Chapter 1
Harry was ready to smash his head against the polished mahogany desk the Ministry had so generously provided. Its pristine surface mocked the chaos of his thoughts as yet another file materialized in the overflowing tray perched smugly in the left corner like some inanimate overseer.
He hadn’t survived a war, risked life and limb, and dragged himself through Hogwarts’ hastily arranged eighth year—grinding through tedious lectures and scraping together the required N.E.W.T.s—just to end up shackled to a desk.
Alongside Ron, he had endured the grueling hours, harsh drills, and unforgiving challenges of Auror training, driven by a determination to play his part in ridding the world of the dark wizards who had poisoned his childhood and left so many lives scarred by violence.
Yet here he was, more than ten years later, drowning under mountains of parchment instead of battling dark forces in the field. He was good at his job, one of the best, and he’d fought tooth and nail to ensure the world was safer than it had been when he was a child. He hadn’t coasted on his fame or the scar on his forehead like many would—he’d fought tooth and nail to earn his place, smugly proving anyone wrong who dared to attribute his fame to him being a so-called celebrity .
But no one had told him that being a hero also meant wrestling with the unrelenting bureaucracy that came with it. The steady churn of parchment and ink had become its own kind of battle—not nearly as dangerous, but every bit as draining. Even the faint scent of parchment felt oppressive, a constant reminder that the work he’d dreamed of as a boy didn’t always match the reality.
Sure, the job still had its moments—the icy bite of midnight stakeouts in shadowed alleyways, the heart-pounding thrill of chasing suspects through dense forests—but those moments were few and far between. More often than not, his days were consumed by the monotony of forms and reports. The quiet hum of the office felt suffocating, a stark reminder that his once-exhilarating work had been swallowed by routine.
The recent rise in neo-Death Eater activity only added to the weight. Every case was urgent, every lead critical, yet Harry found himself tethered to his desk instead of confronting danger head-on. As one of the most experienced Aurors, he was expected to take on a strategic role—analyzing intelligence, compiling reports, and coordinating missions. Kingsley had made it clear that Harry’s expertise was too valuable for routine chases, especially with whispers of his inevitable promotion to Head Auror growing louder. Harry didn’t want the title, but his ability to spot patterns and predict the movements of dark wizards had become indispensable, even if it left him drowning in parchment.
Kingsley’s words often rang in his ears, as steady and unyielding as the man himself: “If you can’t handle the paperwork, you’ll never handle being Head Auror.” The thought made Harry’s jaw tighten. He’d never asked for that title, but it seemed everyone else had already decided it was inevitable. Head Auror Potter. A role handed to him by expectation, not ambition.
And so, he forced himself to keep working. The rhythmic scratch of his quill against parchment grated on his nerves as he detailed a botched artifact smuggling operation in Knockturn Alley. The words blurred together, his eyes burning from the strain. The room felt stifling, the air heavy with the scent of ink and aging parchment.
Harry was hunched over the file, struggling to focus, when a brisk rapping sounded on his door. Without waiting for a response, it creaked open, revealing the familiar figure of Mrs. Ada Wickham, his Ministry-appointed secretary. A no-nonsense woman in her late sixties, Mrs. Wickham was built like a battleship—imposing, unflinching, and efficient. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled into a tight bun, and her sharp brown eyes peered over the top of her half-moon spectacles.
“Someone’s here to see you, Auror Potter,” she said, her voice warm but laced with a stern edge that brooked no nonsense.
Harry groaned, setting down his quill. “Tell them I’m busy.”
Mrs. Wickham didn’t flinch. “I already did. Twice. They say it’s urgent.”
“They always say it’s urgent,” Harry muttered, rubbing his temples. “Who is it this time?”
She adjusted her glasses and glanced at her clipboard, though Harry suspected she didn’t need to check. “A Mr. Draco Malfoy, sir.”
Harry rolled his eyes, the exasperation practically radiating off him. Of course, Draco sodding Malfoy wouldn’t take no for an answer—Merlin forbid the world didn’t immediately bend to his every whim. “Fine. Let him in.”
Mrs. Wickham gave a curt nod and left, returning moments later with Draco Malfoy trailing behind her. His robes were, as always, pristine, his blond hair perfectly in place, and his expression one of casual arrogance.
“Potter,” Malfoy drawled, leaning against the doorframe as Mrs. Wickham exited without another word, shutting the door behind her.
