Chapter Text
Severus told himself he wouldn’t come. He knows shouldn’t be here, not after what happened the previous night. But even the strongest occlumens isn’t immune to the betrayals of his own mind.
It’s just past one in the morning when he steps foot inside the hospital wing. It’s quiet and dark, lit dimly by the thin strips of moonlight peeking through the high arched windows.
You’re curled on your side under the blankets in the bed closest to the door. He observes the slow rise and fall of your breathing and then gradually drifts his eyes up to your face. You look... peaceful. Or at least, a damn sight better than you had earlier when you were dragged out of the lake, half frozen to the bone.
He knew you’d make it, despite the odds against you. You went into the task a broken mess, using a potion that hadn’t been allowed to fully finish correctly (all credits to him) and you still won.
You brilliant little witch.
You shift then under the covers, curling further into the pillow as your face scrunches up like you're lost in some troubled dream.
“Gave you lot quite the fright, didn’t she?” Pomfrey appears, scuttling out of the office to your bedside. She checks the diagnostic scan floating above your body, casting green lights over the bed.
Severus stays quiet. She isn’t wrong – when Jade had surfaced alone at first, he hadn’t expected to feel so much.
“They’ll be fine,” Pomfrey says assuringly, glancing over her should at him while she heads over to Jade, who sleeps soundly in the bed beside you. “Your Slytherins are tougher than they look. I reckon they’ll be out tomorrow.”
He nods politely, still fixated on the fragile shape of your body under the covers. He selfishly allows himself this quiet indulgence, knowing once you wake, he won’t get this again.
He stays for a few more minutes, watching your face until your brow twitches for a second time, and your mouth opens slightly like you’re on the verge of consciousness. It leads him to the thought that maybe, you know that somewhere, deep in your fogged mind, that he’s here.
He doesn’t risk staying long enough to find out.
Back in his office, the Wolfsbane simmers low in the cauldron. He tends to it mechanically, moving on auto pilot as he reaches for the next ingredient. It’s all muscle memory by now, so he doesn’t need to offer it much thought.
Which is a dangerous thing, because when his mind refuses to focus, it wanders.
He quickly finds himself entrapped by the sound of your voice, too bright for the dullness of his office, spilling over the sound of the potion bubbling as you filled the silence with your chatter. The cheeky look you’d throw him before you half demanded he tell you about his day after sharing yours. The way you’d breeze into his space like you belonged there, never knocking, and dropping your notes wherever you pleased to the point it still felt like you were around when you’d left for the evening.
During those few weeks you'd spent together, his office became yours as much as his, and he didn’t mind. Somewhere, something had gone very wrong because he’d started to look forward to it. To your sharp tongue and even shaper mind, and the way your curious eyes were always on the verge of saying something he wouldn’t be able to ignore.
And then it came, the request that started this disaster. Gods - why did he let you try legilimency on him? Why didn’t he stop you? He’d expected a flimsy, harmless attempt, not that you’d be able to get anything from him.
He stirs the potion too hard, nearly spilling some of the silver liquid over the rim. He curses under this breath, setting the rod aside as he closes his eyes with a sigh.
It doesn’t help. Because there, burned behind his eyelids is a familiar picture that's kept him awake recently, simultaneously haunting his dreams whenever his body finally decides to give into exhaustion. Your pink, flushed face, framed by loose strands of your hair that have fallen out of your bobble, gazing up at him with those damning eyes like he was something worth wanting.
He's had other witches before. One night flings in dark corners of bars when he'd needed a release, driven by bitterness and loneliness. They'd never meant anything, and he'd never recognise them if he saw them again. He'd long lost that old desire to feel truly wanted.
That was, until he had the taste of you.
He remembers your lips, sweet and wicked, pressed to his like you didn’t see the monster under his skin so many do. The way you pulled him closer, and the little shiver in your breath when he’d kissed you back. It still stirs something unholy inside him.
Truth be told, if the potion hadn’t boiled over and ruined the moment, every line he'd ever drawn would have gone up in flames. He knows it. And he knows damn well you would have let it, too.
It terrifies him.
Because even now, he can't help himself. His mind slips further into forbidden territory, remembering the way you had looked today in that ridiculous swimming costume. He had no right to look. Especially not when he knew how much you hated him. It was wrong, so wrong, but Merlin, he took you in like a bloody fool.
He drags a hand over his face, feeling the burn of shame under his skin.
Running a hand through his hair, he forces his eyes open and instead reminds himself of the cruel, unforgiving things he'd thrown at you. The words that had left you looking at him with those wide, wet and furious eyes, staring at him like you didn't recognise him anymore.
