Mizumono

Amid the unbridled fury of the heavens, where the winds howled like tormented souls and the rain danced in razor-sharp whirlwinds, the world seemed to have disintegrated into chaos. The darkness, thick and impenetrable, enveloped everything like a shroud, save for a solitary beacon whose flickering light struggled against the night like a candle about to be extinguished by the breath of a cruel god. There, in that abyss of shadows, he found himself immersed, his eyes blinded by the storm, his trembling hands grasping in vain for any trace of hope.

And then, through the deluge, Hogwarts emerged — once a majestic bastion of wisdom and light, now reduced to spectral ruins. Its once-proud towers bent like broken bones under the weight of misfortune, while the Dark Mark of Voldemort serpentined across the sky, a sinister banner woven from lightning and omens. Spells crisscrossed the air like cursed shooting stars, briefly illuminating the carnage, as the storm roared, insatiable, as if the elements themselves reveled in the anarchy.

Suddenly, a warm, wet sensation trickled down his neck, slow and treacherous, like the kiss of a serpent. Upon touching it, his fingers found raw, pulsating flesh, a wound that breathed in a macabre rhythm. Blood gushed in scarlet rivers, staining his worn shoes, dyeing the grass crimson, flowing with the voracity of an untamed torrent. He gasped, his hands pressing futilely against the carnage, each breath an agony, each heartbeat an echo of despair.

Green. Green as the venom that drips from forked tongues; green as the hypnotic glow of the curse that had cut short so many lives. No — green as Harry's eyes, those living emeralds that haunted him in waking and sleep. Severus Snape staggered, his body numbed by an ancient fatigue, as if every drop of blood lost carried with it fragments of his already tattered soul.

He awoke suddenly, a convulsive gasp tearing through his chest, his tongue betraying the metallic taste of blood staining his lips. His trembling fingers explored his face, finding the crimson trail flowing from his nostrils. With a brusque gesture, he wiped it on the sleeve of his robe, the rough fabric becoming a silent witness to his agony. The surroundings were now different: the infirmary, with its white sheets and the pungent odor of potions and disinfectant. He sat on the thin mattress, his black eyes scanning the room, as cold, harsh reality replaced the nightmare.

The dimness filling the room was thick and motionless, shaping itself into sinuous shadows around the furniture. Severus let out a long sigh, rose from the bed with a hesitant movement, feeling the insidious weight of weakness still embedded in his limbs. His bare feet slid across the cold floor as he pushed aside the heavy curtains, allowing the faint silver light to spread through the previously stifled space. He walked to the window and rested his eyes on the night outside.

The full moon reigned supreme in the dark sky, a solitary vigil in the firmament. Lupin, this time, would not suffer as much. Not that it mattered much to him. Still, a flicker of empathy glimmered in his mind before being swept to the darkest corners of his heart.

A yawn escaped him, and he leaned a little further out, allowing the biting wind to caress his pale face. Hogwarts seemed so strangely passive under the winter night — a slumbering creature, hidden under cloaks of silence and bluish shadows.

He sighed, closing his eyes for a brief moment. When he brought his fingers to his throat, he found there a ghost that never left him: the cruel memory of the fangs that had pierced his flesh, cold as metal and sharp as fate itself. The touch evoked an involuntary shiver, and a frustrated groan escaped his lips.

It was still there. It always would be.

"Mr. Snape..."

A voice cut through the silence, resonating with the serenity of someone who always appeared when least expected but never without purpose. Severus turned immediately, his expression guarded by a well-rehearsed neutrality, as his eyes caught the figure of the old headmaster of Hogwarts, shaped by the pale light of the full moon.

The silver glow spilled over Albus Dumbledore, accentuating the melancholy curve of his features. His long beard seemed to glimmer under the night, and those half-moon spectacles rested on his long nose, concealing eyes filled with secrets that Severus had learned, over time, to read. There was mystery there, yes — but also something resembling a strange cruelty, disguised under the old man's habitual sweetness.