Harry’s hand twitched toward his wand out of habit. “Malfoy. To what do I owe the… pleasure?”
Draco Malfoy’s sudden appearance wasn’t as surprising as it might have been years ago. Harry had learned the hard way that people weren’t always as they seemed—least of all the Malfoys. After Dumbledore’s death, when Voldemort had sunk his claws into the wizarding world, the entire Malfoy family had turned. It hadn’t been out of heroism, Harry was sure of that, but desperation had driven them to the Order, and they’d become some of the most valuable spies in the fight against the Dark Lord.
Draco, in particular, had proven unexpectedly useful. Despite their history, he’d passed on critical information that had saved countless lives. Harry still didn’t like him—“like” was far too strong a word—but over time, they’d reached a tentative understanding, one born out of shared battles and grudging respect.
That respect, however, didn’t extend to Lucius Malfoy. Harry still thought he was an insufferable prick. A former Death Eater with a superiority complex the size of Hogwarts, Lucius’s thinly veiled disdain for anyone who wasn’t pureblood had never fully disappeared. Sure, he’d played his part in the war, but Harry wasn’t about to nominate him for a Medal of Honor anytime soon.
Draco, at least, was tolerable—most days.
It didn’t help that Draco had grown up to be irritatingly attractive. His sharp cheekbones and icy gray eyes gave him an aristocratic air, one that Harry might even have admired if it weren’t for the perpetual smirk plastered on his face. The worst part? Draco clearly knew he looked good, and that smug self-awareness only made Harry grit his teeth harder.
Draco’s lips twitched into a faint smirk as he stepped into the office, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered desk. “I didn’t realize your paperwork was so riveting, Potter. I almost felt bad interrupting.”
“What do you want?” Harry asked, his irritation clear.
Draco took another step forward, his gaze flicking over the messy desk piled with files. “Still saving the wizarding world one form at a time, I see.”
Harry leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Seriously, Malfoy. I’m busy.”
Draco’s smirk faltered, and for the first time, Harry noticed the uncharacteristic seriousness in his expression. Without a word, Draco reached into his cloak and pulled out a slim, leather-bound notebook. He placed it on the desk, his movements deliberate, as though the weight of the notebook matched the importance of what it contained.
Harry frowned, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “What’s that?”
“It’s about Snape,” Draco said simply, his tone quiet but firm.
Harry straightened, his irritation replaced by alertness. The name alone was enough to set his mind racing. After the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry had gone back to retrieve Snape’s body, determined to give the man a proper hero’s burial. They hadn’t been close—far from it. Their relationship had been a tangle of animosity, grudging respect, and bitter truths Harry hadn’t fully understood until it was too late. But Harry couldn’t deny that Snape had been integral to Voldemort’s defeat. His sacrifices had saved them all, and Harry felt it was his responsibility to ensure they weren’t forgotten.
What they’d found instead had shocked everyone—Snape was still alive, barely clinging to life. He’d been placed under a stasis charm immediately and rushed to St. Mungo’s. The rest of the world believed Snape had died that day, and Harry had worked tirelessly to ensure his sacrifice wasn’t forgotten. He’d fought to restore Snape’s name, securing him a posthumous Order of Merlin, and had kept him in a private room with healers sworn to secrecy. The expenses didn’t matter; Harry had paid for everything, driven by a sense of responsibility and a lingering guilt he couldn’t quite shake.
But years had passed, and Snape remained in a coma, unreachable and frozen under the powerful stasis charm—a statue memorializing what he must have thought were his final moments on the brink of death. The man who had saved them all was still trapped in limbo, and Harry had begun to wonder if the healers would ever find a way to bring him back.
Harry straightened, his irritation replaced by alertness. “What about him?”
The Malfoy family were among the small, select group of people who knew Snape was alive. It had been a surprise to Harry at first—he’d always associated the Malfoys with coldness and self-interest. But somehow, despite their icy exteriors, they had a bond with Snape that ran deeper than he would have expected. Perhaps it was shared history, or perhaps it was the way they navigated the world with guarded walls and calculated alliances.
Whatever the reason, they were close—maybe as close to family as someone like Snape could ever allow himself to have. The Malfoys had proven fiercely loyal to him, even after the war. Harry suspected it was part gratitude, part obligation, but there was an undeniable protectiveness there, one that seemed incongruous with their otherwise detached demeanor.
Draco sat without waiting for an invitation, placing what Harry immediately recognized as a St. Mungo’s health report on his desk with a deliberate thud. His usual smirk was absent, replaced by an intensity that immediately set Harry on edge.