It was the price he had to pay.
He picks up the rod and resumes stirring, keeping his eyes fixed on the ticking hand of the clock to keep himself focused.
What a fucking mess.
The next few weeks go by in a soulless haze, as far as Severus is concerned.
He keeps himself busy with back to back classes, marking assignments, and brewing for the hospital wing. There's barely enough time in the day to think. Which, if he’s honest, is a relief. Thinking leads to memory, and memory leads to you.
But even with his thoughts locked down tight beneath the layers of his well practised occlusion, you always find your way in.
You pass him in the corridors, sometimes alone, other times with your usual companions. More often than not, though, it's the Durmstrang boy beside you. Severus can't decide whether it's the accent or that insufferable grin that keeps drawing you in - not that either is particularly impressive.
Either way, he tells himself, firmly, that it’s none of his business. It's no concern to him who you decide to spend your time with. He notices, though, because of course he does. He sees the way the boy waits outside his classroom some days for you. How you’re always sitting beside him in the Great Hall, occasionally giggling at something he whispers in your ear.
He’s had his suspicions for a while now, and he'd be blind not to suspect something between you. In the late nights you would spend together brewing the potion, you told him so many things about your personal life. What you got up to with your other friends, gossip about relationships you knew about – things he quite frankly did not care about in the slightest – but nothing about the Durmstrang. You never mentioned him once, and Severus is not a man so easily decieved.
He didn’t ask then. He doesn't care now. And he certainly doesn’t dwell on it.
Its none of his business.
You’re fine, and that’s enough for him. He’s stopped looking at you when you hand in your work, and he never calls on you in class. Everything is kept strictly professional, as it should have been from the start. A line redrawn, and this time, he vows to himself to keep it in place.
It’s for the best. Safer, for both of you.
He’s busier as the days go by. Dumbledore calls for him more often now, and he spends hours in his office most evenings, sharing quiet conversations and pouring themselves over theories, books, and plans. Some nights, Dumbledore doesn’t even speak. He just sits there across from him, his mind elsewhere while Severus tries to keep up with his elusive thoughts.
The signs of the Dark Lord's return are mounting, and though nothing remains certain, Severus can't deny the fact he's disquieted. If things end up going the way the rumours suspect... well. He’ll want you as far away from it as possible.
Two weeks after the second task on a late Friday evening, Severus finds himself in Dumbledore’s office once again.
“It’s worsening,” Severus says, rolling back his sleeve just enough to catch a glimpse of the mark on his forearm. “It’s not constant, but it's no longer just a mild discomfort.”
Dumbledore’s eyes linger on the dark outline. “And Igor?”
“The same. He’s agitated, paranoid,” he replies, pulling his sleeve back down and adjusting his cuff. “He’s always looking over his shoulder, and he still seeks me out most evenings.”
Dumbledore nods slowly. “He’s scared.”
“He’s a coward,” Severus corrects him. “I suspect he knows time is short. He'll run at the first sight of trouble, you know it as well as I do."
Dumbledore exhales slowly. “He isn’t the only one who’s rattled.”
Severus studies him. “Still no word from the Department?”
“No word worth believing. Ludo still insists there’s no cause for concern. They’ve decided Bertha Jorkins simply wandered off,” he narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “A woman who couldn’t stop talking, suddenly gone silent.” He shakes his head, and Severus catches the unease creep onto his face. "She must have known something. And now she’s vanished.”
Severus doesn’t say anything to that. What more can he offer? The Bertha Jorkins matter is a dead end, one both of them have discussed too many times already with no avail.
“And the third task?” he asks instead, shifting the conversation. “It’s going ahead?”
Dumbledore gives him a look. “You know the answer to that.”
He expected the answer, yes, but the confirmation still sits wrong. He'll be glad when this damned tournament is done with.
“It’s a maze,” Dumbledore says after a moment, settling himself into his chair.
Severus frowns. “I beg your pardon?”
“The third task is a maze,” he repeats, fixating his eyes somewhere just past Severus. “It will prove much more difficult than the first two."
A short silence stretches between them.
“What are you saying?” Severus asks, his irritation blooming from the vagueness of the man's answers. "What happens in the maze?"
"It's designed in a way to isolate and disorient its participants. The champions will not only lose themselves in it, but they may lose themselves along the way. It plays on the mind, gravely."
Severus listens as he outlines the rest of the task, and by the time he finishes, a chill settles so deeply in his body, it leaves him with nothing to say.
