Chapter 3
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.”
Harry froze, the calm, disarming smile he’d been carefully maintaining shattering like glass. “Uh… what?”
Severus’s brow furrowed, his dark eyes narrowing as he attempted to push himself up on his elbows, the movement eliciting a wince of discomfort. His voice, though weaker and disturbingly higher than he expected, still carried the razor-edged tone that had defined him for years. “Stop your incessant prattling, Potter, and explain yourself. When, precisely, did we leave the Shrieking Shack? How am I here, alive, when, by all accounts, that wound should have been fatal? And most importantly”—his voice faltered, the words caught somewhere between anger and unease, maybe even fear—“what of the Dark Lord?”
The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating, as Severus’s piercing gaze bore into Harry, demanding answers. For a moment, he merely stared, his expression shifting between suspicion and something colder—calculation. The features were unmistakably Potter’s, yet not the boy he remembered. The messy black hair, the cursedly familiar green eyes, the stubborn tilt to the chin—it was Potter, yes, but the boy was gone. In his place stood a man.
Severus’s eyes flicked over Harry with growing disquiet. The gangly, perpetually underfed frame he had once dismissed was now gone, replaced by broad shoulders and a sturdy build that spoke of hard-won battles. Even his face had changed, the soft, youthful roundness replaced by sharp cheekbones and a jawline that gave him an air of maturity Severus found unsettling.
But then his gaze dropped—to his own arms. The blood drained from his face as he took in the horrifying sight. His arms were small, smooth, and pale—devoid of the calluses, burns, and scars that had marked decades of meticulous potions work. Gone were the faint stains from years spent handling corrosive ingredients, the badges of a life defined by precision and discipline. And then, with a slow, creeping dread, he peered down to his left forearm. The flesh there was unblemished. The Dark Mark—once burned into his skin, a constant reminder of his choices and sacrifices—was gone, as though it had never existed.
Severus’s breath hitched audibly, his chest tightening as the enormity of the situation began to settle in. His fingers trembled faintly as he flexed them, the motion unfamiliar and unnervingly weak. These were not his hands, not his arms. They belonged to someone else. A child. A stranger.
“What in Merlin’s name…” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as though speaking the words aloud would make the nightmare real. The sound of it—so high, so light—made him flinch. At first, he had assumed the unfamiliar pitch was hoarseness, the lingering effect of sleep or disuse, but the horrible truth crept in with every word. This was not simply a roughened voice from waking; it was a child’s voice, thin and untested, and it clawed at his composure, amplifying the dread pooling in his stomach. His hands, small and soft, trembled in his lap as he stared at them, his lips parting slightly as if to say something more, but no words came. The implications were horrifying, the pieces slowly, painfully falling into place. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, coiled in his chest, threatening to consume him.
He snapped his gaze back to Harry, the unease in his expression hardening into fury. “Explain. Now.”
Harry opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, floundering like a fish gasping for air. “You—you remember me?”
“Of course I remember you, you insufferable brat,” Severus snapped, though his tone lacked its usual venom, replaced instead by raw irritation and confusion. His focus shifted between Harry and the unfamiliar room, narrowing further with each pass. “What I don’t understand is why I look like a child—or how you’ve somehow managed to age without developing an intellect beyond that of an adolescent.”
Harry sank back into his chair, his limbs stiff with the weight of Severus’s glare. It was unnervingly familiar, like a dagger of memory stabbing through the haze of time. The absurdity of the situation threatened to overwhelm him, but he forced himself to speak. “Okay… um… let’s back up for a second.” He gestured vaguely toward Severus, his movements hesitant, like he was afraid any sudden motion might shatter the fragile balance of reality. “Do you remember what happened before this? The war? Nagini?”
Severus’s expression darkened instantly, a shadow falling over his pale features. “I remember being bitten,” he said slowly, his voice sinking into a dangerous softness that could cut like a knife. “I remember the poison spreading, burning through me like fire, and the life draining out of my body with every shallow breath. I could feel myself dying.” His voice dropped lower, cold and measured, every word laced with venom. “And yet, here I am. Care to explain?”
