Chapter 3
Albus Dumbledore stood at the foot of the hospital wing bed, his hands clasped tightly in front of him. The storm outside had begun to quiet, its fury now reduced to a steady patter against the castle windows. But inside, within these walls, the tempest raged on, though it wasn’t the weather that left Albus feeling so untethered. It was the boy lying unconscious before him—fragile, pale, and drowning in a torment Albus could no longer ignore.
Madam Pomfrey worked methodically, her expression grim. She waved her wand over Severus Snape’s chest, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her movements were quick but precise, her face betraying the sharp anger she so rarely showed.
“He’ll be stable,” she said eventually, her voice steady but cold, “but this won’t heal quickly. The deeper wounds are old. Too old.”
Albus inclined his head, though he felt no relief in her words. His gaze remained fixed on Severus. The boy’s dark hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, his skin unnaturally pale against the stark white sheets. Every rise and fall of his chest felt labored, as though even unconsciousness offered no reprieve.
He hadn't expected something like this when Madam Pomfrey called him here. He had thought perhaps there had been another fight, some skirmish between Severus and the Marauders. That was the story of Severus’s life, wasn’t it? A boy who could never stop provoking, could never stop pushing the boundaries, who had dug himself so deeply into his anger and bitterness that it seemed to consume him entirely. He had expected accusations, cruel words exchanged, a duel gone too far.
But this? This was not what he had expected.
He had not expected the alcohol. The raw, unguarded rambling. The venomous and sad words about himself and the world around him that left no room for doubt—this boy did not just hate the world; he hated himself. And more than that, he had not expected the confessions about Severus’s father, spoken in a slurred and brittle voice that cracked under the weight of the truth.
Albus’s chest tightened as he thought back to those moments.
"Maybe he should’ve drowned me when I was born.”
The words replayed in his mind, cutting through him like a blade. He felt a pang of guilt so sharp it nearly made him flinch. How had he not seen it? He had always thought of Severus as too clever, too ambitious, too drawn to the darker corners of magic. He had seen the boy’s talents and his curses, his sharp tongue and his sharper mind, and he had thought of him as…
…as a future Death Eater.
It was a cruel thought, but an honest one. Albus had seen Severus Snape as someone who might one day make the wrong choice. He had believed it inevitable, believed that the darkness in the boy’s heart was the result of an envious, pureblood and impoverished house.
But now? Watching him lie there, broken and silent, Albus was confronted with a picture he did not want to see. It wasn’t the darkness Severus had invited; it was the darkness he had been born into, raised in, forced to endure. And now, Albus could see just how much that darkness had consumed him.
He had failed him.
Madam Pomfrey straightened and turned to face him, her hands on her hips. “Albus,” she said, her voice low and tight, “I’ve seen a great many things in my time, but I’ll tell you this—these scars?” She gestured toward Severus, where the faint outlines of old scars marred his pale skin, even after her healing spells. “Most of them are not self-inflicted. Many of them are far too old for that. Some date back to before he was even four years old.”
Her words hit him like a blow, and for a moment, Albus couldn’t find his voice. He stared at her, his mind racing to make sense of what she was saying.
“Before he was four?” he echoed at last, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Poppy nodded grimly. “You heard him, Albus. He talked about his father. About…” She trailed off, shaking her head. Her lips tightened into a thin line.
Albus felt his heart sink further. He wanted to protest, to say that he had done what he could, that he had tried to protect the boy as much as possible. But the words felt hollow, even in his own mind. The truth was, he had not done enough. He had seen Severus’s anger, his bitterness, his talent for dark magic, and he had written it off as something inherent to the boy, something inevitable. He had not looked deeper.
And now, it seemed, he was too late.
Poppy’s voice cut through his thoughts. “Also,” she said quietly.
Albus turned to her, his brows knitting together. “Yes?”
She hesitated, glancing down at Severus before speaking again. “The only scars that are self-inflicted are on his soulmark.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper. “He’s cursed it, Albus. Repeatedly. I don’t even recognize the spells he’s used. I can’t fully heal it.”
Albus’s breath caught. The soulmark. That sacred, intimate symbol of connection and love… Severus had defiled his own. He closed his eyes for a moment, the weight of it pressing down on him.
“And Remus...” she said softly.
Poppy nodded towards the werewolf. “I treat the boy after every full moon, Albus. I know his mark. It’s the same one.” She paused, her expression softening slightly. “I think he saw it. I think that’s why he was so shaken.”