“What is this?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowing as he warily eyed the file.
Draco hesitated, his fingers curling briefly against the arm of the chair. “The stasis spell keeping him alive is failing. St. Mungo’s told my family he has weeks—maybe less.”
Harry’s stomach dropped, his voice breaking the silence, harsher than he intended. “Weeks? Why didn’t they tell me?”
Draco’s lip curled, his frustration palpable. “Because they’ve already given up. They don’t think he’s worth the effort. And they sure as hell didn’t want his sponsor—the ‘Savior of the Wizarding World’ and one of their top donors—finding out. Imagine how messy that would be for them.”
The words slammed into Harry, and for a moment, he could only blink. “I—I don’t…” His throat tightened. “I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to help.”
“Trust me, I figured,” Draco drawled, though there was a faint waver to his voice. “That’s why I took matters into my own hands. Salazar knows where we’d be if I left it up to you.” He reached into his cloak and slammed a worn, leather-bound notebook onto the desk. “I found something that might save him.”
Harry stared at the notebook, his mind racing, guilt swirling alongside disbelief. “And you just happened to waltz in here with a solution?”
“It’s not a solution,” Draco snapped, his tone clipped. “It’s a chance. I’ve spent years researching healing magic—magic far beyond the pale of what St. Mungo’s would ever attempt. If this works, it could stabilize him. Maybe even wake him up.”
Harry’s gaze flicked to the notebook, but he didn’t move to open it. “Why me? Why not your precious family of overachievers?”
Draco bristled, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. “This spell isn’t about expertise. It’s about strength. Raw, unrelenting magical power. And whether you like it or not, you have more of that than anyone else.”
Harry scoffed, leaning back in his chair. “I’m not some all-powerful wizard who can fix everything, Malfoy. I’m not a healer. I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“You don’t need to know where to start,” Draco countered, leaning forward. His voice dropped, low and intense. “The spell is in the notebook. All the theory, all the runes—I’ve done the work. All I need is someone who can actually cast it.”
“And if it fails?” Harry demanded, his voice rising.
Draco’s jaw tightened, his voice quiet but firm. “Then at least we tried. But doing nothing guarantees he dies. Severus deserves better than that.”
The words struck a nerve Harry hadn’t even realized was exposed. He looked down at the notebook, his hand hovering over the cover. “Why do you care so much about him?”
Draco hesitated, his expression hardening, though his voice betrayed a crack of emotion. “Because he cared about me more than anyone else ever did. I didn’t realize it at the time—I was too busy panicking about my own situation. I was grateful when he took over the Dark L—” Draco stopped, correcting himself with a sharp breath. “When he took over Riddle’s tasks. But I still thought he was loyal to them then. I had no idea how much he gave up.”
Harry leaned back, studying Draco carefully. For once, there was no arrogance in his posture, only determination.
“And if this doesn’t work?” Harry asked quietly.
Draco straightened, his tone resolute. “Then we lose him. But doing nothing guarantees that anyway. At least this gives him a chance.”
Harry exhaled, his eyes flicking back to the notebook. The idea of saving Snape—of giving him a second chance—was as daunting as it was compelling. Their history was fraught with bitterness and animosity, but he couldn’t ignore the sacrifices Snape had made.
“Alright,” Harry said finally, closing the notebook with a resolute thud. “I’ll do it. But I’m not jumping into this blind. Give me time to study it.”
Draco let out a breath he’d clearly been holding. “Good. I’ll handle St. Mungo’s. You focus on the spell.”
As Draco stood, he hesitated at the door, glancing back with an expression Harry could only describe as genuine. “Thank you, Potter. He deserves this.”
Harry nodded, his resolve firm. “Let’s make sure it works.”
Draco’s shoulders seemed lighter as he strode out of the office, his usual confidence returning with every step. A sharp crack of apparition echoed moments later, leaving Harry alone with the notebook—and the weight of what was to come.
Harry Apparated into the familiar warmth of Number 12 Grimmauld Place, shaking off the lingering chill of the winter air.. The old Black family townhouse wasn’t the same dreary, oppressive mausoleum it had once been. After the war, it had become a project, a symbol of healing and rebuilding for the small, makeshift family they’d cobbled together.
Harry had needed stability in those early days, his mind still caught in the relentless churn of war mode, unable to settle into peace. Sirius and Remus had wanted the same—perhaps even more. They had never truly had the chance to live as a family, and for Remus, the added responsibility of raising Teddy as a single father made it all the more vital.