"This brings me to my next concern, Severus," Dumbledore continues. "Miss [Last Name]. I’ve received complaints this week. She’s falling behind, missing assignments, and her other professors have reported a notable lack of focus.”
That doesn’t make sense. You're top of the class in potions, and he's seen you around plenty of times – not recently, perhaps, but enough. If you were struggling in any way, he’d know. Wouldn't he?
“I haven’t observed anything unusual myself,” he says calmly, watching Dumbledore’s expression. “This maze, do you think she will survive it?”
“As I told her in the last task, I have my full faith in her. With that being said, I am worried. If she’s struggling mentally when the time comes, it may prove more difficult for her than the others. Has anything else come to light in your sessions together?”
“We haven’t met for a while,” Severus admits, choosing his words carefully. “But she hasn’t raised any concerns with me.
“I see,” Dumbledore says softly. “Perhaps I will speak to her myself, just to-”
“That won’t be necessary,” Severus interrupts evenly. “I will follow up with her.”
“Prepare her,” Dumbledore tells him. “Discreetly. I trust I do not need to remind you of the rules here.” Dumbledore gives him a firm look, to which Severus replies with an understanding nod. “Very well. Do let me know if she needs anything you cannot offer.”
“Of course - if there’s nothing else?”
“Nothing pressing,” the headmaster replies, already turning back to his mountain of parchments on the desk.
Severus leaves the office with this fresh information whirring around in his head. He has no idea how to approach whatever it is going on with you. He didn’t even realise something was wrong with you. Are you spiralling again? Struggling with your memories? Or is there another reason?
Mondays are always intolerable.
Severus stands at the front of his classroom, arms folded as his sixth years trickle in with tired and weary faces. His patience is already running thin today from a disastrous lesson with his first years this morning, so the bar is on the floor in terms of what he can put up with this afternoon.
Once everyone is seated, he sweeps the room, taking a mental headcount. It doesn’t take him long to notice it.
Your seat is empty.
Late.
His jaw ticks. You’re never late. For detentions, maybe, but never his lessons.
He turns to the board, masking his concern, flicking his wand at it once to scrawl on the notes. “Today, we’ll be revisiting Polyjuice Potion. If any of you have retained even a fraction of what I’ve taught this year, this will not pose a challenge. Instructions are on the board. Begin.”
While the class gets started, he makes his way over to your station to enquire with Diggory as to your whereabouts. He gets halfway there when the door creaks open.
You step inside with your head down, closing it quietly behind you.
“Ah,” he drawls, stopping mid-step. “How generous of you to finally join us.”
"Sorry, professor," you mutter, not looking at him as you make your way to your seat.
He watches you, noting absolutely nothing about your appearance or tone to suggest you're anything Dumbledore suggested. You look fine, tidy, put together. You shake off your outer robe, draping it over the chair before you sit down.
He realises he's still staring when he sees something shift behind you. Selwyn smirks, whispering quietly to her friend. He doesn't need to hear to to know it's probably at your expense.
“Miss Selwyn.” He snaps, sharply. “If you have enough time to socialise in my class, I assume your potion will be flawless. Do enlighten the rest of the class with your expertise or get to work.”
“Yes, Sir,” she says, flashing him a smile before she peers down at her textbook.
He paces, keeping a close eye on your corner of the room. You’re working, barely, too busy talking to Diggory when you think he's not looking. Thankfully, the rest of the class are on task. Though, the usual clumsy work of the double Gryffindor pair at the front are arguing over Merlin knows what this time. He breaks it up swiftly with a stern look.
He moves over to the table of a lone Hufflepuff girl who’s exchanging a frown between her fluxweed and her textbook. “What’s the problem, Miss Everley?”
“N-nothing, Sir,” she stutters, flushing red. “I’m just double checking the measurements.”
“Three measures,” he confirms, “cut the stems evenly, like this-” he leans closer, adjusting her wrist to get a better grip on the knife that trembles in her hand.
She nods, keeping her eyes lowered as she gets back to work. He stays until she finishes, ensuring she doesn’t mess the whole thing up before he straightens himself, ready to move onto the next imbecile that needs his help.
He instinctively glances over to your direction.
Your back is turned, facing Selwyn's table. He can't see your expression, but he does catch the sneer Selwyn throws your way at whatever you've just said.
He almost sighs. Will whatever this petty rivalry is between you two ever end?
Severus starts to head over, intending to intervene before one of you explodes again, because he knows exactly how this goes by now – but a knock at the door interrupts him.
“Continue your work,” he tells the class, passing by yours and Selwyn's stations on the way there. “I will return shortly, and if I return to any signs of immaturity, I will be assigning punishments that will make you regret it,” he says quietly, glaring down at you both. “No excuses. You have been warned.”
