Chapter 2
“ You must have done something wrong, ” Draco hissed, his voice accusatory as he paced the room with sharp, agitated movements. His hands gesture wildly, and his tailored cloak flared with each turn, the polished buttons catching the light. “You were the one casting the spell, Potter. How does this even happen?”
Harry pressed his fingers to his temples, trying to stave off the pounding headache that had begun to form. “I must have done something wrong?” he repeated, his voice incredulous. “Maybe the bloody spell you gave me was faulty in the first place, Malfoy. Did you even read the whole thing? Or did you skim it like a N.E.W.T.-level Potions essay?”
Draco whirled on him, his gray eyes flashing. “ Of course I read it! I spent years researching it, you self-righteous git. Don’t try to pin this on me just because you couldn’t keep your magic under control.”
Harry rose from his chair, gripping his wand tightly as he stepped closer to Draco. His green eyes blazed with frustration. “Don’t act like you’re some noble savior in all this, Malfoy. If it weren’t for me, he’d still be dying. Or did you forget that this spell was your last-ditch effort?”
The air between them crackled with tension, their old rivalries bubbling to the surface despite the years that had passed. Draco opened his mouth for another retort, but before he could unleash it, the door creaked open, cutting through their argument like a sharp blade.
The healer stepped into the room, her calm, professional demeanor at odds with the tension lingering in the air. Her eyes darted between Harry and Draco, her lips pressed into a thin line. “Gentlemen,” she said firmly. “What exactly is going on here? We felt a surge of magic from this ward and came to investigate.”
Harry stepped back, his wand lowering as he gestured toward the bed where Severus lay. “The spell worked,” he said, though irritation still laced his voice. “Sort of. He’s alive, but… something else happened.”
The healer’s eyes fell on Severus’s drastically altered form, her brows knitting together in concern. “Merlin,” she murmured, stepping closer. With a practiced wave of her wand, she began casting diagnostic spells, the soft hum of magic filling the air and faint pulses of light flickering at her wand’s tip.
She worked silently, her expression unreadable as the light flared. Finally, she straightened, her lips pressing together. “I’ll need to call in Healer Fairfax,” she said, her tone clipped. “He’ll want to see this.”
Draco crossed his arms, his jaw tight. “What does that mean? What’s wrong with him?”
The healer didn’t answer, disappearing from the room without another word. Harry and Draco exchanged a tense glance, their earlier argument momentarily forgotten as they waited. The minutes stretched long and heavy until the door opened again, and an older wizard in crisp green robes entered, his silver beard neatly trimmed.
Healer Fairfax approached the bed, his wand at the ready. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with,” he said, his voice calm but commanding. He began casting a series of more intricate spells, each one causing the air to hum with a faint, otherworldly energy.
Harry and Draco stood in tense silence, watching as Fairfax’s brow furrowed deeper with each spell. Finally, he stepped back, letting out a slow breath as he turned to face them.
“Well?” Draco demanded, his tone sharper than he intended. “What is it?”
Fairfax’s expression was a mixture of confusion and intrigue. “His body… it’s as though it’s been completely reset. There’s no trace of the snake bite or venom in his system. In fact, his magical core has reverted to that of a typical child of his apparent age.”
Harry blinked, the words sinking in slowly. “A child? But his experiences—his memories?”
Fairfax shook his head. “It’s impossible to say for certain until he wakes, but based on his current magical and physical state, I would suspect his mind may have also been affected. His health, however, is a more pressing concern.”
“What do you mean?” Harry asked, his voice low.
Fairfax hesitated before answering. “His body shows signs of long-term neglect and malnutrition—old fractures that didn’t heal properly, scars consistent with mistreatment.” He glanced at Harry, his gaze piercing. “It’s as if his body has reverted to a version of itself that predates any recent trauma but retains signs of… a difficult childhood.”
Harry’s stomach twisted at the implication. He exchanged a look with Draco, whose expression was uncharacteristically grim. “So, you’re saying he’s... a child now? Physically, mentally, and magically?” Draco asked, his voice quieter than before.
Fairfax nodded. “That’s the most likely scenario. What’s certain is that this is unprecedented magic. I’ll need to consult with my colleagues to determine the best course of action.”
As Fairfax turned to leave, Harry slumped into the nearest chair, running a hand over his face. The weight of the healer’s words pressed heavily on his chest.
Draco, still standing by the bed, crossed his arms tightly. “This is a disaster,” he muttered, but his voice lacked its usual venom. Instead, there was a thread of something softer—uncertainty, perhaps even fear.
Harry looked up at him, his voice steady despite the turmoil roiling inside him. “We’ll figure it out. Whatever it takes.”
Draco didn’t respond, his eyes fixed on the childlike form of Severus Snape. For once, he seemed to have no snarky remark, no biting retort. Just silence.
A few minutes later, the young healer returned, traces of shock still evident in her expression. She hesitated before speaking, her tone measured. “He’s stable for now, but we’ll need to monitor him closely over the next few days before attempting to wake him. When he regains consciousness, he’ll need more than physical care. Whatever this transformation entails, he’s likely to act and feel like a child, not just look like one.”
Her gaze shifted between Harry and Draco as she continued. “He’ll need emotional support, a stable environment. Looking at his records, there are no known relatives who could take responsibility. Shall I contact the Department of Magical Child Welfare to arrange placement?”