Yes, Andromeda often kept Teddy for long stretches, being the doting grandmother she was. It helped her navigate the grief of losing her daughter, giving her a sense of purpose in nurturing her grandson. But Remus had made a quiet, determined vow to be present in Teddy’s life, to give him the stability he owed to both Teddy and Tonks. Sirius had been equally resolute, throwing himself into the restoration of Grimmauld Place with uncharacteristic focus, scrubbing away the shadow of its dark legacy. Together, the three of them—and baby Teddy—had rebuilt the house into something new: a home they could actually enjoy living in.
The faint scent of wood polish and lingering magic greeted Harry as he set his bag down by the door. He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping the shadowed hallway. The stillness of the house settled over him, familiar and comforting. For all its dark history, Grimmauld Place had become a sanctuary. The oppressive air of old curses and whispered secrets had given way to laughter, warmth, and a life rebuilt. It was a far cry from the war-torn hideout it had once been.
The low murmur of voices drifted from the living room as Harry stepped deeper into the house. The familiar scent of tea and old parchment filled the air, mingling with the faint crackle of a fire burning low in the hearth. He found Remus seated on the couch, a steaming cup in hand and a stack of well-worn books spread out before him. The soft glow of lamplight highlighted the streaks of gray in his hair and the faint lines etched into his face—a quiet testament to years of hardship and resilience.
“Busy night?” Remus asked without looking up, his calm voice cutting through the remnants of chaos Harry had left at the Ministry.
“You could say that.” Harry shrugged off his cloak and draped it over the back of a chair. Dropping into the armchair opposite Remus, he let his head fall back against the cushion with a heavy sigh. “Draco Malfoy showed up at my office.”
Remus’s brow lifted slightly, his interest piqued. “And what did he want?”
“To save Snape,” Harry said bluntly. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out the notebook Draco had left behind and tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed with a soft but resolute thud.
Remus set his cup down and leaned forward, his fingers brushing the worn leather cover before opening it. His brow furrowed as his eyes flicked over the intricate diagrams and meticulously scrawled runes. “This is ancient magic,” he murmured, his voice laced with both curiosity and caution. “Powerful...and dangerous.”
“Yeah,” Harry said, running a hand through his hair. “He thinks I’m the only one who can pull it off.”
Remus’s gaze shifted to Harry, his sharp eyes searching his face. “And what do you think?”
Harry hesitated, the weight of the decision pressing down on him. His gaze drifted to the fireplace, where the embers glowed faintly, pulsing like a heartbeat. “I think he’s right. And I think if I don’t try, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”
Remus leaned back, his expression thoughtful, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “Snape was a complicated man. He didn’t make it easy to see the good in him, but it was there. He deserves a second chance.”
“That’s what I keep thinking,” Harry admitted, his voice quiet but resolute. “All the sacrifices he made—for me, for the Order—they can’t just...end like this.”
Remus offered him a small, understanding smile. “Then you already know what you need to do.”
Harry nodded, his resolve hardening. “Yeah. I’m doing it.”
The sound of the front door opening broke the moment. Heavy boots thudded against the floorboards, followed by a brisk gust of winter air. Sirius strode in, his hair windblown, a bag of groceries dangling from one hand.
“Bloody cold out there,” Sirius grumbled, kicking the door shut with his heel. He froze mid-step, his sharp eyes darting between Harry and Remus before narrowing. “Alright, what’s going on?”
Harry gestured to the notebook. “Malfoy wants me to use some ancient healing spell to save Snape.”
Sirius snorted, setting the groceries down on the counter with a loud thud. “Snivellus? Malfoy wants you to risk your neck for that greasy git?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Sirius—”
“No, really,” Sirius interrupted, his tone dripping with sarcasm. “After everything he’s done, why wouldn’t we bend over backward to save dear old Snape? The bastard who spent years making everyone’s lives miserable and sneering down his nose at us.”
Harry glared at him. “Sirius, everyone knows he wasn’t easy to deal with. He was a right prick most of the time, but he’s more than that. He saved lives during the war—yours included.”
Sirius rolled his eyes, pacing toward the fireplace. “Oh, sure. Let’s all throw a parade for Saint Snivellus, the unsung martyr. I’m not saying he didn’t help, Harry, but he’s hardly worth tearing yourself apart over some ancient spell that could blow up in your face.”
