sleep pulled him under.

He thought, fleetingly, that this must be what it meant to have a family.

Chapter Text

It was a few months after his birthday when Harry overdid it. He’d spent nearly the whole afternoon at the Burrow with Ron, running in and out of the garden, chasing after gnomes, and playing hide-and-seek until their faces were red from the cold. He came home shivering, but insisted he was fine.

By nightfall, his forehead was burning.

He hated it. His skin felt too hot, his head ached, and every little thing made him irritable. He kicked at the blankets when Severus tucked them in, scowled at the potions pressed into his hands, and muttered complaints at every spoonful of soup.

“Stop fussing,” he snapped finally when Severus lingered at his bedside, straightening his glass of water for the third time. His throat was scratchy, but the anger still came out sharp.

Severus’s expression didn’t change. He only arched an eyebrow and set the glass back down. “You will forgive me for not abandoning a feverish eight-year-old to his own devices,” he said coolly.

Harry turned his face to the wall, guilt gnawing at him even through his bad temper. He hadn’t really meant it. He just… hated feeling weak.

For the next few days, the fever lingered, making Harry swing between exhaustion and irritability. Severus never left him for long, always nearby, quiet but constant, bringing broth, adjusting pillows, or coaxing him into drinking water. Harry still grumbled, but deep down he noticed that Severus never seemed angry, only watchful, patient in his own sharp-edged way.

Later, when Harry finally shuffled out of his room after what felt like ages, he found Severus sitting on the sofa in the sitting room, a book in hand. Harry hesitated, then flopped down beside him with a dramatic sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, eyes fixed on his knees. “For yelling at you before. I didn’t mean it.”

Severus closed the book with a quiet snap and regarded him for a long moment. “I do not fault you,” he said at last. His tone was calm, not indulgent, just matter-of-fact. “Even I am unpleasant when sick.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But understand this, Harry, you were not ill by chance. Spending hours in the cold was reckless, and you will not repeat it.”

Harry ducked his head, chastened.

Severus’s hand came up to stroke his hair, slow and steady, and Harry leaned into it before he could stop himself. “Colds are easily caught,” Severus murmured. “The next time your friend drags you outside in weather like that, you are to refuse. Is that understood?”

Harry nodded, already sinking sideways, heavy with sleep. He mumbled something that might have been “yes, Severus,” before his breathing evened out against Severus’s side.

Severus didn’t move, the book forgotten. He simply sat there, his hand still stroking Harry’s hair, and kept watch.

xx

The next time Harry’s fever came, it was worse than before. He woke in the middle of the night shivering, yet burning more than he’d ever before, sheets tangled around him and his throat raw. By morning, Severus was at his side with cool cloths and potions, his usual precision sharpened into something almost desperate.

Severus was not going to his classes. Harry knew, because he overheard the house-elves whispering about it when they brought up trays of broth and tea. He could see the dark smudges growing beneath Severus’s eyes, the way his hair hung heavier without its usual care. Guilt curled in Harry’s stomach with every hour Severus spent smoothing cloths across his forehead or coaxing him to swallow potion after potion. Hogwarts needed him, potions needed him, and here he was keeping him trapped by a bedside.

Eventually the fever ebbed, leaving Harry drained but awake. His limbs trembled when he sat up, and his throat felt rubbed raw, but Severus was there with fresh broth and a glare that warned him not to argue.

“I told you, you won’t miss meals, even if you can barely sit,” Severus said firmly, sliding the tray across his lap.

Harry obeyed, spooning broth into his mouth in small, careful sips. But guilt burned hotter than the fever had. “You didn’t sleep,” he croaked. He could see it in the smudges under Severus’s eyes, the faint slump to his shoulders. “You didn’t even go to your classes. Everyone must be so cross.”

Severus’s expression didn’t flicker. “I couldn’t care less about what anyone thinks,” he said flatly. “You are my concern. Nothing else.”

Harry’s heart warmed despite the fever.

Later that evening, when Harry was attempting to sleep but just felt himself drifting in and out, he heard voices. Low, careful voices from just outside his door.

“…his fever isn’t dropping,” Severus murmured, low and edged. “The usual remedies hold no effect. And the fatigue—”

Madam Pomfrey’s softer voice answered, grave. “You think it’s returned.”