“No!” Harry and Draco exclaimed simultaneously, their voices overlapping in a rare moment of agreement.
Harry’s stomach twisted at the thought of Snape being handed over to strangers, much less to a Ministry agency. The potential for leaks, for misunderstandings, for outright disaster, was too great.
“He can come with me,” Draco said abruptly, his tone sharp but resolute, though his fingers twitched at his sides.
“No way,” Harry shot back instantly. “I know the Ministry is already breathing down your neck with all the neo-Death Eater activity. They’d see this as some kind of plot to bring back one of Voldemort’s key players.”
Draco’s face flushed, his gray eyes narrowing. “Severus was never a true Death Eater, and you bloody well know it. You’re the one who made sure the entire wizarding world knew that fact! And my family hasn’t had ties to Death Eaters in over a decade—we’ve worked tirelessly to restore our name.”
“I know that,” Harry said, his tone softening slightly. “But the Ministry doesn’t care about facts when it suits them. This wouldn’t be giving Snape a second chance—it would be throwing him into the middle of a political storm. He’s a child now, Draco. He’d be defenseless.”
Draco’s jaw clenched, his gray eyes narrowing. “So who do you propose takes him in, Potter? You?”
Harry opened his mouth to argue but was surprised to hear himself say, “Yes.”
Draco blinked, his expression torn between incredulity and anger. “You? The Ministry’s golden boy? What makes you think you’re more qualified than me to take him in?”
The healer, sensing the rising tension, cleared her throat. “I’ll leave you to discuss,” she said, excusing herself from the room with a small bow.
As the door clicked shut, the room seemed to shrink under the weight of the decision. The soft hum of residual magic buzzed faintly in the air, an ever-present reminder of the fragile figure lying between them.
Draco crossed his arms, glaring at Harry. “Well? What now?”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, trying to organize his thoughts. “We can’t leave him here indefinitely, and the DMCW is out of the question. We agree on that, at least.”
Draco’s lip curled, his voice dripping with disdain. “And what happens when the Ministry eventually finds out? You’re too much in the public eye to keep this hidden forever. Are you ready to ruin your perfect image to defend him? You hated him. He hated you. Why would they trust you with him?”
“I’m not their lapdog,” Harry shot back. “And I’m willing to stand against them if it means keeping him safe. They know I’m not going to bend to their every whim.”
“And you think I would?” Draco’s voice rose, sharp with indignation. His fists clenched at his sides. “I owe him my life, Potter. My family owes him everything. He saved me when no one else would have. And in case you’ve forgotten, I’m his godson.”
Harry blinked, caught off guard. “You’re his what ?”
“His godson,” Draco repeated firmly. “He agreed to it when I was a baby. He didn’t advertise it, obviously, but it’s true. That gives me the right to take him in.”
Harry crossed his arms, his green eyes locking onto Draco’s. “Maybe it does. But the Ministry won’t see it that way. They’ll think you’re using him as a pawn. They’ll scrutinize every move you make, question your motives at every turn.”
Draco stepped closer, his jaw tight. “And you think they won’t question yours? The Savior of the Wizarding World suddenly playing guardian to his old enemy? That’s not suspicious at all.”
Harry’s temper flared, but he held himself in check. “I’m not saying I’m the perfect choice. But I’m the better choice.”
The room fell into a tense silence, the two men locked in a silent standoff. Finally, Draco let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand through his platinum hair. “Fine. Let’s not make any decisions tonight. We’ll reconvene tomorrow and figure this out—properly.”
“Agreed,” Harry said, though his tone was clipped.
As Draco turned toward the door, his steps heavy with frustration, Harry cast a glance at Snape’s small, motionless form. The argument hung between them like an unfinished duel, neither willing to concede fully. But for now, Severus Snape’s fate remains uncertain.
The warmth of Grimmauld Place was a welcome reprieve from the biting chill of the winter air. The weight of the day’s earlier events still pressed heavily on Harry’s shoulders, each step inside feeling like it carried more than just the cold. One thought dominated his mind, circling relentlessly: What am I going to tell everyone?
Harry stepped through the front door, his boots thudding softly against the polished wood floor. He barely had time to shrug off his cloak when a familiar voice greeted him.
“Harry!” Hermione’s voice rang out, followed quickly by the sound of her footsteps. She appeared in the hallway, her scarf still hanging loosely around her neck, her cheeks still flushed from the cold. “Finally! We’ve been waiting forever.”
“Hermione, what are you doing here? And we ?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped into the living room.
Sure enough, the room was crowded. Ron was sprawled on the couch, a mug of something steaming in his hands, while Sirius leaned against the mantel, a frown tugging at his lips. Remus sat in an armchair nearby, his expression calm but curious.
“What’s this?” Harry asked, gesturing to the gathering as he crossed the room. “A welcoming committee?”
“Don’t be a prat,” Ron said, sitting up straighter. “We’re here because we want to know how it went. Did it work? Is Snape… alive?”
Harry hesitated for a moment, then sank into the armchair opposite Remus. He set his bag down by his feet and ran a hand through his hair. “He’s alive,” he said finally. “But it’s... complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Hermione asked, perching on the arm of Ron’s chair. Her eyes were wide with concern, and her fingers clutched her scarf tightly.