Harry crossed his arms, frustration bubbling to the surface. “This isn’t about liking him. It’s about what’s right. He gave everything for the cause. The least I can do is try to give him a second chance. And I wouldn’t be tearing myself apart; I’ve looked over the spell, and I’m completely capable of casting it.”
Sirius turned back to face him, his expression dark. “And what if it goes wrong? What if you’re the one who ends up paying the price for it? Snape wouldn’t risk himself for you, you know. He’d be the first to let you die if it suited him.”
“That’s not true,” Harry snapped, his voice rising. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see everything he did—everything he sacrificed. This isn’t about you or your grudge, Sirius. It’s about doing the right thing.”
Sirius threw up his hands, frustration evident. “Fine, you’re grown, and I can’t tell you what to do. Just know I’m against this. I really hope this doesn’t blow up in your face, pup,” Sirius said before stalking upstairs to his floor.
“It won’t,” Harry said firmly, more to himself than to Sirius.
Remus leaned forward again, closing the notebook gently as though the weight of its contents demanded reverence. His thoughtful gaze met Harry’s, steady and unwavering. “For what it’s worth, I agree with you, Harry. You can do this,” he said with quiet conviction. “If anyone can harness this kind of magic, it’s you. You’ve already proven you have the strength—and the heart—for it.”
Something in Harry eased at the words, like a knot slowly untying in his chest. He didn’t need constant reassurance, but there was something grounding about hearing it from Remus. Out of everyone, Harry had always valued Remus’s opinion, especially when it came to magic. He had been the one to teach him the Patronus, after all. Remus had a quiet brilliance, a deep well of knowledge that he rarely flaunted but wielded with precision when it mattered. If Remus believed he could pull this off, then maybe—just maybe—he could.
“Thanks, Remus.” Standing, he grabbed the notebook and tucked it back into his bag. “I’m going to bed. Let me know if anything urgent comes up.”
Harry climbed the stairs to the first floor, his feet heavy against the creaking wood. This was his space, tucked away from the bustle of the shared living areas below. The first floor housed his room, his office, and a spare room he’d meant to do something with but had never quite finished. The hallway was simple yet warm, lined with framed photographs—snapshots of the war’s quieter moments and images of friends who had become family. A faint hum of wards wrapped the space in a comforting sense of safety, their magic woven into the very fabric of the house.
Harry’s room was the first door on the left, it's dark oak frame slightly ajar. Inside, the space mirrored the duality of his life—a blend of practicality and sentimentality. A neatly made bed stood against one wall, the navy-blue duvet accented by pillows in muted grays. A small bookshelf sat beside it, crammed with a chaotic mix of Auror manuals, dog-eared novels Hermione had recommended, and a few well-loved Quidditch biographies.
The walls were painted a soft gray, soothing in its simplicity, broken only by a single Quidditch poster and a small, hand-painted portrait of the Burrow that Ginny had given him. A desk sat beneath the window, its surface strewn with parchment, half-empty inkpots, and a few stray chocolate frog wrappers. Beyond the glass, the snow-dusted garden shimmered faintly under the moonlight. The soft glow of his bedside lamp cast a warm halo over the room, softening its edges and giving it a lived-in feel.
Harry sat on the edge of his bed, the weight of the notebook heavy in his lap. The intricate runes seemed to shimmer faintly in the dim light, as though daring him to decipher their secrets. He traced one of the symbols with his finger, the edges sharp and angular, like a scar etched into the parchment.
Why is it always me? he sighed, closing his eyes and leaning back against the headboard. His fingers tightened around the notebook, the leather cool and smooth under his palms. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to help—he did. But the idea of wielding such immense, unpredictable magic sat uneasily in his gut.
It felt...familiar. Like standing in the Forbidden Forest with the Resurrection Stone in his hand, staring into the eyes of death and knowing he had no choice. Back then, the weight of the world had pressed down on his shoulders, and he’d borne it because no one else could.
Why should this be any different?
His gaze shifted to the far corner of the room, where Hedwig’s empty perch still stood. He hadn’t been able to take it down, even after all these years. It was a relic of another life, a simpler time—if his life had ever been simple.
But now? Now his life was an endless blur of responsibilities and expectations, of people looking to him for answers he didn’t always have. He’d built a home here, but even Grimmauld Place didn’t entirely feel like his. The walls still whispered with the echoes of Sirius’s family, the shadows of a legacy he wanted no part of.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. It wasn’t the spell itself he feared. It was failing. Failing Snape. Failing Draco, despite his arrogance and snark. Failing the memory of the man who had done more for him than he could ever repay.