Outside, McGonagall is waiting for him wearing a distressed expression with grey hairs flying our of her normally pristine high bun. “Oh, Severus,” she says, breathless. “Sorry for the interruption. Filius has had to drop out of the next Hogsmeade weekend, and Paloma’s tied up at the greenhouses. There’s no one-”
“I will cover it,” he says, though he has absolutely no desire to do so. Hogsmeade is the least of his worries right now.
“Oh, thank you,” she breathes with a smile, but it fades, quickly replaced by the crease of her brow. “You look tired, Severus. Is everything ok?”
“I’m fine.”
She nods, clearly sceptical, and gives him one final glance before she disappears down the corridor.
Severus finds himself blissfully alone.
He takes the brief moment to recompose. Today has been too stressful, and now the brewing tension in his classroom is only going to make his day worse.
He turns back to the door, reaching for the handle when it bursts open unexpectedly. You barge through, almost crashing right into him. When you realise he's there, you stop short, staring up at him with bewildered eyes, clearly not expecting him to be there.
For a second, neither of you exchange a word. He can see the tension in you and the anger in your eyes.
Selwyn has done something.
Before he gets the chance to say anything, you’re already off, storming down the corridor.
“Miss [Last Name]!” he calls after you. “Get back here, or I promise you’ll be serving detention for a month!”
You don’t even flinch, you just keep on walking further away from him until you’re out of view and he’s left wondering what on earth just went down in his classroom to make you react like that.
He sighs angrily, stepping back into the classroom. Inside, his suspicions are only confirmed when he sees Selwyn sitting there with a smirk plastered across her face.
“What happened?” he demands, stopping at her side.
She shrugs, playing her innocence. “I only made a comment, Sir. She’s just being too touchy... as usual.”
He gives her a look that wipes the pretence right off her face. “What kind of comment?”
“She just kept going on with her usual rubbish,” Diggory says, glaring at her, "she never knows when to shut it."
“Careful, Diggory,” he warns, and Diggory huffs, getting back to the work he's been left to handle alone. He turns back to Selwyn. “Detention. For a week. Starting this evening.”
She gasps. “That’s not fair! I-”
“I’ll make it two.”
She goes silent, dropping her head with scowl.
Severus spends the rest of the lesson trying to regain control of the class and keep his professional mask on, but it’s hard. The thoughts of you stay front and centre, and he knows after this, he has no choice but to approach you now. And he needs to make it quick, because if Dumbledore finds out about this and seeks you out first, he doesn’t like to think what you might unintentionally let slip.
As the last student finally leaves the room, Severus steadies himself against the desk, one hand braced on the wood, the other pinching at the tension behind his eyes. The whole thing has left him with that same, low burning frustration – because what the hell is he supposed to do with you?
He lifts his eyes, noting a mess left behind at one of his tables. Yours. Of course you’ve left your things behind. Your wand lies on the desk next to your text books, your bag is open on the floor beside the chair, its contents half spilled over the stone, and your robes dangle carelessly over the back of your chair.
Typical.
You still haven’t come back, and he doubts you even will. He moves over to the mess, crouching down to gather it all up. He reaches for the last book curiously, concluding it’s not one of your usual textbooks. The cover is plain, black leather. He flips it over in his hands, scanning the spine.
Mind and Memory: Practices of Mental Discipline in Complex States.
A folded bit of parchment sticks out from the book, and he opens it up to that page.
Chapter Twelve: Exercises in Emotional Detachment
His eyes skim the words, as well as the notes you’ve made on the parchment you’re using as a bookmark. He turns back to the front cover. It's a library book, stamped and dated from a few days ago. A flicker of amusement crosses his mind - at least this one was ethically taken out, unlike the last.
He stares for a while, then shuts it, tucking it into his robes discreetly. Then, he grabs your bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder and reaches for your robe. The second he picks it up, he's hit with the unmistakable scent of your perfume. Vanilla - sweet, but subtle. So very you. He tucks it into your bag and swiftly leaves the room.
The corridors are fairly busy at this hour, and even though he has no idea where to even start looking for you, students don’t slow him down. As he walks, they part to the side before he can get close, staring at him or looking away in fear. Being him definitely has it’s advantages in cases such as this – not that he’s ever been in this specific predicament before.
Eventually, he spots one of his prefects tending to a couple of teary-eyed first years.
“You,” he calls out, making the girl face him at once. “Have you seen Miss [Last Name]?”