Harry let out a long, unsteady breath, dragging his chair closer to the bed as though proximity might somehow shield him from the weight of Severus’s piercing glare. That look—it dredged up a long-buried, all-too-familiar feeling: being a schoolboy again, standing over a cauldron of ruined potion, awaiting a scathing rebuke. His hands fidgeted, betraying his unease. “Right. So, uh… here’s the thing. Technically, you did kind of die. Well, almost. Your heart stopped a couple of times, but we got you into stasis at St. Mungo’s just in time. You’ve been there for years. And then…” He hesitated, his voice catching under Severus’s relentless scrutiny. “Malfoy—yeah, Malfoy—found this ancient healing spell that was supposed to bring you back. It worked. Mostly. But…” He gestured vaguely toward Severus, his hands flapping in an unhelpful mimic of explanation. “There were… side effects. Obviously.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, the air thick with unspoken tension. The faint rustle of fabric was the only sound as Severus’s small hands curled into fists against the sheets, their soft, smooth texture a sickening reminder of the unfamiliar body he now inhabited. His brow furrowed, the sharp lines of his face contorted with a fury that seemed to radiate from him like heat. “What in Merlin’s name are you blathering about?” he snapped, his voice venomous. “Stasis? Ancient spells? And Malfoy?” He practically spat the name, each syllable dripping with disdain. “Which Malfoy? What the hell are you talking about, Potter?”
Harry winced, dragging a hand through his already unruly hair, making it stand on end even more. “Okay, look, it’s… complicated,” he said, his voice faltering under the weight of Severus’s unyielding scrutiny. “You were this close to dying. Like, properly dying. And they used some kind of medical stasis spell—to, um, put you on hold while we figured out how to save you. You’ve basically been in a magical coma for ten years, and then we… fixed you? Kind of.”
Severus’s expression hardened, his fury palpable as the tension in the room seemed to thicken. His lips curled into a sneer, and his voice, low and razor-sharp, sliced through the silence. “Fixed me?”
“Enough.” The single word sliced through the air like a whip, halting Harry mid-flounder. Draco stepped forward from where he had been quietly observing, his polished boots clicking against the floor. He had stayed back, expecting to deal with a confused child—a blank slate in need of careful guidance. Clearly, that wasn’t the case. Relief shown in his silver eyes, unspoken but undeniable—his godfather was alive and (mostly) well.
His tailored robes hung impeccably as he folded his arms, his expression settling into something between annoyance and resolve. “Clearly, Potter’s grasp of coherent speech hasn’t improved with age,” he drawled, stepping closer to the bed with an air of finality. “I’ll handle this.”
Severus turned sharply, his eyes narrowing as they locked onto Draco. For a moment, he said nothing, simply taking in the man who had interrupted. Gone was the disheveled boy who had cowered under his authority. In his place stood someone who exuded an effortless, almost regal composure—too sharp, too perfect, as though he had something to prove.
“You survived?” Severus finally asked, his voice laced with disbelief. “And you’re… functional?”
Draco arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Yes, I survived, and, dare I say, I’ve done rather well for myself.” His tone dripped with superiority, but there was an undercurrent of satisfaction. “Now, if you’re quite finished gawking, I’ll explain.”
“You’ll have to excuse me,” Severus said, his voice laced with dry sarcasm, though he couldn’t entirely conceal the relief in his expression. “The last time I saw you, you were a mess—constantly crying, half-hysterical, and utterly uncertain whether you’d survive another day. If memory serves, you were cowering in the shadows of Hogwarts, looking as though the world had already ended.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Touching, as always, Severus. It’s heartwarming to know your memories of me are so flattering.”
Severus’s sharp words softened slightly as his piercing gaze studied Draco more closely. His expression remained guarded, though his tone betrayed a rare, quiet satisfaction. Clearly, his sacrifice had not been in vain. The boy he’d risked everything for had grown into a man—composed, capable, and alive. “I suppose,” Severus added dryly, “you’ve done well for yourself. For once.”
Draco stepped closer to the bed, his movements deliberate and precise, his chin tilting slightly upward. “You were gravely injured,” he began, his tone measured. “Presumed dead. Potter, being the hero he is, retrieved your body and discovered you were still alive—barely. You were placed in stasis at St. Mungo’s to preserve what little life remained.”
He glanced at Harry briefly, his expression unreadable, before continuing. “The stasis was failing. I found a healing spell—ancient, complex, and dangerous. It was the only viable option. The spell worked, but as you can see,” he gestured toward Severus with a pointed glance, “it came with certain… side effects.”