Harry took a deep breath. “The spell worked. He’s stable. But it didn’t just save him—it… changed him.”
“Changed him?” Sirius repeated, his frown deepening. “What the bloody hell does that mean?”
“He’s been turned back into a child,” Harry said bluntly, the words falling heavily into the room. “He looks about five. Maybe six.”
Silence followed his statement, each person absorbing the news in their own way. Hermione’s mouth fell open slightly, Ron looked like he’d been hit with a Bludger, and Sirius let out a sharp bark of disbelief.
“You’re joking,” Sirius said, shaking his head. “You’re telling me Snivellus is a child now? You’re having us on, right?”
Harry’s jaw tightened at Sirius’s use of the old nickname, but he pushed on. “No. I’m dead serious. His body’s been completely reset. The healers said there’s no trace of Nagini’s bite, no venom, no signs of his more recent injuries. But… he’s showing signs of old malnutrition, neglect, and... worse.”
Remus’s expression darkened, his hands gripping the arms of his chair tightly. “You’re saying he’s reverted to a version of himself from his childhood?”
“Exactly,” Harry said, nodding. “They’re not completely sure if his mind has been affected, but it looks like his memories may have been reset as well. They think he might act and feel like a child, not just look like one.”
“And what do they plan to do with him?” Hermione asked quietly, her voice careful.
“They suggested contacting the Department of Magical Child Welfare,” Harry admitted. “But Draco and I both agreed—no. That’s not an option.”
“You and Malfoy agreed on something?” Ron muttered, earning a sharp look from Hermione.
“So what’s the plan?” Sirius asked, crossing his arms. “Is Malfoy taking him in?”
Harry drew in a breath, his chest tight with the enormity of what he was about to say. The room seemed to hold its collective breath, the fire’s crackle the only sound breaking the tense silence. He felt the weight of his earlier decision pressing down on him like a physical force, the magnitude of it settling deep into his bones.
Finally, he lifted his gaze, his green eyes steady and resolute. “No,” he said, his voice low but unwavering, each word heavy with conviction. “I told them I’d take him.”
“What?” Ron’s voice shot up an octave, his mug nearly slipping from his hands. “You? Take him in? Are you mad?”
Hermione placed a hand on Ron’s arm, but she, too, looked deeply concerned. “Harry… that’s a huge responsibility. You’d essentially be fostering him. Alone.”
“I know,” Harry said calmly. “But I think it’s the right thing to do.”
Sirius pushed off the mantle with a sharp movement, his boots thudding heavily against the floor as he strode toward Harry. His expression was a storm of disbelief and anger, his hands twitching as though restraining the urge to grab Harry by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. “Why you, Harry?” he snapped, his voice rough with frustration. “Why not Malfoy? He’s his bloody godson, for Merlin’s sake! Cissa let me in on that little secret ages ago. Let him deal with it—it’s his responsibility!”
Harry didn’t flinch under Sirius’s glare, his voice steady as he countered, “Because the Ministry would never allow it. They’d see it as a political move, Sirius. Snape would be caught in the middle of their scheming, and he doesn’t deserve that—not after everything.” His jaw tightened as he met Sirius’s fiery gaze. “He’s vulnerable. I’m not going to let them turn him into a pawn.”
Sirius threw up his hands in exasperation, pacing the room like a restless animal. His frustration simmered just beneath the surface, threatening to boil over. “And you think you’re equipped to handle this?” he barked, rounding on Harry again. “You’re an Auror, Harry! You’re out chasing criminals and solving mysteries at all hours of the day. You barely have time to eat properly, let alone take care of a kid. You’re not exactly father material!”
His words hung in the air, sharp and biting as if daring Harry to prove him wrong. The tension crackled between them like static, neither willing to back down.
“I’m not trying to be his father,” Harry said, his voice tight with frustration, though a flicker of hurt wove through it. “But when I saw him like that—so small, so… defenseless—I couldn’t just walk away. You wouldn’t understand what that’s like.” His gaze flicked between Sirius and Remus, his words sharp and pointed, laced with unspoken pain. “I know what it’s like to feel completely abandoned, to have no one there when you need them the most.”
Sirius flinched as though struck, his jaw tightening, but Harry pressed on, his tone unyielding. “I won’t leave him like that. I can’t. Not when I know what it feels like to be ignored and left to fend for yourself. And it’s not even permanent—at least, we don’t think it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that right now, he needs someone. He needs me.”
Harry’s words landed heavily in the room, a mix of defiance and an old wound he rarely let show. Remus’s brow furrowed deeply, guilt flashing briefly in his eyes, while Sirius’s frustration remained, but it had softened, tempered by the truth he couldn’t deny.
“But what if he does?” Hermione asked softly, her eyes searching Harry’s face. “What if this is permanent? Are you ready for that?”
Harry glanced down at his hands, the image of Severus’s small, childlike form vivid in his mind. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I’ve been missing something in my life. And maybe... maybe this is it. A way to make things right.”
Ron frowned, his expression a mix of skepticism and concern. “Mate, this isn’t like adopting a stray cat. This is Snape. As a kid.”