Harry thought of Snape then—not the bitter, scowling professor who had made his school years hell, but the man who had stood between him and death more times than he could count. Snape had always seemed untouchable, an immovable force cloaked in shadows. But now, as Harry inched closer to the age Snape had been when they first met, he couldn’t help but wonder how unsure the man must have been. Unsure of how to keep everyone safe. Unsure of his own survival in a war he’d dedicated his entire life to ending.
Severus Snape had never lived fully for himself, not even at the end.
The memory of Snape’s final act—the desperate, unguarded gift of his memories—pressed against Harry’s mind. That singular moment of truth had revealed Snape as he truly was: flawed, courageous, human.
“I owe him,” Harry whispered to the empty room. The words felt heavy, like a promise forged in iron.
The thought of Snape’s body lying in stasis at St. Mungo’s made Harry’s stomach twist. He didn’t know what state the man would wake up in—didn’t even know if he’d want to wake up. But Harry had to try. He owed Snape that much.
He leaned forward again, flipping through the notebook’s pages, his eyes scanning the diagrams and annotations. Draco’s meticulous handwriting filled the margins, each note precise and deliberate. Despite himself, Harry felt a flicker of respect for Draco’s determination. Malfoy had cared enough to spend years researching magic most wouldn’t even dare to touch.
And now it’s in my hands, Harry thought bitterly, closing the notebook with a soft thud. Because it always is.
He let his head fall back against the headboard, his gaze drifting upward to the faint cracks in the ceiling. The lines twisted and shifted like the runes on the page, shapes his mind couldn’t quite pin down.
For a moment, he allowed himself to imagine what it would be like if this worked. If Snape woke up—alive, whole, free of the burdens that had haunted him. Would he be angry? Grateful? Would he even want to see Harry, or would he shut him out like he had so many others?
Harry sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. The answers didn’t matter. What mattered was the chance—the slim, fragile chance to give Snape something he’d never had before: a choice.
And that was worth the risk.
With that thought, Harry slid the notebook onto the nightstand and turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped the room, the faint creak of the house settling around him. As sleep tugged at the edges of his mind, Harry resolved to take the first step tomorrow.
Some fights were worth fighting—even when the odds weren’t in your favor.
The next morning, Harry barely touched his breakfast. The notebook lay open on the table in front of him, its diagrams and annotations glaring up at him like a challenge he couldn’t quite solve. He shoved his half-eaten toast aside, running a hand through his hair as he stared at the pages. He’d spent hours poring over the runes last night, and though he understood the basics, the intricacies continued to evade him.
A loud knock at the front door broke his concentration, followed by the muffled sound of voices. Moments later, the door creaked open, and two sets of footsteps echoed in the hallway.
“Harry? You alive in here?” Ron’s voice called out as he and Hermione appeared in the kitchen doorway. Hermione was still unwrapping her scarf, brushing snow from her shoulders, while Ron carried a bag of something warm that smelled faintly of bacon.
“I told you he wouldn’t eat,” Hermione muttered, shooting Ron a knowing look before turning her attention to Harry. “You look terrible. Did you sleep at all?”
Harry blinked at them, surprised to see both of them here. “What are you doing here?”
Ron rolled his eyes, setting the bag on the table. “We’re here because of your bloody Patronus. Hermione woke me up at the crack of dawn, babbling about ‘urgent magical nonsense.’ So, what gives?”
Harry gestured vaguely to the notebook, his hand dropping back to his side. “It’s... complicated.”
“When isn’t it?” Ron quipped, but his tone softened when he noticed the tension in Harry’s shoulders. “Alright, mate. Let’s hear it.”
Hermione had already zeroed in on the notebook, her sharp gaze flicking over the intricate runes. She pulled out a chair and sat down, her fingers grazing the edges of the parchment as though the diagrams might reveal their secrets if she looked hard enough.
“What is this?” she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Harry hesitated, then said quietly, “It’s a spell to revive Snape.”
Hermione froze, her hand hovering over the page. Ron let out a short laugh of disbelief. “Snape? As in greasy-haired git Snape?”
“Yes, Ron. That Snape,” Harry snapped, his irritation flaring.
Ron raised his hands defensively, his expression shifting to cautious curiosity. “Alright, alright. But why are you even bothering with this?”