Severus stared at Draco for a long moment, his lips pressing into a thin, contemptuous line. “You thought yourself qualified to toy with my life in this manner?” His voice was dangerously soft, yet every syllable dripped with venom. “Or was this arrogance driven by desperation, Malfoy?”
Draco stiffened slightly at the sudden shift in address, the deliberate use of his surname cutting through the room. Severus had been using his first name moments ago, and the change didn’t go unnoticed. It was a familiar habit, one Draco remembered well—a subtle way of creating distance, of reasserting control through formality.
“You’re alive, aren’t you?” Draco replied, his smirk tightening, though a flicker of tension crossed his silver eyes. “The alternative was far worse, and the stasis wouldn’t have held. This was necessary.”
Severus’s eyes burned into him, their intensity sharp enough to make even Draco shift slightly. “Necessary?” he repeated, his tone a razor’s edge. “You tampered with ancient magic, Draco. You meddled with forces far beyond your comprehension and turned me into… this.” His voice rose slightly as he gestured sharply at himself, his small hands trembling with rage. “Was that part of your brilliant plan? Did you anticipate the consequences, or were you so certain of your cleverness that it didn’t occur to you to think further ahead?”
Draco’s smirk faltered slightly, but he straightened his shoulders, his voice clipped. “I didn’t anticipate this, no. But there wasn’t time for endless theorizing or debate, Severus. Your life was slipping away. I did what had to be done.”
Severus’s glare didn’t waver, though his jaw tightened as his control began to slip. “You did what had to be done,” he echoed coldly. “And now I am reduced to this state. A spectacle. A child.” His voice cracked with suppressed fury. “And what, pray tell, is your grand solution now, Malfoy? Or is this the extent of your brilliance?”
Draco’s lips pressed into a tight line, but he met Severus’s intense stare head-on. “I’m not going to stand here and apologize for saving your life,” he said, his voice sharp but steady. “The stasis was failing. You were slipping away. If I hadn’t acted, you wouldn’t even be here to complain about it.”
Severus let out a bitter laugh, cold and humorless. “A fine sentiment, Malfoy. And what exactly am I to do with this life you’ve so graciously preserved? Revisit childhood? Relearn my ABCs?”
Draco opened his mouth to respond, but Harry stepped in before the argument could spiral out of control. “Snape, this isn’t easy for any of us,” he said, his voice firm but carrying a weight of exhaustion as he moved closer to the bed. “The fact is, we don’t have all the answers yet. The Healers don’t know how to reverse this. They’re trying, but… we don’t know if it’s even possible.”
Severus’s attention snapped to Harry, his expression sharpening into something cutting and dangerous. The air in the room seemed to grow heavier, his voice dropping to a simmering growl that threatened to erupt. “So you’ve condemned me to this farce indefinitely.”
Harry straightened, his stance bracing as though against an incoming storm. “We didn’t condemn you,” he said, the edge of frustration clear in his tone. “We saved you. Without the spell, you wouldn’t even be here to argue about it.”
Draco let out a slow, measured breath, the tension between them pressing on his nerves. “Potter’s right,” he said coolly, his words deliberate and firm. “You’re alive, Severus. Whether you like it or not, that’s what matters.”
A harsh laugh escaped Severus, humorless and sharp as a cracked whip. His sneer deepened, and he turned his attention to Draco, his stare as unforgiving as frostbite. For a fleeting moment, raw fury darted across his face before it receded into something colder, more calculated. “I suppose I should express my gratitude,” he said, his voice laced with venom, “for being reduced to a spectacle.”
Harry’s jaw clenched, but he forced himself to exhale slowly, tempering his rising irritation. When he spoke again, his tone had softened, the frustration tempered by an earnestness that bordered on pleading. “No one’s asking for your gratitude, Snape. What’s done is done. All we can do now is figure out how to move forward.”
The silence that followed was suffocating, punctuated only by the faint creak of the mattress as Severus shifted against the pillows. His features remained impassive, carved in stone, but his voice—lower now—dripped with bitter resignation. “Move forward, you say,” he murmured, each word deliberate and heavy. “With no guarantees. No path back to what I was.”
Draco’s posture stiffened, his hands clasping behind his back as though holding himself in check. A shadow of something—regret, perhaps—passed over his face, but his reply was measured, his words as precise as a blade. “There’s no guarantee,” he admitted, each word falling like a stone into the tense quiet. “But that doesn’t mean we’ll stop trying.”