“I know,” Harry said, his voice quieter but unwavering. “And I’m not saying it’ll be easy. But I have to try. Ron, he looked so small—barely six, not even close to Hogwarts age. He’ll need someone to take care of him, someone who won’t make things worse.”
Harry hesitated, then added, “When I was six, my parents would have been only a little older than I am now if they’d lived. It’s not ridiculous to think I could step up for him. I’ve been through worse, and I can handle this.”
The room fell silent again, the weight of Harry’s words settling over them. Finally, Remus spoke, his voice gentle but firm. “If this is what you’ve decided, Harry, then you’ll have my support. He’s going to need people who care about him—and you’re one of the few people I trust to do that.”
Hermione nodded slowly, though her worry was still evident. “If you’re sure about this, Harry, then I’ll help in any way I can.”
Ron muttered something under his breath but finally relented with a shrug. “Fine. But don’t expect me to babysit.”
Sirius sighed heavily, the sound a mix of exasperation and genuine worry as he raked a hand through his already disheveled hair. His pacing resumed, boots scuffing against the worn rug, his frustration palpable. “This is madness, Harry! Utter madness! And the rest of you, sitting here and acting like this isn’t completely mental?” His sharp gaze swept the room, landing on each of them in turn. “Shame on you. Someone needs to talk some sense into him because this—this could ruin you, Harry. Do you even realize what you’re getting yourself into?”
He turned back to Harry, his expression a storm of anger and desperation. “This isn’t a heroic mission, it’s not another bloody adventure. This is a life—his life, your life—and you’re diving headfirst into something you can’t undo. Do you have any idea how much you’d be sacrificing? You’re already drowning in your work as an Auror. Now you’re going to play guardian to Snape, of all people?”
The room fell into a tense silence, the weight of Sirius’s words pressing down like a heavy fog. Everyone seemed to hold their breath, waiting for Harry’s response.
Harry met Sirius’s eyes, his green gaze steady and unflinching. He straightened in his chair, the certainty in his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. “I’ve thought about that, Sirius. I’ve thought about all of it. And for the first time in a long time, I know exactly what I need to do.”
The words carried a finality that silenced any further argument. Sirius looked away, his jaw working as though biting back another retort, while Hermione’s hand fluttered uncertainly to her scarf. Ron shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding Harry’s gaze.
Harry’s eyes softened as they swept over the room. For all their worry and doubt, he knew they cared—they always had. “I’m not going into this blind,” he said, his voice quieter but no less resolute. “I know it won’t be easy, and I know what’s at stake. But I also know I’m not alone. I have all of you, and that makes all the difference.”
The room remained silent, the words settling over them. For the first time that day, Harry felt the weight on his shoulders ease just slightly. Whatever lay ahead, he knew he wouldn’t face it alone—and that small certainty was enough to steady him for what was to come.
The morning sun barely pierced through the thick gray clouds as Harry stepped into Diagon Alley, the familiar cobblestone streets bustling with activity. The sharp chill in the air bit at his cheeks, but he barely noticed as he scanned the storefronts. His thoughts were entirely focused on the meeting ahead, his mind replaying everything he needed to say. Spotting the modest wooden sign of The Copper Kettle hanging between a secondhand bookshop and a wand-polishing service, he straightened his cloak and made his way inside.
The door chimed softly as he entered, a wave of warmth and the smell of fresh coffee wrapping around him. The café was small and unassuming, its wooden tables scattered with patrons engaged in quiet conversations. Harry’s eyes immediately found Draco seated in a secluded corner by the fireplace, the glow of the flames casting flickering shadows on his pale features.
Draco looked up as Harry approached, his expression carefully neutral. “On time for once,” he drawled, though his tone lacked its usual bite.
Harry pulled out the chair opposite him, dropping into it with a faint huff. “Don’t get used to it,” he muttered, signaling to a passing server for a coffee.
Draco leaned back, cradling his half-empty mug in one hand, his gaze never leaving Harry. The silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft clatter of cups and the muffled hum of the café’s other patrons. Harry cast a discreet Muffliato , ensuring their conversation would stay private, before finally speaking.
“Well?” Harry asked, leaning forward slightly. “You said we needed to meet. Let’s hear it.”
Draco’s gray eyes narrowed slightly, his tone dry but controlled. “I’ve done some thinking, consulted my parents, weighed all the options—and because miracles apparently do happen—get ready, Potter: I’m about to say you were right. Try not to faint.”
Harry blinked, momentarily caught off guard. “Come again?”
Draco smirked faintly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You were right. Severus doesn’t deserve to be thrown back into the line of fire, not now, not like this. And you’re probably the best chance he has at avoiding that kind of mess.”
Harry exhaled, a small flicker of relief loosening the knot in his chest. “I didn’t think you’d admit it.”
“Don’t get used to that either,” Draco quipped, pulling a folded piece of parchment from his robes and sliding it across the table with deliberate precision. “This is what I’ve managed to pull together,” he said, his tone cool and professional. “There’s a list of healers who specialize in children with magical trauma—cases like this are almost nonexistent, but hopefully, they can give us some answers. I’ve also included a few tutors I’ve worked with before. At that age,he’ll need proper schooling, and let’s face it—some ordinary pre-Hogwarts program isn’t going to cut it. If you’re serious about this, Potter, you’ll need the right resources.”