Albus let out a slow breath, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her words. Remus Lupin. Another child burdened with a fate he could not escape. And now, it seemed, their fates were intertwined.
He thought of Remus’s reaction when Albus arrived at the hospital wing earlier. The boy had been pale, trembling, his hands shaking as he tried to explain what had happened. There had been guilt in his eyes—guilt and something deeper, something more painful. Albus hadn’t pressed him for details at the time, but now he wished he had.
“What do we do now?” Poppy’s voice broke the silence.
Albus didn’t answer right away. He stared down at Severus, his heart heavy with guilt and regret. He thought of Ariana, of the way he had failed her all those years ago. He had promised himself he would never make the same mistake again, but now it seemed he had. He had failed another child. Another vulnerable soul who had needed him.
“We start by finding out about the curse on his mark,” he said at last, his voice low and resolute. “And I will see what I can do and how we will handle his home life.”
Poppy didn’t look convinced, but she nodded anyway. “He’ll need time to recover,” she said. “Physically and… emotionally. But Albus…” She hesitated, her expression softening. “I think he’ll need more than that. He’ll need someone to care for him. Truly care for him. Someone who can show him that he’s not alone in this.”
Albus nodded slowly, his gaze drifting toward the door of the hospital wing. He thought of Remus again, of the way the boy had looked at Severus, even in the midst of his own fear and guilt. There had been something there—something hesitant but genuine. Perhaps, there was hope yet.
But it would not be easy. For either of them.
“I’ll speak with Remus,” he said finally. “And with Severus, when he wakes. We’ll take this one step at a time.”
Poppy nodded, though her expression remained troubled. “One step at a time,” she repeated quietly.
As she returned to tending to Severus, Albus lingered at the foot of the bed, his mind racing. The road ahead would be long and fraught with challenges, but he could not allow himself to fail again.
Later that night, when the hospital wing had grown quiet and Poppy had retreated to her office, Albus found himself drawn to action. If there was even a chance that he could uncover something that might help the boy—something he had missed before—he owed it to Severus to try.
He began by heading to the archives, a place he had not visited in some time. The school records were expansive, meticulously kept, and contained far more than just grades and disciplinary actions. Family trees, heritage documentation, even notes from past headmasters—all of it was here, stored away in the quiet, dusty corners of the castle.
Albus lit his wand and scanned the shelves, searching for the section he needed. He found it at last: Snape, Severus Tobias.
He pulled the thin file from its place and opened it, his eyes scanning the contents. It was sparse. Too sparse. There was a birth certificate—a muggle document, oddly enough. His mother, Eileen Prince, was listed, but his father…
Tobias Snape. A muggle. Not a pureblood.
Albus stared at the page, his mind reeling. He had assumed—wrongly, it seemed—that Severus was a pureblood. The boy carried himself with the same pride and sharpness that so many purebloods did. But this… this changed things. It reframed everything. If Severus had been raised by a muggle father, and in an abusive household…
Albus closed his eyes, his grip tightening on the file. The pieces began to fall into place, painting a picture he didn’t want to see but could not ignore either. Severus had been isolated not just by his sharp tongue or his choice of companions but by the circumstances of his very birth. His own housemates, who often prided themselves on their pureblood lineage, must have known. And if they knew…
He thought back to moments he had dismissed too easily. Severus sitting alone at the Slytherin table, his shoulders hunched as he picked at his food. The whispers that followed him down the corridors, not just from Gryffindors. The way no one had stepped in to defend him during the incident by the lake, even though there had been Slytherins nearby. And now that Albus thought about it, there had been rumors. Whispers of why Severus and Lily Evans had stopped speaking last year. He had ignored them at the time, dismissed them as exaggerated gossip, but now…
Now, he wasn’t so sure.
He set the file down and pressed his hands against the desk, his head bowing under the weight of it all. He had allowed the boy to spiral further and further into his own darkness.
And then there was the matter of the soulmark. The cursed scars. Albus couldn’t begin to imagine what Severus had been trying to accomplish. If this answer could not be found in the school records, then perhaps they could be found in the boy’s own notes. He was always holding a book and writing something.
With a heavy heart, Albus resolved to visit Severus’s dormitory the following day. He would search for any clues, any notes or journals that might shed light on the curse. It was an invasion of privacy, yes, but he could not ignore it. Not now. Not when the boy’s life might depend on it.
As he extinguished his wand and left the archives, Albus felt the weight of his guilt settle even more heavily on his shoulders. He had failed Severus more than once, but he would not fail him again. Whatever it took, he would find a way to help him. He only hoped it wasn’t already too late.