Harry’s stomach lurched. He wasn’t supposed to hear this, he knew. His hand jerked against the blanket, knocking his glass with a small clink. The voices stopped. A moment later, the door to his room opened.

Madam Pomfrey gave him a brief, searching look, then quietly excused herself. Severus stayed.

Harry braced himself for the usual lecture about eavesdropping, about manners, about privacy. But Severus didn’t say any of that. He only lowered himself into the chair at Harry’s side, silent, watching him with unreadable eyes.

That quiet broke something loose in Harry. “Don’t—don’t do that,” he snapped, his voice thick. “Don’t—don’t treat me different ‘cause I’m sick!” His throat burned, and he couldn’t stop the sobs that clawed their way out. “Just—stop it!” His words stumbled, tangled with tears he couldn’t stop. He hated it. He hated crying in front of Severus, hated how weak it made him feel.

Severus reached for him, but Harry shoved at the blankets, sobs tearing through his throat until he couldn’t breathe. His head pounded, his chest ached. The room blurred.

Severus was simply there, one steady hand on his back, his voice even though his grip was tight. “Enough, Harry. You will make yourself worse.”

Then the fever spiked higher. His skin flushed an alarming red, his chest heaving. Severus didn’t hesitate. One strong arm scooped him up, blankets and all.

“No!” Harry cried hoarsely, clinging to Severus’s collar. “I don’t wanna go—please—don’t make me go anywhere—”

But Severus was already striding toward the Floo, jaw tight. “You must get checked up, Harry,” he said grimly.

For a moment, through the haze, Harry realized: Severus was scared. Not angry, not exasperated—scared. The thought rattled him more than the fever.

xx

The hospital air smelled sharp and sterile. But when they asked for Dr. Daniel, the receptionist shook her head. “He’s out of the country.”

Harry latched onto that as if it were hope. “He’s not here,” he rasped. “You can’t make me. I’m fine now, see? I’m fine.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed as he studied him closely, gaze sweeping over flushed cheeks, the steadiness of his breathing, the way his trembling had eased. He lingered a moment longer, weighing the truth in Harry’s words against the fever still clinging faintly to his skin.

For once, Severus did not argue. His mouth pressed into a hard line, but he turned back. And though he didn’t say it aloud, Harry knew exactly what it meant. The next time his fever rose, they would not wait. Severus would make sure Dr. Daniel was there.

They went home again, and Harry thought maybe it would all disappear if he just ignored it long enough.

Chapter Text

Nearly two weeks later, Harry was better, or so he told himself. He tugged at his boots in the sitting room, eager to visit Ron, while Severus bent to fasten his coat. And then Severus’s hands stilled.

The air went cold.

His fingers pressed against the base of Harry’s collarbone where a small, hard bump jutted beneath the skin. Harry had felt it before, days ago, but he hadn’t said anything. Not while Dr. Daniel was away. Not when it might make everything real again.

Severus’s face drained of color. His thumb brushed the spot once more, slower this time, as if hoping he’d imagined it. “Did you know about this?” he asked quietly, too quietly.

Harry froze. The hesitation in his eyes—just a flicker, a heartbeat’s worth—was enough.

Severus’s expression hardened, the quiet giving way to alarm. “You knew,” he breathed, the words sharp with disbelief. “And you said nothing?”

Harry shrank back, guilt flooding him. “Because—because Dr. Daniel said to tell him, and he wasn’t here, and I didn’t want anyone else—”

A curse slipped from Severus, raw and unguarded. His hands tightened on Harry’s shoulders, then loosened almost immediately. “You reckless child! Do you have any idea—” He broke off, catching the tears already spilling down Harry’s face.

The anger fell away as quickly as it had come. He drew a steady breath, reached to wipe Harry’s cheek with his thumb. “Harry. No… Forgive me.”

Harry sobbed harder anyway, the sound small and broken.

Severus gathered him against his chest, one hand pressing firmly to the back of his head. “I’m sorry, Harry. I’m sorry. We must immediately go to the hospital.”

Harry clung to him, trembling. “Are—are you angry at me?”

Severus shook his head, his grip tightening. “No.” He drew back enough to look Harry in the eyes. “Just… just afraid.”