Harry unfolded the parchment, his eyes skimming the neat list of names, notes, and suggestions. “You’ve been busy,” he said, genuinely surprised.
Draco’s smirk returned, sharper this time. “I don’t half-ass things, Potter. Especially not when it comes to him.”
Harry nodded, setting the parchment aside. “I appreciate it. But I want to be clear—this isn’t about shutting you out. I think it’s just better for him to start simple. One place, one routine, one chance to adjust. We don’t even know how long this will last.”
Draco’s expression tightened, but he nodded slowly. “Fine. But don’t mistake that for me stepping back. If there’s anything he needs, you tell me. I don’t care what it is.”
“I will,” Harry assured him. “I’m not planning to cut you off. I just… I think this is what’s best for him right now.”
Draco studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching. “You really think you can handle this, don’t you?”
Harry looked down at his hands, the memory of Severus’s small, vulnerable form flashing in his mind. “I don’t know,” he admitted, his voice quieter. “But I have to try. Someone has to.”
The server returned with Harry’s coffee, setting it down with a polite nod. Harry wrapped his hands around the warm mug, the heat grounding him as he took a deep breath. “He’s just a kid, Malfoy. He’s been through enough. All he needs right now is somewhere safe.”
Draco’s gaze flickered, his fingers tracing the rim of his empty cup. “He deserves more than what he’s been given,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“He does,” Harry agreed. “And that’s what I’m going to try to give him.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them softening slightly. Finally, Draco straightened, his tone regaining its sharpness. “Alright, Potter. I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. But if you screw this up—”
“I won’t,” Harry interrupted, his green eyes steady. “I promise.”
Draco held his gaze for a beat longer, then nodded, his posture relaxing ever so slightly. “Fine. Let’s see if you can actually pull this off.”
Harry took another sip of his coffee, his resolve firm. Whatever came next, he wasn’t going to back down. Severus deserved better, and Harry was determined to make sure he got it.
The crisp winter air greeted them as Harry and Draco stepped out of The Copper Kettle. The lingering tension of their earlier discussion had settled into something more manageable—an uneasy truce, perhaps, but one with a shared goal.
“You headed back to Grimmauld Place?” Draco asked casually, his hands tucked into his pockets as they walked down the cobblestone street of Diagon Alley.
Harry shook his head, his gaze shifting toward a row of shops in the distance. “No. I’m going shopping.”
Draco raised an eyebrow. “Shopping? For what?”
“For Severus,” Harry replied simply. He glanced at Draco, his jaw tightening as he continued. “When he wakes up, he’s already going to be so confused—his parents are dead, it’s four decades later, and everything he knows is gone. The last thing he needs is to walk into a stranger’s house and find himself shoved into a barren room.”
Draco tilted his head, his curiosity piqued. “Go on.”
Harry’s voice grew quieter but firmer, a thread of emotion creeping in as his gaze seemed to drift far away. “I know what it’s like to grow up without a space that feels like your own,” he said, his tone tightening. “Trust me, Malfoy, I’m not letting that happen to him.”
Draco stopped walking, his expression softening as he regarded Harry. “Alright,” he said after a moment. “I’m coming with you.”
Harry blinked. “What? Why?”
“Because, Potter,” Draco said, his usual drawl laced with something gentler, “you may know how to kill Dark Lords, but I highly doubt you know the first thing about creating a proper room for a child.”
Their first stop was a furniture shop specializing in children’s rooms. The walls were painted in cheerful hues of sunshine yellow and pastel green, with whimsical displays showcasing themed setups—pirates, castles, enchanted forests. The air smelled faintly of polished wood and lavender sachets, adding to the cozy atmosphere.
Harry felt an uncharacteristic pang of uncertainty as he wandered through the store, his gaze drifting from tiny desks to colorful bookcases. How was he supposed to know what a child needed? But Draco, to Harry's surprise, seemed perfectly at ease, taking the lead without hesitation.
“We’ll start with the basics,” Draco said, his tone brisk as he gestured toward a display bed framed with carved stars. “What color scheme are we thinking? It needs to be welcoming.”
Harry rubbed the back of his neck, staring blankly at the rainbow of possibilities. “I don’t know. Something… calming? Not too overwhelming.”
Draco sighed dramatically, shaking his head. “Helpful as always, Potter.” He glanced around, his sharp gaze scanning the options. Finally, he stopped beside a display featuring soft sky-blue bedding paired with light wood furniture. “Let’s go with this. It’s neutral enough not to clash with anything else, but still cheerful.”
Harry followed Draco as he flagged down a sales assistant. Together, they picked out a sturdy bed frame with a soft light brown finish, a fluffy comforter in matching sky-blue, and a thick knit blanket in a deeper shade of blue that looked impossibly soft. Harry ran his fingers over the material, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he imagined how it might feel to a small, nervous child.
“He’ll like this,” Harry murmured, almost to himself.
Draco raised an eyebrow at the rare sentimentality but said nothing. Instead, he wandered toward the nearby furniture display and pointed out a cloud-patterned rug that seemed to tie the room together. “We’ll take that too,” he said decisively.