Severus’s focus lingered on Draco, unyielding and sharp, dissecting the younger man’s resolve as though searching for cracks. At last, he looked away, his features hardening again, his voice flat and devoid of hope. “How reassuring.”
Harry let out a long breath, dragging a hand through his hair as though the motion might alleviate the knot of helplessness tightening in his chest. “Snape, we’re not pretending this is ideal—least of all us. But what’s done is done. We’ll keep working on it.”
Severus’s narrowed glare flicked between Harry and Draco, his disdain coiling around every word as he spoke. “How comforting,” he said icily, sarcasm dripping from every syllable. “I’m certain your collective brilliance will astonish us all.”
Draco’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining carefully neutral as the weight of the room settled around them once more.
A soft cough interrupted the charged atmosphere, pulling all three sets of eyes to the Healer who had stepped back earlier to give them space. In the chaos of the situation, Harry realized he hadn’t truly registered her presence until now. She was in her mid-twenties, with chestnut hair neatly braided over one shoulder and sharp hazel eyes that held a peculiar balance of warmth and professionalism. Her green St. Mungo’s robes were perfectly tailored, giving her an air of calm competence that might have gone unnoticed in less turbulent circumstances. There was a lightness to her accent—something French, Harry thought vaguely—that hinted she might have studied abroad.
“Good evening,” she began, her voice brisk but not unfriendly as she stepped forward. “I’m Healer Aris,” she said, inclining her head toward Severus. “Apologies for the interruption, but I need to run some diagnostics now that you’re awake. This will help us identify any… further complications.”
Harry blinked, a guilt crossing his face as he realized it was the first time her name had actually registered. She must have introduced herself earlier, but between Snape’s condition and everything else, her presence had barely made an impression. He shifted awkwardly, the weight of how much they’d depended on her sinking in.
Aris stepped closer to Severus, her wand held loosely at her side. Her tone softened slightly, adopting a calming cadence that made her seem more approachable, almost like a pediatrician addressing a wary child. “You’ve been through quite a lot, haven’t you? I imagine this feels overwhelming, but I’m here to make sure everything is all right. This won’t take long, I promise.”
Severus’s lip curled into a sneer, his small fingers tightening over the blanket. “How reassuring to know my future rests in the hands of someone younger than Potter,” he said icily. “Are you fresh out of your training robes, or are you merely masquerading as competent?”
Aris didn’t flinch, though her eyes briefly flickered with something between irritation and pity. “I’ve been your attending Healer since you were admitted to St. Mungo’s, Mr. Snape,” she replied evenly, her tone sharp but measured. “And I completed my specialty training years ago. Your continued survival speaks to my ability. Now, if you’ll hold still, I’ll begin.”
Harry exchanged a glance with Draco, who smirked faintly but stayed silent as Aris swished her wand. Golden lines of diagnostic magic spiraled around Severus, glowing softly as they resolved into intricate glyphs. The hum of magic filled the room as she studied the patterns, her expression focused.
“Your magical core is stabilizing,” she said after a moment, her voice thoughtful as she analyzed the glyphs. “But there’s significant fluctuation. Cases involving magical reconstitution often show this kind of instability, though the levels here are unusually pronounced.” She paused, her gaze flicking to Severus before continuing, “The size of your core aligns with a child of about five to eight years old, though…”
Trailing off, she carefully rolled up his sleeve, her wand tracing the faint scar on his upper arm. “Polio vaccine,” she murmured. “Muggle medicine. It wouldn’t have been administered before the age of seven.”
Draco straightened, his brow furrowing slightly. “Seven? We assumed five or six.”
Aris nodded, making a note on her clipboard. “That was the initial assumption, but the scar confirms otherwise. Physically, he’s seven, though his magical core hasn’t fully adjusted to the change.”
Severus jerked his arm back, his small fist clenching. “Fascinating,” he said dryly, his voice laced with venom. “Shall we measure my height next, or will you simply guess?”
Aris, unbothered, tucked her wand into her robes. “Your health is stable,” she said with an air of finality. “But I recommend minimal stress while your magic recalibrates. Further strain could amplify the fluctuations.”
Harry frowned, his concern showing in the tightness of his jaw. “Amplify them how?”
“Not dangerously,” Aris assured him. “But the volatility of his magic could result in unpredictable surges. It’s best to avoid unnecessary agitation.”