He helped Harry into his coat, wrapping a scarf around his neck with care that contradicted the urgency in his movements. Harry’s stomach twisted with dread, but the gentleness of Severus’s hands, the quiet way he buttoned the last clasp and brushed his fringe aside, steadied him somehow.

“Will it hurt?” Harry asked in a whisper as they moved toward the door.

Severus didn’t answer right away. “I will make certain it doesn’t,” he said finally, voice low but firm.

And then they were gone.

xx

At the hospital, the air felt heavier then Harry remembered. Dr. Daniel had returned, and the relief in Severus’s expression was almost painful. The doctor greeted them softly, though his smile faded when Severus showed him the spot on Harry’s collarbone.

Tests blurred together—blood drawn, scans taken, whispered instructions between nurses—but through it all, Severus never moved far. He stood like a dark sentinel at Harry’s side, his presence grounding and solid even as the machines beeped softly around them.

When Harry had to lie still for a scan, Severus rested a hand on the edge of the table, his thumb brushing lightly against Harry’s wrist in a rhythm meant to soothe. When a nurse came with another needle, he caught Harry’s flinch and said, in a tone that brooked no argument, “You’ve faced worse, child.” It wasn’t cruel—it was faith disguised as firmness.

Hours passed before the tests were done. Dr. Daniel returned once, murmured something to Severus in private, and the man’s shoulders drew tight, his face unreadable. Harry tried to ask, but Severus only said, “Rest.”

Harry slept through the last of it.

xx

When he woke again, it was to the familiar dimness of Spinner’s End. He was tucked neatly into his bed, the quilt pulled up to his chin. His body felt weak, but his mind was sharp with dread. For a moment, he thought maybe it had been a bad dream.

Then he saw Severus sitting beside the bed, his shoulders bowed, his eyes darker than Harry had ever seen.

Severus noticed him stir and reached for the glass of water on the nightstand, lifting it toward him without a word. Harry drank obediently, though his throat felt too tight for more than a few sips.

“It has returned,” Severus began, his voice steady at first, though the words seemed to scrape his throat raw. “The cancer. And it is… severe.”

Harry’s mouth went dry despite the water. He stared down at his hands, at the way they trembled faintly against the blanket. The word returned echoed in his skull like a curse. It meant the first fight hadn’t mattered. That all the medicines, the checkups, the hospital visits—none of them had fixed it.

“You may die, Harry.” The bluntness hung between them, unbearable. Severus pressed his lips together, as if the sentence had taken all the strength from him. His hand rose to pinch the bridge of his nose, then dropped uselessly to his lap. “I should… I should tell you more, explain the treatments, the next steps, but—” His voice cracked, sharp and sudden. He turned away, shoulders taut as though holding back something he could no longer command.

Harry had never seen him like this. Severus, who had always seemed to have control of every word, every breath, now trembling, his jaw clenched against breaking.

Something inside Harry ached—not just from fear, but from seeing him like that. “Sev’rus,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “It’s okay. I’m not scared anymore.” He wasn’t sure if that was true, but he wanted it to be.

Severus let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a choke. “You are a terrible liar,” he murmured, and when he turned back, his face was lined with something raw and human.

Harry shifted closer, and Severus pulled him into his arms without hesitation, holding on as though Harry might slip away if he let go. The hug was fierce, almost desperate, his face buried in Harry’s hair.

“You won’t leave me, right?” Harry’s voice was small against his chest.

Severus pressed a trembling hand to the back of his head. “Never.”

Harry felt the shiver in his chest ease, just a little. Despite the fear pressing in on all sides, that one word anchored him.

It wasn’t a promise of safety, but it was a promise of him—that Severus would stay, fight, and hold him through whatever came next.

Chapter Text

The treatments stretched into weeks, then months. Harry grew thinner, paler, the circles beneath his eyes darkening no matter how many hours he slept. The medicines prescribed for him, bitter and thick, never seemed to stay down for long. He trembled after most of them, his body fighting against every remedy.

But the worst came slowly.

At first, Harry noticed only a few strands of hair clinging to his pillow in the morning. Then, more, until clumps came away in his fingers. He stared at them, horrified. His hair, his untidy, stubborn hair, was slipping away, once again, leaving bare patches that he tried to cover with his fringe.