Harry nodded, following his lead as they moved through the store, picking out a small bookshelf and a matching dresser. “Do you think this will be enough?” Harry asked, his voice quieter.
Draco glanced over at him, tilting his head in thought. “It’s a start,” he said. “But it’s not just about the furniture. It’s about making it feel like his. Something warm. Familiar.”
Harry hesitated, his hand brushing over the smooth surface of the dresser. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s important he feels like it’s his space. Somewhere safe.”
Draco didn’t press further, though a flicker of understanding crossed his face. Together, they continued through the store, making sure to cover every detail. By the time they finished, the cart was filled with everything a child might need—a proper beginning to what Harry hoped would be a new, secure life.
By the time they left the shop, Harry carried the heavier bag containing the linens and blankets, his arms straining slightly under the weight, while Draco walked beside him, his hands tucked neatly into his coat pockets.
As they stepped back into the brisk air of Diagon Alley, Harry glanced down at the bag in his hands and then at the faintly satisfied look on Draco’s face. For the first time that day, a flicker of confidence broke through the storm of uncertainty. Severus would wake up to something better—something Harry himself had never known as a child.
It wouldn’t just be a room; it would be a sanctuary. Warm, inviting, and filled with the smallest of comforts. For Severus, it would be a place to land safely, a space that whispered of care and belonging. Something that felt, at long last, like home.
Their next stop was a toy store, and the moment they stepped inside, Harry felt a wave of sensory overload. If the furniture shop had seemed a bit much, this was a whole new level. The air buzzed with the hum of tiny enchanted gadgets and the occasional pop of magical fireworks from toy wands. Shelves stretched up to the ceiling, crammed with an endless array of games, puzzles, and stuffed animals, while brightly colored displays showcased everything from enchanted building blocks that built themselves to toy brooms that hovered a few inches off the ground.
Children darted between the aisles, their laughter mingling with the cheerful chatter of parents trying to wrangle them. Harry found himself frozen for a moment, unsure where to even start.
“This is… a lot,” he muttered, staring at a rotating display of plush creatures that meowed, barked, and chirped in turn.
Draco, however, didn’t hesitate. “He’s starting over,” he said, already sweeping up items with practiced precision. “He deserves the best.”
Harry watched, bewildered, as Draco casually tossed items into a cart—a set of enchanted marbles that glowed and shifted colors, a wizarding chess set with pieces that saluted smartly, and a stack of books filled with interactive magical stories.
“We can’t just get him everything,” Harry protested, trying to make sense of the chaos. His voice was firm, but even he couldn’t deny the flicker of longing that stirred in him at the sight of shelves filled with things he would have loved as a child. “We need to be practical.”
Draco shot him a look. “Practical? You just said you didn’t want him to feel like he was walking into a barren room. Toys are practical, Potter. They’re the entire point of childhood.”
Harry huffed but didn’t argue, especially when Draco held up a stuffed dragon with shimmering scales and said, “This. Non-negotiable. Every child needs a dragon.”
“And you’d know, would you?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow as he crossed his arms.
“As a matter of fact, yes,” Draco replied, his tone smug. “I had one just like it when I was little. His name was Ignatius, and he went everywhere with me.” He placed the dragon carefully on top of the growing pile in the cart.
Harry rolled his eyes but couldn’t suppress a faint smile as they continued down the aisles. By the time they reached the counter, their cart was overflowing. There was a miniature train set that ran on invisible tracks, a box of enchanted art supplies that promised never-ending ink and color, several plush animals in various sizes, and even a toy wand that shot harmless sparks when waved.
Harry ended up carrying two bulging bags, the handles digging into his palms as he glanced over at Draco, who smugly carried the bag containing the dragon. “You’re aware he’s going to think we’ve gone mad, right?” Harry asked, his voice laced with dry humor.
“Better that than thinking he’s been forgotten,” Draco replied smoothly. “Besides, you’re the one who said he needed a welcoming space. This is part of that.”
Harry sighed, but he couldn’t deny the warm feeling settling in his chest as he imagined the small boy they were preparing for.
Finally, they moved on to clothes. Harry hesitated in front of the racks, his fingers brushing against a row of tiny jumpers. His mind flashed back to the threadbare, oversized hand-me-downs he had worn as a child—stiff, scratchy, and always far too big. He swallowed hard. “We should get something practical,” he murmured, his voice quieter than he intended. “Comfortable. Stuff a kid would actually want to wear.”
“Obviously,” Draco said, pulling a soft cardigan from the rack and inspecting the stitching with the air of a fashion critic. “But not dour. We’re not dressing him like he’s about to go lecture a classroom full of students. He doesn’t have his memories, right? He probably developed that dreadful style as an adult. Let’s give him something age-appropriate—something fun.”
Harry exhaled a faint laugh, shaking his head. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”
Draco shot him a look, his lips curving into a slight smirk. “Someone has to make sure the boy doesn’t look like a miniature professor straight out of the Victorian era. It’s practically a public service.”
They sifted through racks together, Draco holding up a variety of options with commentary ranging from “hideous” to “passable.” By the time they were done, they had an assortment of cozy sweaters in soft blues and greens, a few pairs of soft jeans, several colorful pajamas adorned with everything from enchanted stars to racing brooms, and even a set of bright yellow wellies that made Draco wrinkle his nose but Harry insisted they keep.