Harry sighed, pushing the notebook toward them. “Malfoy showed up at my office yesterday. He told me the stasis spell keeping Snape alive is failing. This is his only chance. And he thinks I’m the only one who can cast it.”
Hermione’s expression shifted as she flipped through the pages, her focus narrowing. “This is incredibly advanced magic, Harry. And dangerous. Do you even know if your magical core can handle something like this?”
“I have to try,” Harry said firmly, leaning back in his chair. “If I don’t, he dies. And after everything Snape did for us—for me—I can’t just sit by and let that happen.”
Hermione glanced up, her sharp eyes scanning his face. “And you believe you can do this?”
Harry hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”
Ron rubbed the back of his neck, his skepticism clear. “I mean, it’s Snape, Harry. I get it, he helped us during the war, but you’re really going to risk everything for him?”
“Yes,” Harry said simply.
Hermione sighed, sitting back in her chair. “Alright. If you’re determined to do this, you’re not doing it alone. We’ll help.”
“Help?” Ron echoed, his brows furrowing.
“Yes, help,” Hermione said sharply. “This spell is far too complicated for Harry to attempt without preparation. We’ll break it down, test the components, and make sure his magical core can handle the strain.”
Ron looked skeptical but didn’t argue. “Alright, then. But just so we’re clear, I’m not keen on blowing anything up.”
“Neither am I,” Harry muttered, though a faint smile tugged at his lips.
The next morning, Harry stood outside St. Mungo’s, the winter chill biting through his cloak. The building loomed above him, its unassuming façade belying the profound magic within. Harry had taken the day off to focus entirely on the spell, knowing he’d need the weekend to recover if it drained his magical core. Hours of preparation with Hermione and Ron had left him confident—or as confident as he could be under the circumstances.
He shifted his bag on his shoulder, the notebook inside feeling heavier than ever. It wasn’t just a spellbook—it was a lifeline, and a gamble. Taking a deep breath, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.
The warmth of the hospital enveloped him, carrying the familiar sterile tang of potions and antiseptic. He moved quickly past the bustling reception area, where the witch behind the desk barely looked up. She was used to his presence, but today, Harry wasn’t here on Auror business.
The quiet of the private wing was a stark contrast to the noise of the main corridors. His boots echoed against the polished floor as he walked, each step feeling heavier than the last. He was about to perform magic unlike anything he’d ever attempted—magic that could either save a life or ruin his own.
As he rounded the corner, a tall, pale figure stepped out of one of the rooms.
“Potter,” Draco Malfoy greeted, his voice clipped and low. He looked as though he hadn’t slept, his sharp features drawn with tension. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” Harry said, brushing past him into the room. “This is my decision now, isn’t it?”
Draco followed, closing the door behind them. The room was dimly lit, a faint greenish glow from the monitoring spells casting eerie shadows. In the center of the room lay Severus Snape, his still form barely visible beneath the soft shimmer of protective wards.
Harry froze. It had been years since he’d seen Snape like this. The sight of him—pale, motionless, suspended between life and death—sent a jolt through his chest. He looked smaller somehow, the sharpness of his features dulled by the stasis. His black hair, still slightly greasy, spilled over the pillow in unruly strands.
“He doesn’t look much different, does he?” Draco said softly, moving to stand beside the bed. “But the healers say the stasis is failing. His body’s rejecting it.”
Harry nodded mutely, his gaze fixed on Snape. The faint rise and fall of his chest was the only sign of life, and even that felt tenuous. Guilt twisted in Harry’s gut. Snape had given everything—his life, his reputation, his very soul—and yet here he was, clinging to existence by a thread.
“I spoke to the healers,” Draco said, his tone businesslike. “They don’t think this will work. But they’ve agreed to let us try—mainly because I reminded them how much gold my family has poured into this place.”
Harry snorted faintly, the sound almost involuntary. “Typical Malfoy.”
Draco’s lips twitched into a ghost of a smirk. “Sometimes you have to remind people where their priorities lie.”
Harry stepped closer to the bed, his hand brushing the edge. “Do you think he’d even want this?” he asked quietly.
Draco hesitated, his gray eyes clouded. “I don’t know. But I know he doesn’t deserve to die like this. Not after everything.”
Harry nodded, his jaw tightening as he reached into his bag and pulled out the notebook. The worn leather felt warm against his palm, as though the magic within it was already stirring. He flipped it open, scanning the familiar runes and diagrams.