When Severus suggested shaving it, Harry exploded. “No!” His voice cracked with fury and fear. “You can’t make me. I—I’m not letting anyone touch it, not again! It’s mine!”

The words burst out raw, sharper than he meant. He threw the blanket off the bed, shoved the tray of potions to the floor. His breathing came fast and ragged, and he felt suddenly too small, too weak.

For a moment, he saw confusion flicker in Severus’s eyes— not from anger, but from recognition. There was history in that protest, something both of them understood too well.

Severus’s gaze swept over him, the trembling hands, the sheen of sweat, the defiant lift of his chin. He bent down, gathered the scattered vials with careful hands, and when he spoke again, his voice had softened almost imperceptibly. “Then keep it, Harry. No one will force you.”

Harry blinked, thrown off. “You don’t get it! Everyone will stare at me. I’ll look… wrong.”

For a moment, silence stretched. Then Severus said something Harry never expected.

“I could give you mine.”

Harry stared. “What?”

“I’ll shave it,” Severus said, his tone as steady as if discussing a potion ingredient. “All of it. And you may have it for a wig.”

The image was so absurd, Severus bald, his precious curtain of dark hair gone, that Harry let out a startled laugh. It burst out of him, sharp and unsteady, but real. Severus blinked at him, confusion flickering across his face.

“You’re serious,” Harry wheezed through his laughter.

“Entirely,” Severus said, arching a brow.

Harry grinned, despite the tears still brimming in his eyes. “You’d look awful.”

“Undoubtedly.”

It wasn’t until later that evening that Harry finally nodded, small and reluctant. Severus said nothing—just summoned a chair, a towel, and his wand. The spell was soft, the hum barely audible. Hair drifted down around them in dark tufts, some sticking to Harry’s shoulders, some landing silently on the floor. He kept his eyes shut the entire time.

When it was over, Severus brushed the last strands away with his hand. “There,” he murmured. “It’s done.”

Harry hesitated before looking in the mirror. His scalp gleamed under the lamplight, strange and bare, and though he’d seen himself like this before, it still hurt— a reminder of everything coming back.

From behind him, Severus rested a hand lightly on his shoulder, steady and grounding.

“Still you,” he said simply.

In the aftermath of that strange moment, Severus set his wand to work, transfiguring the hair Harry had already lost into a wig — a messy, black mop deliberately styled to mirror Severus’s own, just as Harry had request. 

It sat still on the table at first, unnervingly neat. But the moment Harry placed it on his head, it rebelled— a few tufts shooting out stubbornly at odd angles, no matter how he smoothed them down.

Merlin only knew why it did that, but Severus suspected the answer was simple. The wig, like its wearer, refused to behave.

Harry laughed when he caught sight of himself. “Looks about right,” he said, grinning through the tears that threatened to return.

And when Severus’s hand rested lightly on his head, fingers carding through the wig just as he had always done with Harry’s real hair, Harry felt whole again.

xx

Visitors began to arrive more often after that.

Professor McGonagall came first, her sharp eyes immediately sweeping over Harry before landing on the mop of dark hair atop his head. For a long moment, her lips twitched, though she said nothing. Then, in her most composed voice, she remarked, “Well, Mr. Potter, I see Professor Snape’s influence has grown in… unexpected ways.”

Harry blinked, then grinned. “Do you like it?”

“I daresay it’s the most disciplined your hair has ever looked,” she replied, though her gaze flicked toward Severus with unmistakable amusement. “Though I can’t imagine where you got the idea.”

Severus, seated nearby with arms crossed, gave her a withering look that only made her smirk. “I assure you, Minerva, imitation was not encouraged.”

“Mm. Of course not,” she said dryly. “Still, it suits him. You both have a certain… defiance about you.”

Harry laughed, and the sound seemed to please her. She didn’t stay long—just enough to make sure he was truly all right—but as she left, she gave Severus’s shoulder a brief, meaningful squeeze.

Hagrid arrived next, his footsteps shaking the floorboards before he even reached the room. He presented Harry with a knitted scarf so uneven it looked like it had been through battle. “Made it meself,” he said proudly, eyes misty when Harry wrapped it around his neck despite the warmth of the room.