Then they found the slippers.
“Dragon slippers,” Draco said, holding up the tiny, plush footwear emblazoned with little wings on the sides. “If he doesn’t love these, I’m disowning him on his behalf.”
Harry couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped him, the tension of the day easing slightly. “You don’t have the authority to disown him.”
“Details,” Draco retorted, tossing the slippers into their pile. “If he doesn’t like these, he has no taste.”
Harry rolled his eyes but found himself smiling despite the lingering weight on his chest. “You really have no off switch, do you?”
“And you’re surprised?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow as he added another set of robes to the stack. “Admit it, Potter. You’re enjoying this too.”
Harry didn’t answer right away, his gaze drifting to the neatly folded pile of clothes they had amassed. He could picture Severus—small, uncertain, and shy—seeing it all for the first time. Bright colors, soft textures, his own little world waiting for him. It was a far cry from the cupboard Harry had grown up in. A far cry from what Severus had likely known as a child, too.
“I am,” Harry said finally, his voice softer. “More than I thought I would.”
Draco didn’t comment, but the faintest hint of approval flickered in his expression. As they approached the counter to pay, Harry felt that flicker of warmth in his chest grow stronger. Severus might not have his memories, but he would wake up to something better. Something brighter. Something safe.
Back at Grimmauld Place, on Harry’s floor, the spare room stood stark and unwelcoming—a blank slate. Harry and Draco stood shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, their wands already in hand, surveying the task ahead. The walls were unpainted, the furniture sparse, but the potential hung in the air like a whispered promise.
“Alright,” Draco said, rolling up his sleeves with an exaggerated flourish. “Let’s not waste time. I’ve got better things to do than babysit your decorating skills.”
Harry smirked faintly. “You’ll get over it.”
Draco charmed the walls first, selecting a soft, light blue that immediately brightened the room. “Calming, but not dreary,” he commented, his tone one of professional critique. With a flick of his wand, he added a border near the ceiling in a creamy white that complemented the bedding.
Harry followed suit, unshrinking the furniture they’d bought and moving the bed into place against the far wall. He spread out the bedding, smoothing the comforter and draping the knit blanket across the foot of the bed.
“Should I arrange the furniture, or will you muddle through?” Draco quipped as he surveyed Harry’s progress.
“Just let me work,” Harry replied, nudging the nightstand into place beside the bed.
Draco flicked his wand toward the plain curtains hanging limply by the window. “Dreadful,” he muttered, replacing them with heavy eggshell velvet drapes embroidered with an elegant snake pattern that shimmered faintly in the light.
“Subtle,” Harry said dryly, raising an eyebrow.
Draco smirked, stepping back to admire his handiwork. “Subtlety is wasted on brilliance.”
Harry shook his head but didn’t argue. He conjured a small bookshelf, filling it with the books they’d picked out earlier—simple stories, picture books, and a few magical tales for children. Draco, unable to resist, stepped in to rearrange them into neat, color-coordinated rows.
“Do you have to organize everything?” Harry asked, watching Draco fuss over the books.
“It’s called aesthetics, Potter. Look it up,” Draco replied, but there was a teasing edge to his tone. “Besides, you’re clearly hopeless.”
“Hopeless, huh?” Harry muttered. His eyes flickered over Draco’s profile—sharp features softened by the warm light from the window, pale hair catching the faint glow. Harry cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the room.
He placed a small desk and chair by the window, adding a tidy stack of parchment, quills, and ink. A soft rug covered the floor, inviting and warm, and Harry placed the toy box they’d bought next to the desk. For a final touch, he transfigured an old photo frame into a moving picture of Hogwarts, its towers glinting in the sunlight, and placed it on the desk.
Draco surveyed the room, his hands on his hips. His sharp gaze softened as he took in their work. “It’s not bad, Potter. For someone who probably grew up thinking beige was a bold color choice.”
Harry snorted, leaning against the doorframe. “You’d be amazed at what passes for decoration in a cupboard under the stairs.”
Draco hesitated, his usual quick wit faltering. His smirk softened into something quieter, though he quickly masked it with another roll of his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m here to save you from your own dreary sensibilities.”
Harry smiled faintly, his gaze lingering on Draco a moment too long. “You really are insufferable,” he muttered, though there was no heat in his words.
“And yet, you’d be lost without me,” Draco replied, arching an eyebrow. The corner of his mouth twitched, and Harry found himself caught by the flicker of genuine warmth in the gesture.
“Thanks for helping with this,” Harry said after a moment, his voice quieter. “I couldn’t have done it on my own.”
Draco shrugged, his expression unusually sincere. “I didn’t do it for you,” he said softly. “This is for him. He deserves it.”
“I know,” Harry said, his voice low. “But still. Thank you.”
Draco gave a curt nod, glancing around the room one last time before turning toward the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow at St. Mungo’s,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact but with an undercurrent of something softer. “We’ll wake him up together.”
Left alone, Harry stepped further into the room, his fingers brushing the soft fabric of the bedspread. He pictured Severus waking up here—small, vulnerable, and so much younger than Harry had ever imagined. He thought of how lost the boy might feel, how confusing everything would seem. But this room, at least, would offer him something Harry had never had: comfort. A sense of belonging.