Severus frowned, greeting him with a brief nod.

"Headmaster Dumbledore. Good evening. Do you need something?"

There was courtesy in his voice, but no warmth.

The older wizard inclined his head slightly, observing him with an expression that the years had rendered almost inscrutable. "Nothing extraordinary, my boy. I am merely concerned about your situation... The professors have reported your continued absence from classes, and those who see you say you appear unwell. Is something troubling you, Mr. Snape?"

The question was uttered softly, almost an invitation to confide.

Severus remained motionless for a moment. When he answered, his voice carried a biting tone, sharp as the edge of a blade dipped in poison.

"And what exactly do you expect me to tell you, Headmaster?" His eyes gleamed with something between irony and disdain. "I am sure you are perfectly aware of the conditions of the home I live in. Stupidly stressful, no doubt, but nothing that should surprise a man as wise as you. Moreover, no one who witnesses this reality seems to have good intentions to change it, so there is no reason to feign sudden concern. And of course, the brave Gryffindors continue to torment me, but naturally, they are right, aren't they? I am just a Slytherin."

The sarcasm dripped from his words like a well-cast spell, masking the underlying pain. A lie, and yet, a bitter truth.

The old headmaster's expression did not change immediately, but Severus noticed the brief hesitation, the almost imperceptible moistening of his lips before a sigh escaped through the white strands of his beard.

He had heard the truth within the lie. And that, somehow, had unsettled him.

"Your situation is delicate, Mr. Snape..."

Dumbledore's voice sounded like a distant echo, wrapped in the studied tranquility of someone who had seen too many injustices to be truly shaken by another. "Your father is a Muggle, so the Ministry of Magic cannot intervene."

Severus remained silent for a moment, absorbing those words with a coldness that bordered on glacial. Then, slowly, his eyes narrowed.

Ah. So that was it.

It did not matter that he was a wizard, that he carried magic in his veins like liquid fire, that his mind was as sharp as a well-forged blade. The only thing that weighed there was the origin of Tobias Snape — and, by consequence, his own helplessness. The Ministry of Magic, always so zealous in its laws and regulations, saw his pain as something beyond its jurisdiction. A mundane problem, unworthy of the attention of the powerful.

That explained Harry Potter.

It explained the apathy of that man, his choice not to intervene when it was most needed. Just as he had never intervened for him.

Severus inhaled deeply, letting the air fill his lungs as if absorbing the weight of that realization. When he finally spoke, his voice was controlled, impeccably polished, but as sharp as a shard of glass.

"I see, Headmaster."

The silence between the two hung in the air like a thick veil, laden with something indefinable — resignation, perhaps, or maybe a resentment so well hidden that it became indistinguishable from mere formality.

"Is there anything else you wish to ask?"

Dumbledore observed him for a moment, his clear eyes sparkling under the silver light of the moon. Then, with an almost imperceptible sigh, he murmured:

"Just that, my boy. I hope you have a good rest..."

He turned, his long robes gliding over the floor like mist. The pale glow of his hair reflected in the darkness of the corridor, and for a moment it seemed as if he would simply disappear, enveloped by the shadows of Hogwarts. But then, as if prompted by a sudden thought, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

"Severus..."

The name was spoken with an almost paternal softness, and for that very reason, unbearable.

"I know you are a good boy. Do not let yourself be influenced by your peers... I know you will do what is right."

Severus remained motionless, his expression cold and impassive like carved marble. No immediate response came, no flicker of emotion broke the barrier of his countenance. Only when the headmaster's figure began to fade down the corridor did he speak, his voice low and meticulously controlled.

"Good night, Headmaster Dumbledore."

Severus let out a long, silent sigh, his eyes fixed on the full moon that hung majestically in the sky. It was a pale, unchanging disk, as distant and indifferent as fate itself. The silver light spilled through the windows like a spectral veil, bathing the contours of Hogwarts in silent melancholy.