Tonks followed a few days later, all color and clatter, transforming her face into the most absurd shapes until Harry laughed so hard he wheezed. “That’s my job done,” she declared, saluting before Severus all but escorted her out for being “a hazard to recovery.”

Even Dumbledore stopped by once or twice, his twinkle dimmed but steady. He didn’t say much—just left a small pouch of lemon drops on the bedside table and murmured, “Get well soon, my boy,” before quietly disappearing through the door.

The Weasleys, when they came, filled the house with noise and warmth. Mrs. Weasley swept in first, carrying a basket that smelled of broth and freshly baked bread, immediately fussing over Harry’s blankets and temperature as if she’d raised him herself. Mr. Weasley followed, listening with fascination as Harry explained the Muggle equipment used in the hospital, asking questions that made Harry laugh until he coughed.

Ron sat beside him, awkward at first but soon rambling about Quidditch and chess and how unfair the twins have been about their pranks. The twins, of course, turned up moments later—claiming they’d been invited—and nearly fell over laughing when they saw Harry’s wig.

“Blimey, it’s even got the Snape shine!” Fred said, wiping tears from his eyes.

George nodded solemnly. “You’re doomed, mate. Give it a week, and you’ll be lecturing us about cauldrons.”

Harry laughed so hard his sides hurt, and even Severus’s mouth twitched, which only made them laugh harder.

Bill arrived not long after, slipping into the room with his easy grin and his dragonhide jacket smelling faintly of smoke. He handed Harry a small charm shaped like a winged lion. “For courage,” he said simply. 

Charlie ruffled his hair—well, wig—and told him stories about hatchlings that had the same stubborn streak. “You’d like them, Harry. Fierce little things. Bite first, think later.”

Even Ginny had come, hovering shyly near the door before finally stepping forward to hand him a folded piece of parchment. “It’s a get-well card,” she mumbled, her cheeks red. “I drew the Snitch wrong, but you can tell what it is.”

Harry opened it carefully, smiling at the crooked little golden ball flying across the page. “It’s perfect,” he said—and meant it.

In the end, Harry thought maybe losing his hair hadn’t mattered at all.

Chapter Text

But the treatments grew harsher. The potions made his stomach churn, the salves burned against his skin. Some days he was too weak to sit up; even breathing felt like work.

And through it all, Severus was gone.

That was what Harry couldn’t make sense of. For years now—years spent in the quiet rhythm of shared breakfasts, of evenings reading by the fire, of Severus’s steady hand against his forehead whenever illness returned—Harry had come to expect one constant: Severus stayed. He might have been sharp-tongued, irritable, impossible at times—but he stayed. Always.

Until now.

The chair beside the bed sat empty more often than not, the blanket folded neatly but untouched. His teacup cooled beside unread letters. The room that had once felt full, alive with Severus’s quiet muttering and the faint scratch of quill or stirring of potion, now seemed to echo with its own stillness.

At first, Harry made excuses for him. He told himself Severus was gathering ingredients, brewing something important, speaking with Pomfrey or Dumbledore. But as the days blurred into each other, the excuses started to sound like lies. Severus didn’t vanish like this. Not from him.

He wanted to ask—but the words stuck every time. Each time the door opened, his heart lifted, only to fall again when it was Pomfrey, or Dr. Daniel, bringing more medicine.

The silence had changed, too. It wasn’t the peaceful kind they shared when reading or brewing together; it was heavier, emptier. A silence that felt like a door quietly closing.

One morning, Harry woke to the faint scent of asphodel and burnt ash. A tray sat on the bedside table— an empty vial, the dregs of a thick green potion staining the glass, a small scorch mark on the wood beneath it. A stack of parchment lay nearby, scrawled over in Severus’s tight, spidery handwriting. The ink had smeared in places, as if he’d left in a hurry.

Madam Pomfrey swept in moments later, trying to tidy the mess before Harry could look too long. But he did. Every mark of Severus’s exhaustion lingered like a ghost— proof that he’d been here, and proof that he hadn’t stayed.

The following afternoon, when Dumbledore visited, Harry finally asked in a low, tired voice, “Where’s Severus? Why doesn’t he come anymore?”