Harry turned back toward the door but paused, glancing at the desk where the Hogwarts photo rested. A small smile tugged at his lips as he imagined Severus sitting there, quill in hand, ready to start a new chapter. It wasn’t much, but it was a beginning.
For the first time in days, Harry felt a flicker of hope—bright and steady, like the light that filled the room.
The morning carried a sharp chill, its icy tendrils curling through the streets of Diagon Alley and nipping at Harry’s skin. His strides were brisk and purposeful, but his thoughts were anything but settled.
Shopkeepers were just opening their doors, and the street hummed with the quiet energy of early risers. Harry barely noticed. His thoughts were still back at Grimmauld Place, replaying the strained breakfast conversation.
Sirius had barely spoken to him, his mouth a thin line as he pretended to read the Daily Prophet with unnecessary fervor. Harry’s casual mention of heading to St. Mungo’s had earned only a muttered remark—something unintelligible but unmistakably disapproving. Harry hadn’t bothered to ask him to repeat it.
Remus, as always, had been the voice of calm. Just before Harry left, he’d placed a steady hand on Harry’s shoulder. “He’ll come around,” Remus had said quietly, though the weight in his voice betrayed a flicker of doubt. “If this is what you feel is right, Harry, you have my support.”
Those words had stuck with him, but they did little to ease the tight coil of tension in his chest. By the time he reached St. Mungo’s, the unease had settled into a low, persistent thrum.
The air inside the hospital felt heavier than usual, as though the very walls held their breath for what was about to happen. The muted clatter of Healer carts and faint murmurs from other rooms barely registered as Harry made his way to Severus’s door. It was ajar, and he could hear the familiar cadence of Draco’s voice from within.
Steeling himself, Harry stepped inside.
Draco stood by the bedside, his posture relaxed but his tone clipped as he addressed the young healer who had attended to Severus before. She listened attentively, her expression a mix of professionalism and unease. At Harry’s arrival, her gaze flickered toward him, and Draco turned, his sharp gray eyes landing on Harry.
“Potter,” Draco greeted, “Decided to grace us with your presence.”
“Morning,” Harry replied tersely, stepping further into the room. His eyes drifted to the small, still figure on the bed. Severus looked impossibly fragile, swallowed by the blankets. “What’s the update?”
The healer took a step forward, folding her hands in front of her as she spoke. “He’s stable and ready to be woken up,” she said with measured calm. “But I must caution you: this is only the beginning. The next few days will be critical. He’s likely to be weak and disoriented. While he may seem like he’s been in a coma, his body still needs natural rest to heal. No potions, no magical interventions—his recovery has to be organic. Hydration and gentle care are the priorities.”
Harry nodded, his jaw tightening as he absorbed her words. “Understood.”
Draco’s gaze shifted between Harry and the healer, his expression unreadable. Finally, he said, “Ready for this, Potter?”
“No,” Harry admitted, his voice low but resolute. “But let’s do it anyway.”
The healer nodded and raised her wand. She murmured a soft incantation, her movements precise and deliberate. A golden glow enveloped Severus’s small frame, the light flickering and casting warm shadows across the room. His breathing hitched, then deepened, and Harry’s heart thudded painfully as he saw the faintest twitch in Severus’s fingers. Slowly, his eyelids fluttered.
“Severus?” the healer said gently, leaning in. Her tone was soothing but firm, coaxing him like one might a startled animal. “Can you hear me?”
A low groan rumbled from Severus’s throat, rough and uneven, like an ancient hinge protesting movement. His face twitched, brows furrowing deeply as he fought against the haze of unconsciousness. Eyelids fluttered again, this time cracking open just enough to reveal dark, unfocused eyes. They darted around the room, confused and searching.
Harry crouched, lowering himself into Severus’s line of sight. He tried to keep his movements deliberate, non-threatening, even as his pulse raced. Up close, Severus’s face looked impossibly small, the childlike features sharper in their vulnerability.
“Hey,” Harry said softly, his voice barely above a whisper. “Hi. My name’s Harry. Harry Potter. You’re safe.”
Severus’s gaze flickered toward him, struggling to focus. Confusion clouded his expression, and his dry, cracked lips parted. No sound came out at first, just a faint rasp like the ghost of a voice.
The healer stepped in, offering a glass of water. Harry accepted it, his fingers brushing against hers briefly before he turned back to Severus. “Here,” he urged, holding the glass carefully to Severus’s lips. “Drink this.”
Severus tilted his head weakly, his movements slow and deliberate. The first sip was tentative, then another, each one seeming to loosen the dryness in his throat. When he’d had enough, Harry set the glass aside with a soft clink and straightened slightly, running a hand through his hair.
“Okay,” Harry began awkwardly. “Um… this might be a lot to take in, but—there was an accident. A magical one. You’re safe now, but… things are a bit different than before.”
Severus blinked sluggishly, confusion gradually giving way to clarity. His dark eyes locked onto Harry, narrowing with a flicker of recognition. The furrow in his brow deepened, and his lips thinned into a tight, disapproving line.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse and cracked, but the tone was unmistakably Severus Snape: sharp, irritated, and brimming with exasperation.
“Potter, if you’re going to explain something, kindly do so without sounding like a complete idiot.”