He leaned against the windowsill, allowing himself to gaze at the scattered stars like solitary lanterns in the infinite vastness. Each one seemed to pulse with a promise he could never reach. Time flowed around him, moving with relentless quietness, and he remained there, still, as if he could resist the passage of hours through the sheer force of his vigil.

Finally, exhaustion dragged him back to the narrow bed of the infirmary — an uncomfortable bed, but a forced refuge. He rubbed his eyes with trembling fingers, tossing and turning between the sheets as if he could escape the nightmares that would surely come. Sleep was not a relief, but a trap.

He wished he were dead.

The thought came like a poisonous whisper, sliding into his mind with the smoothness of a velvet touch. He had died once, hadn't he? He had died in Nagini's fangs, bleeding on the cold floor, leaving behind a life of regrets and a questionable legacy. If only it had been enough — if only his death had meant something more than a solitary conclusion.

But now he was here. Alive.

Fate, cruel in its insistence, had torn him from oblivion and thrown him back onto the board. And if he had returned... then everything had to be different. He needed to do what was right. He needed to start over, erase the mistakes that haunted him like whispering specters.

But there were so many problems, so many knots tightened in his throat, so many dark paths ahead.

Another sigh escaped his lips.

The night stretched on, impassive, as he remained there, a prisoner of his own conscience.

—

Severus lazily raised his eyes from the bland meal before him, the spoon suspended in the air as he pushed the vegetables around the plate with silent boredom. Madame Pomfrey, relentless in her determination, had insisted that he eat properly, but there was no pleasure in the act. Each bite was an obligation, nothing more.

The soft creak of the infirmary door interrupted his apathetic contemplation. His gaze slid to the entrance, where an elegant figure entered with the grace of an aristocrat accustomed to being noticed without effort.

Lucius Malfoy.

There was something almost inhuman about him, a refinement that transcended mere vanity. His hair, so blond that in the light it seemed like strands of liquid silver, fell perfectly arranged around his angular face, not a single strand daring to rebel. His skin, pale as polished marble, combined with his sharp gaze and meticulously controlled movements, gave him the air of a faerie creature — beautiful, distant, and perhaps a little cruel.

The Slytherin uniform rested on him like a mantle of authority, and his approach was silent, almost studied. Snape showed no surprise; Malfoy rarely made visits without a purpose in mind.

He was the third to appear that day. First came Jude and Lily, together, their voices intertwined in an almost fraternal concern. Now, it was Lucius — and Snape could not tell if that was a good or bad omen.

He brought a piece of cooked carrot to his lips, chewing slowly, feeling observed with meticulous attention. Malfoy, always so composed, merely waited, until finally, he cleared his throat, breaking the silence with his velvety, meticulously controlled voice.

"Severus..." he began, his tone imbued with a courtesy that did not entirely conceal the assessment in his eyes. "I see you are better. That brings me some relief."

Moving with impeccable control, Lucius took a seat on the edge of the bed, a gesture that seemed rehearsed but was nonetheless wrapped in genuine curiosity.

"I am well, Lucius..."

The reply came low, almost distracted, as Severus fixed his gaze on the blond before him. But the truth was that he was not there, not entirely.

Memories of the future emerged like persistent specters, haunting every corner of his mind. Lucius Malfoy — the ally, the confidant, the noble heir who navigated loyalties like an experienced strategist. Despite everything, Severus knew he had shared genuine moments with him over the years. Though he had infiltrated the Death Eaters, Malfoy had not been just a distant shadow in his life; there had been conversations, silent agreements, even something that could be called friendship. Otherwise, why else would he have agreed to be Draco's godfather?

The thought brought a pang of something indescribable. Melancholy? Regret? Perhaps just the recognition of a past that had not yet happened.

Severus might have lost himself in these reveries if not for the touch.

So light, yet so unexpected.

Lucius's fingers brushed his cheek with a gentleness that contrasted with his always impeccable demeanor. A brief gesture, but enough to make Severus look up, surprised, meeting those blue eyes that observed him with scrutiny.