Dumbledore’s eyes softened. “He is working, Harry. Brewing, researching. He believes there must be a cure, if only he can find it.”

Harry’s stomach twisted. “And if there isn’t?”

Dumbledore’s silence was answer enough.

Everyone—Dumbledore, Professor McGonagall, Madam Pomfrey, even Dr. Daniel—had tried to tell Severus to stop, to sit with Harry instead of losing himself in books and failed drafts of potions. But he never listened.

That night, Harry woke to the scratch of a quill on parchment. It was a familiar sound—comforting, once—but now it only made his chest tighten. He blinked blearily and saw him— at the far end of the room, hunched over the desk. Books were stacked in uneven towers; vials lay scattered across the wood, some half-full, some empty. The candlelight carved shadows under his eyes. His hand shook as he wrote, hair falling loose into his face, shoulders rigid with exhaustion. He looked… thinner, somehow. Dimmer.

“Stop,” Harry whispered hoarsely.

Severus flinched, glancing up as if startled, then reached automatically for the glass of water on the table. He crossed the room, holding it out. “You’re awake,” he said quietly. “Drink.”

Harry shook his head, refusing the glass. “Stop,” he repeated, voice rougher.

Severus stood still for a long moment, gaze flicking between Harry and the cluttered desk. When he finally spoke, his tone was threadbare. “Not yet. There must be something— some ingredient, some combination—”

“Stop!” Harry shouted, throat burning. “I don’t want you wasting your time on something that doesn’t exist!”

That broke something in the air. Severus turned, pale and hollow-eyed, his expression drained of all its careful restraint. There was no anger— only exhaustion and a grief too large to contain.

Harry’s tears came fast, hot, unstoppable. “I don’t need a cure,” he choked out. “I need you. Just you. Why can’t you see that?”

The words hit him like a spell. Severus’s face softened— not all at once, but in small, crumbling pieces. He set the glass down with trembling fingers, and then, slowly, as though the weight of every sleepless night were pressing down on him, he lowered himself into the chair beside the bed.

“I cannot accept this,” he said, voice barely a whisper, rough and uneven. “Not when it is you.”

Harry reached for him, his small hands curling into Severus’s sleeve, gripping tight as though he could anchor them both. “Then don’t accept it,” he murmured. “Just… stay.”

For a long moment, neither of them moved. The candles hissed softly. Somewhere, a clock ticked— quiet, relentless.

Then Severus bowed his head. And this time, he did.

And when dawn came, Harry stirred to find Severus still there, asleep in the chair, his head tilted back, the faintest shadow of peace softening his features. The papers and potions on the desk remained untouched, forgotten for now. For the first time in weeks, Harry smiled— a fragile, fleeting thing— and let himself drift back into sleep.

Chapter Text

Harry’s body continued growing weaker. His hands shook when he tried to hold his quill, his breaths sometimes shallow even at rest. But there were still moments of brightness.

One came with Ron. His friend had been hesitating for days, unsure, until one evening he burst out: “I don’t want you to die.” His voice cracked, his ears burned red. Harry blinked at him, startled, then smiled a little.

“Me neither,” Harry said softly. And somehow, saying it like that—simple, plain—made Ron laugh through his tears. They played Exploding Snap until Harry’s eyes drooped shut, Ron muttering that he’d win next time.

Another came with Dr. Daniel. After a long day of tests, Harry looked up at him and asked, “Is it okay that I feel scared?”

Dr. Daniel set down his clipboard, smiling gently. “That’s completely fine, Harry. You’re already braver than most men I’ve ever met.” He glanced at Severus then, and something in his eyes said the words were meant for both of them.

Harry carried that answer with him, even as his body failed.

xx

The next few days blurred together. Harry spent most of them asleep, his small body worn down to frailty. He no longer had the strength to rise from bed, the world reduced to the press of sheets against his skin and the cool cloth Severus kept by his side. Visitors still came—he knew, because Severus told him. He would wake briefly to see fresh flowers on his nightstand, a new book at his bedside, or the faint echo of voices fading from the room. But Harry was too tired to acknowledge them, his eyelids too heavy to lift, his voice too faint to call out.

Severus always stayed, always. He told him who had come—Ron, Tonks, the Weasleys, even Dumbledore visited whenever he could.