Severus scoffed, his small shoulders stiffening. “How comforting,” he muttered, his tone biting.
Aris ignored the jab, returning to her notes with quiet efficiency, her professionalism unshaken. For all Severus’s venom, Harry noted the faintest flicker of unease beneath his bravado. It lingered, unspoken, as the diagnostic magic faded into silence.
Draco and Harry stepped closer, their movements deliberate as they joined Healer Aris near the bed. She was flipping through her notes, her clipboard now filled with intricate diagnostic charts and glowing magical readings. The faint hum of residual magic from her earlier spells still hung in the air, a reminder of the careful analysis she’d just conducted. Her expression remained composed, her chestnut braid shifting slightly over her shoulder as she glanced up to address them.
“I’ve gathered all the notes and diagnostics I need,” Healer Aris said briskly, her voice carrying a calm authority as she tucked her wand into her robes. The clipboard in her hands clicked shut with a sense of finality. “Since Healer Fairfax wasn’t able to attend today, I’ll ensure these are sent to him for review. He’s been consulting with other specialists—some of the top minds in the field—discreetly, of course. If anything further needs to be addressed, you’ll be informed immediately.”
Draco’s stance was poised, though his arms remained crossed tightly over his chest, his silver gaze sharp as ever. “And in the meantime?” he asked, his tone clipped, betraying the faint tension simmering beneath his polished exterior.
“For now, Mr. Snape is free to leave,” Aris replied, her words measured. She cast a brief glance at Severus, who sat rigidly on the edge of the bed, his posture tense and unyielding, his expression a mask of mistrust. “His condition is stable, and there’s no immediate risk. However, he must avoid undue stress while his magical core continues to recalibrate.”
Her hazel eyes softened as she turned her attention back to Severus, her professional detachment tempered by a flicker of genuine concern. “If you feel anything unusual—pain, sudden surges of magic, dizziness—anything at all, report it immediately.”
Severus’s dark eyes didn’t waver from hers, but the tightness in his jaw betrayed his disdain. He didn’t speak, his silence louder than any cutting remark he might have made. Aris, clearly familiar with patients who resisted her care, didn’t push further. With a final nod to Draco and Harry, she stepped back and excused herself, the faint swish of her robes the only sound as she left the room.
The door clicked shut behind her, leaving the three of them in a heavy, almost suffocating silence. Harry’s gaze flicked toward Severus, who was now glancing rapidly between them, his small hands curling slightly in his lap. When he finally spoke, his voice was biting, each word laced with cold sarcasm.
“I assume you’ll be dropping me off at the Department of Magical Child Welfare now?” Severus sneered, his tone as sharp as ever. “Let’s not prolong the inevitable humiliation, shall we?”
Harry exhaled deeply, dragging a hand over his face as he tried to summon patience. “You’re not going to foster care, Snape,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt, though the weariness crept into his tone.
Severus’s brow arched slightly, his expression darkening as he regarded Harry with thinly veiled disdain. “Then where?” he snapped, his frustration bubbling just below the surface.
“You’re coming with me,” Harry said simply, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Severus froze, his sneer deepening into incredulity. “With you? Absolutely not.”
“Do you think you have a choice?” Draco asked dryly, leaning against the wall with practiced indifference, though his sharp gaze betrayed his tension.
Severus ignored him entirely, turning his full attention to Harry, his expression equal parts disdain and disbelief. “And where, exactly, do you live, Potter? I assume it’s with that… Weasley girl? No doubt surrounded by the sticky fingers and snotty noses of your brood of redheaded offspring?”
Harry blinked, caught off guard by the sheer venom in Severus’s voice. His face shifted between offense and exasperation. “What? No. Ginny and I aren’t—we haven’t been together since—” He cut himself off with a groan, waving a hand as though physically brushing the thought aside. “Look, I live at Grimmauld Place. With Sirius and Remus. And Remus’s son, Teddy.”
Severus’s expression twisted into a scowl of pure horror, his sneer taking on an almost theatrical edge. “Oh, wonderful. A madhouse. That’s precisely where I want to spend my convalescence—with that mangy mutt, a werewolf, and a child. Tell me, Potter, how many ways are you planning to torment me?”
Harry crossed his arms, his posture steady even as his patience thinned. “It’s not about tormenting you. It’s about keeping you safe.”