"You do not seem well at all, my dear friend."

Malfoy's voice was low, drawn out, almost indulgent. A calculated tone, perhaps even seductive, but carrying a trace of genuine concern. Severus blinked slowly, feeling the realization hang between them like an unspoken secret.

"Just lost in thought, you know."

Severus tried to dismiss the matter with a vague reply, but Malfoy was no fool, nor patient in the face of evasion.

"You are so lost that you have truly distanced yourself from Slytherin, from potential allies... from me."

Lucius's brow furrowed with an almost imperceptible displeasure, his expression remaining within the bounds of composure, but his voice, always so controlled, carried a slightly cutting tone.

"I am not pleased to see you associating with Scamander and Evans, you know. You have a bright future, on the right side of history. On our side."

Severus let out a slow sigh, running his fingers over his own wrist, as if trying to loosen an invisible tie that bound him.

"Lucius... I really do not wish to discuss this now."

His voice sounded tired but firm. He did not look away as he added:

"There is nothing wrong with Jude and Lily. They are brilliant wizards—"

"She is a Mudblood, and he is a Hufflepuff!"

Malfoy's tone hardened, the veneer of politeness cracking for a moment.

"And I am a half-blood!" Severus retorted immediately, his voice sharp as a razor's edge.

A tense silence fell.

Lucius moistened his lips, blinking slowly, as if pondering his next move. Then, he softened his expression, lowering his chin slightly.

"Forgive me..." he murmured, in a way that seemed almost sincere. He leaned slightly, his long blond hair falling over his shoulders as he lowered his tone.

"I am just concerned. Please, Severus."

Severus inhaled deeply, his eyes sliding across the room like sharp blades probing a battlefield. His gaze finally settled on a detail Lucius had not yet noticed — a shadow cast behind the curtain, accompanied by a pair of meticulously polished shoes peeking through the gap. He did not react, nor alter the rhythm of his breathing. If whoever it was wanted to listen, let them listen.

"I appreciate your concern, Lucius."

His voice was low but firm, each word chosen with surgical care.

"But you must understand that Lily is important to me, whether she is Muggle-born or not. And besides—"

His fingers interlaced over the infirmary sheet, his knuckles almost whitening.

"I am still a half-blood."

The air between them seemed to condense, the truth hanging like a subtle poison between the words.

"You know as well as I do that, in the end, no one would accept me as well as you do."

There was a pause. The shadow behind the curtain remained motionless.

"But what truly weighs on me, Lucius..."

Snape's dark eyes rose again, fixing on the other's blue ones with a somber intensity.

"Is that I truly do not wish to see anyone I care about dead."

This time, his voice was barely a whisper, but laden with the weight of an omen.

"It is a war, Severus… There will be deaths."

"I know."

The silence that followed was so dense it could be felt. The slivers of sunlight streaming through the window partially illuminated Malfoy's face — the aristocratic features, the rehearsed coldness, but also the almost imperceptible spark of genuine concern.

"I could also die."

"I do not want you to die, Lucius."

The blond inclined his head slightly, as if studying Snape's confession in the same way he would examine a rare animal — curious, intrigued, but aware of the danger it might contain.

"I do not want you to die either."

His voice was soft, almost hypnotic, carrying a weight that went beyond words. He leaned closer, the thin fabric of his robes sliding over the infirmary bed as he inclined a little further forward.

"Think more carefully about your side, Severus. I am sure that, if they truly saw you, if they saw you as I see you..."

The blue gaze swept over the pale face of his friend, assessing him with the precision of a jeweler handling a raw diamond.

"...you would be treated as well as any pure-blood."

He offered a half-smile, which could be interpreted as affectionate or predatory — or perhaps both.

"We would make good partners."

Severus remained silent for a moment, his dark eyes sweeping every detail of Malfoy's expression, absorbing his veiled offer and all it implied.

Then, he simply said:

"Thank you."

But his tone was inscrutable, as if that single word carried the weight of something far greater than Lucius could comprehend.