“They all ask after you,” Severus murmured, low in the stillness of the room. “They send their love.”

Once or twice, Harry caught Severus’s gaze lingering too long on him, dark and unreadable. Then he would speak, almost harsh in tone as if scolding himself. “There must still be a way. A combination I have not tried, an elixir not yet thought of—”

Harry’s hand, trembling, found his. “No,” he whispered. “Don’t. I told you I don’t want that anymore. I’d rather you here. With me.”

The words struck Severus harder than Harry could see. For a long moment, he didn’t answer, only held Harry’s hand tighter, his jaw clenched. But after that, the talk of cures quieted.

And still, beneath the silence, there was the soft, unspoken awareness of what was coming.

It showed first in Dr. Daniel’s eyes. When he came for his checkups, his hands were as gentle and precise as ever, but something had changed. He no longer met Harry’s gaze for long. When he thought Harry wasn’t looking, his expression sagged with grief—shoulders sinking, eyes shadowed with the kind of sorrow that meant he had run out of hope. Harry noticed. He wanted to ask, but he was too afraid of the answer.

After that, when Professor McGonagall came, it was different. She sat by his bed and tried to keep her composure, though her lips trembled and her eyes glistened. She smoothed the blanket over his knees, her voice steadier than her hands.

“You’ve been very brave, Harry,” she said softly.

Harry smiled faintly at the compliment. “Can you promise me something?”

Her brows furrowed. “Anything.”

He hesitated, then whispered, “If I don’t make it, take care of Severus. When I’m gone. He won’t ask for help. But he’ll need it.”

She went still. Then, with a shuddering breath, she reached out, pressing a trembling hand against his. “You kind, foolish boy,” she whispered, eyes filling. “Always thinking of others—even now.”

Harry smiled again, weak but sure. “He deserves someone to think of him.”

McGonagall bent her head for a moment, and when she looked up again, her eyes were red. “I will,” she promised. “I swear it.”

xx

Harry started crying more often. Sometimes he didn’t even know why, only that the weight of it all pressed too hard against his chest, too heavy for his thin body to hold. Severus never scolded him. He would sit close, brushing the tears away with the side of his thumb, or simply pull him close until the sobs eased.

Then came the night the pain turned unbearable. Harry woke with his stomach twisting, bile rising sharp in his throat. He vomited until there was nothing left, then retched still, every heave wracking his small frame. His cries cracked in the air. Severus held him through it, strong arms anchoring him against the storm of pain, one hand rubbing circles into his back, the other steadying his head. “Breathe, my child. Breathe.” His voice stayed steady, though his face was white as bone. He never let go.

Harry fell back against the pillows after that, unable to sleep. The rise and fall of his chest shallow but steady. Then, as if searching for something to fill the fragile silence, Severus said softly,

“Do you remember,” he began, voice rough but steady, “your first week here—after I became your guardian?”

Harry blinked, heavy-lidded but curious. “When I was seven?”

Severus gave a slow nod, a faint, crooked smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m sure you remember the afternoon you nearly sent both of us to the hospital wing”

Harry’s mouth twitched, recalling exactly what Severus was talking about.

“You had just fully recovered, and to test your strength, decided that it would be a brilliant idea to chase a snitch one of the students had dropped. And before I could stop you, you tripped over the edge of the path. I tried to catch you and, in a most undignified display, ended up tumbling after you.”

Harry gave a weak laugh. “You fell harder than I did.”

“Indeed,” Severus drawled softly. “And yet it was your knee that met the stone. You were bleeding and trembling, and still your first question was whether I was all right.”

Harry smiled faintly, eyes fluttering. “You looked so guilty.”

“I was,” Severus admitted. His voice turned low, rough. “I told myself I should have been faster, that I’d failed to keep you safe even in something so simple.”

“You stayed up all night in the chair beside my bed,” Harry murmured, remembering.

Severus inclined his head. “I did. You kept stirring from sleep, muttering nonsense about how you were sorry, how it wasn’t my fault—” His breath hitched. “But it was. Or at least, it felt that way.”

Harry’s lips curved faintly, fragile but sure. “That was the first time I fully realized how good it felt to have someone to depend on” he whispered.