“We’ll need a controlled space,” he said, glancing at Draco. “And backup. If this goes wrong—”
“It won’t,” Draco interrupted, his voice sharp. “It can’t.”
Harry raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue. Instead, he moved to the bedside table, where the protective wards flickered faintly.
“I’ll start with the wards,” Harry said.
Draco nodded. “The healers cleared it. You’ll have access to everything you need.”
Taking a steadying breath, Harry lifted his wand and murmured the first incantation. The wards shimmered brighter for a moment, resisting, before dissolving one by one. The magic buzzed against his fingers, faint but insistent. By the time the last ward fell, sweat dotted his forehead, but his focus didn’t waver.
“Done,” he said, stepping back. He met Draco’s gaze, the unspoken weight of what came next passing between them.
“Are you ready?” Draco asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Harry nodded, gripping his wand tightly. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
The moment stretched long and thin, the tension in the room almost unbearable. Harry raised his wand, the words of the ancient spell forming on his tongue.
And then, with a steady voice and unwavering resolve, he began.
Harry’s wand glowed faintly as he began the incantation, the ancient words spilling from his lips in a rhythm that felt both foreign and familiar. The air in the room shifted immediately, growing thick with energy. The diagrams in the notebook flashed through his mind as he focused, each rune etched into his memory from the hours of practice with Hermione and Ron.
“Animae Redintegra!” Harry intoned, his voice steady despite the pulse of magic vibrating through the air.
The golden light at the tip of his wand spread outward in shimmering waves, enveloping Snape’s still form. The runes etched into Harry’s mind seemed to come alive, glowing faintly as they appeared to hover above Snape’s chest. The magic flowed in controlled arcs, pulsing like a heartbeat.
Draco stood motionless at the edge of the room, his pale face illuminated by the flickering light. His hands clenched into fists, his gaze locked on Snape. Harry barely registered him. His entire focus was on maintaining the balance of the spell.
“Vita Adfluxus!” Harry continued, feeling the strain beginning to build. The energy was unlike anything he had ever wielded—wild and untamed, yet demanding precision and control. The golden light grew brighter, tendrils of magic weaving into intricate patterns around Snape’s body.
The stasis spell began to unravel. The faint shimmer surrounding Snape flickered, then dissolved entirely, leaving him vulnerable and exposed. Harry’s heart pounded in his chest, but he didn’t falter. The next phase was critical.
“Corpus Refoveo!” he commanded, his voice louder now.
The runes began to spin, their glow intensifying as they sank into Snape’s chest. A ripple of magic passed through the room, the sheer force of it making Harry stagger. He planted his feet firmly, his wand trembling under the strain.
Snape’s body jerked suddenly, his chest heaving as though drawing in air for the first time in years. Draco let out a strangled gasp, taking an instinctive step forward, but Harry raised a hand to stop him.
“Not yet,” Harry said through gritted teeth. His wand arm ached, and sweat dripped down his temples. The spell wasn’t finished.
The final incantation burned on Harry’s tongue, the words searing into his mind. He took a deep breath, summoning the last reserves of his strength.
“Vitae Reditus!” he shouted, the force of the spell reverberating through the room.
A blinding surge of light erupted from his wand, engulfing Snape completely. The magic swirled in chaotic arcs, the energy so intense that Harry could barely hold his focus. For a moment, the room seemed to tremble, the walls vibrating as the magic reached its peak.
A surge of light engulfed Snape, the energy so intense that the room seemed to vibrate. Harry staggered but held his focus as the spell reached its crescendo. Then, with a final pulse, the light collapsed inward, sinking into Snape’s body.
The room fell silent. Harry’s wand slipped from his fingers, clattering to the floor as he sagged against the wall.
Draco stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Snape. “What’s happening to him?”
Harry forced himself upright, his eyes widening as he saw Snape’s body begin to change. The sharp lines of his face softened, his sallow skin brightening. His frame shrank, his robes bunching awkwardly around him.
“Merlin,” Draco whispered. “He’s... younger.”
Snape’s transformation stopped, leaving him looking no older than a child. His too-large robes swallowed his now-small frame, and his face carried an eerie innocence.
Draco stared, his expression a mixture of awe and horror. “Is it permanent?”
Harry shook his head, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know.”
Draco looked at Harry, his jaw clenched. “This just got a lot more complicated.”
Harry nodded, the weight of the situation pressing down on him like a physical force. “Yeah. It did.”