“Safe,” Severus echoed, his voice dripping with derision as his small hands curled into fists. “I refuse. You cannot expect me to subject myself to the company of Black and Lupin for more than five minutes without catastrophe ensuing.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Harry countered, his tone hardening. “It’s not safe for you anywhere else. The Neo-Death Eaters are still out there. Killing Voldemort and some of his followers wasn’t enough—new ones have sprung up, copycats. And if they get even a whisper of the fact that you’re alive—”
“They’ll come for me,” Severus interrupted bitterly. “So your solution is to lock me away with your merry little band of misfits?”
“It’s not just for your safety,” Harry shot back, his expression darkening with frustration. “The Ministry can’t know about you either. To the world, you’re dead.”
Severus’s pale face grew even paler, his lips parting slightly as though the weight of Harry’s words had physically struck him. “What?” he asked finally, his voice low and dangerously cold. “The world thinks I’m dead?”
Harry’s jaw tightened as he met Severus’s piercing gaze. “It wasn’t exactly easy clearing your name after the Battle of Hogwarts. Everyone still believed you were a murderer—a Death Eater who killed Dumbledore. I fought for your exoneration, but it was going to take time. And I couldn’t risk confusion or interference if you woke up sooner than expected. The truth is, you wouldn’t have survived if the Ministry had taken over your care. They’d have decided a Death Eater deserved less than the best treatment, and that would’ve been the end of you.”
Draco stepped forward, his voice measured and precise. “That’s the cover story, Severus. The only people who know otherwise are in this room, the Healers at St. Mungo’s, and a select few others we trust implicitly. It was the safest way to handle this.”
Severus’s hands clenched at his sides, his shoulders stiffening. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet but sharp as a blade. “So I’m to remain your secret, hidden away like some embarrassing family shame.”
Harry’s voice lowered, steady but edged with frustration. “We’re trying to keep you alive. You may hate the circumstances, but it’s better than the alternative.”
Severus’s gaze burned into Harry’s, the faint tremble of his hands betraying the storm of emotions beneath his mask. “Better than death, you mean?” His voice was soft, venomous. “I’m not so sure.”
His words hung heavy in the air, sharp enough to cut through the silence. Draco let out an exasperated sigh, breaking the tension. “Merlin’s sake, Severus,” he muttered. “You’re alive, and we’re giving you a safe place to stay. Would you prefer the alternative?”
Severus’s stare burned with fury, his voice rising. “Take me to Spinner’s End or Hogwarts. Those are the only two options I’ll consider.”
Harry’s patience frayed further, his tone snapping. “Spinner’s End hasn’t been your house for years, Severus. It’s probably not even standing anymore.”
Severus’s jaw tightened. “Of course it’s standing. It’s been in my family for decades.”
Harry shook his head, exhaling sharply. “That doesn’t mean anything. It’s been over ten years. No one’s been taking care of it. It’s likely been sold, condemned, or torn down.”
Severus froze, the weight of Harry’s words settling over him like a suffocating blanket. “You’re lying,” he said, though his voice wavered slightly. “You have no idea what’s become of it.”
“You’re right,” Harry admitted. “But are you really willing to gamble that it’s still there? That you could just walk in and pick up where you left off?”
Severus’s chest heaved with shallow breaths, his composure slipping. “Fine. Hogwarts, then. I’ll take up quarters there. I’ll write to Minerva myself if I have to.”
“You can’t live at Hogwarts, Snape,” Harry said, his tone hardening further. “You’re not a professor anymore, and you’re seven years old—no one is going to let you live alone in the headmaster’s quarters. You’ll be staying at Grimmauld Place. End of discussion.”
Severus scowled, his lips curling into a sneer. “You think you can order me around like some errant child? I assure you, Potter—”
“You are a child,” Draco interjected sharply, his voice cutting through the room. “Physically, at least. And in case you’ve forgotten, the Ministry would treat you as such if they found out. Foster care, Severus. That’s the alternative.”
The room fell into a tense silence. Severus’s glower remained fixed, his shoulders trembling faintly with restrained fury. Without another word, he leaned back against the pillows, his features settling into an unreadable mask.
“Well,” Draco said dryly, his tone laced with sarcasm, “this is going splendidly.”
Harry shot him a warning look but said nothing. His focus stayed on Severus, whose silence now felt heavier than any argument he could have made.