Severus reached out, tracing his thumb lightly over Harry’s forehead—where faint wisps of regrown fuzz caught the light. “And that was the first night I realized,” he said softly, “how impossible it would be to ever let you go.”

Harry’s eyes shone faintly in the low light. “You didn’t.”

“No,” Severus murmured, his thumb tracing lightly across Harry’s temple. “Of course I never did.”

After that night, Harry woke less and less. When he did, sometimes there were people sitting quietly nearby—Ron, who pretended to be reading but wiped at his eyes when he thought Harry was asleep; Tonks, along with Charlie and Bill, who whispered little stories into the stillness; Ginny, who once reached out to brush her fingers against Harry’s hand and whispered, “Hi.” But Harry rarely spoke. He didn’t have the strength.

More often, when he opened his eyes, Severus was the only one there. A silent, dark figure at his bedside, sometimes with a book in hand, sometimes only watching him with a gaze too full to name. Harry found comfort in that, even when he couldn’t say so.

xx

One evening, Harry stirred from sleep with a clarity he hadn’t felt in weeks. The room was dim, bathed in soft amber from the fire that Severus had coaxed to life. His body was weak, but his mind felt light, unburdened for a moment.

Severus was there, as always, adjusting the blanket at his shoulders with that same quiet care Harry had grown so used to.

“Sev’rus,” Harry whispered, his voice hoarse but steady enough to draw the man’s gaze.

Severus looked up at once. His expression softened the instant their eyes met. “You’re awake.”

Harry managed a small smile. “You always look like you’re waiting for me.”

To his surprise, Severus huffed, low and almost a laugh. Harry laughed too—quiet, breathless, but genuine. It hurt, but it felt good, too.

Then Severus’s hand found his, holding it carefully, as though Harry were made of glass. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of Harry’s palm, memorizing the warmth that still lingered there.

When he finally spoke, his voice trembled despite all his effort to steady it. “I love you, Harry.” The words fell heavy, raw, pulled from somewhere deep. “You are… everything I would have wanted in a son and more”

Harry’s breath hitched, his heart swelling at the words he had long felt but never thought he’d hear. Tears pricked his eyes. “Good,” he whispered. “Because you were everything I needed for a dad.”

Silence held them then, soft and fragile—the kind of silence Harry wanted to live in forever. The fire crackled faintly in the hearth, the only sound in the world that still felt alive.

After a while, Harry’s gaze flickered up. His voice was thin, almost childlike. “If I’d started Hogwarts… what house would I be in?”

There wasn’t a pause, not even a flicker of doubt. “Gryffindor,” Severus said firmly. “There is no other option. You, without doubt, are the bravest boy.”

Harry’s chest ached, but this time it wasn’t from pain. He smiled, small and true. “’M glad you think so.”

A quiet sigh escaped him then, soft as a breath of wind. His eyes fluttered closed, his hand slackening in Severus’s grip.

And then—he was gone.

Severus held him, his world collapsing silently around him. He pressed his face into Harry’s hand, clinging as though sheer will might draw breath back into his chest. But there was nothing. Nothing left but silence.

When dawn came, the light found Severus still seated at Harry’s bedside. He hadn’t moved. The world outside the window was soft with early mist, but inside, everything was unmoving, as if frozen around the absence of a heartbeat.

xx

Severus did not stop after Harry’s death. If anything, he worked harder. Grief hollowed him out, but it drove him too, an unyielding force that refused to let go. He brewed, he studied, he searched—not because he believed Harry could come back, but because if he stopped, he feared he would cease to exist.

Three years later, on the day Harry would have begun at Hogwarts, Severus Snape, renowned Potions Master, emerged with a cure. A perfect cure. One that would banish cancer from the magical and Muggle worlds alike.

He called it Fortis. Brave. For the boy who had borne more than any child should, who had faced it with courage greater than Severus had ever known.

The world hailed him. But Severus, standing alone in the graveyard, thought only one thing.

If only I had found it sooner.

He stared at the name etched into the stone beside James and Lily’s, the letters too sharp, too final. The vial in his hand caught the weak sunlight, glinting once before he set it gently down.

The wind stirred through the grass, and for a fleeting moment, it almost sounded like a child’s laughter.