“Uh - yes, Professor,” she nods her head. “She was in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor about five minutes ago. Er, she looked a bit upset. Is everything ok?"
"She's fine," he affirms, dismissing her back to the sobbing children.
The girls bathroom. Of course you have to be in there.
By the time he makes it to the second floor, he's already regretting this absurd choice he's making. Here he is, chasing after you like an overgrown owl, posting himself outside the girls' bathroom like some sort of creep.
Merlin, he'll be surprised if he doesn't end up in Dumbledore's office for this.
He tries to ignore the looks, the wide-eyes glances from the occasional lower years who pass by, throwing him the odd questioning look and scurrying off when he returns a glare.
The indignities he suffers on your behalf.
Ridiculous.
When the bathroom door finally opens, you emerge, but you don’t notice him at first, too busy wiping your red and puffy eyes. When you look up, you stop blank when you see him. He sees the shock flare across your face before you can hide it from him.
“Stand outside the girls’ bathroom often, Professor?” you ask, crossing your arms.
Always the attitude.
He refuses to rise to it. Instead, he slips your bag off his shoulder, offering it out to you without a word.
Just as you reach for it, he pulls it back. “My office.”
“No.”
“I will not do this in the corridor. My office. Now. Or you do not get these back.”
You narrow your eyes, flickering them between him and the bag as if you’re deciding whether it’s really worth it. Then, he sees the way you look behind you – to the stairs? Or the corridor?
“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, sensing your plan to run off. “Come with me. Now.”
Severus turns, heading back to the dungeons. He doesn’t need to look back to check if you're following, the sound of your dragged footsteps behind him is confirmation enough.
The walk is silent, which suits him. He needs it, because he still hasn’t decided which side of him will take over for this. The part of him that said none of it mattered – or the part that nearly bolted to the dock, ready to raise hell when Jade surfaced alone.
When the two of you reach his office, he holds the door open for you.
“After you.”
You brush past him, catching him with your shoulder as you go. Deliberately, he assumes. He wards the door closed behind him, followed by the usual silencing charm.
“Sit,” he instructs, dumping your bag on his desk with thud.
You refuse, as expected.
“What happened in there?” he asks without preamble. “What did she say to you?”
You shrug, keeping your eyes on anything but him. “Nothing.”
“That’s not what it looked like."
“It’s not a big deal,” you look over his shoulder at your things on the desk. “Can I have my stuff?”
He ignores that, because he knows it is a big deal, even if you won't admit it.
“What’s going on?”
“I told you. It’s nothing.”
“You stormed out of my class and left your belongings. I wouldn’t classify that as nothing, Miss [Last Name].”
“Forgive me if I wasn’t in the mood to listen to Ivy run her fucking mouth for another hour,” you snap back, finally looking up at him. “Not like you ever say anything to her. Why is it always me that ends up in here?”
He blinks at you - this again? He thought this old theory of yours, this jealous streak you had in your head thinking he favours Selwyn, had long since died.
“She's receiving a week’s detention," he clarifies, cocking an eyebrow. "Which you would have seen, had you not thrown a tantrum. You will be joining her, by the way.”
You roll your eyes, muttering a ‘great’ under your breath.
He exhales sharply. “What’s going on?” he repeats, less patient this time. “I’ve heard your other professors have expressed their concerns too.”
“Then why don’t you go and ask them?”
“I’m asking you.”
“And I said there’s nothing going on,” you say, sharper now. “Can I leave?”
“No. Not until you talk to me and stop acting like a child.”
You scoff. “I’m not the one acting like a child.”
He doesn't entertain your remark. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.”
“I didn't ask for your help," you fire back. "Did I?"
He narrows his eyes, then reaches into his robes. "No," he says, producing the book, "but this tells me you need it."
You move towards him faster than he expects, reaching out to take it, but he pulls back at the last second. The motion throws you off, making you stumble into him. You steady yourself with a firm hand on his chest, and he almost forgets to breathe.
You pull away immediately, glowering at him like it was his fault.
“You went through my stuff?" you demand, your face turning red. "You can't just-!”
You lunge for it again, but it’s no use. He holds it above his head, too far from your reach. “Actually, you left it on my floor,” he replies coolly, already recomposing himself. “The nightmares. They're happening again, aren't they?”
He hears the way your breath catches. Your anger slips, freezing you in place. “Why do you care?”
“Something's going on,” he continues, clinically. “It’s obvious. And to be expected. We haven’t had a session in a while, and this,” he says, waving the book again, “tells me you’re trying to figure it out on your own. Unsuccessfully.”
“I’m managing perfectly fine," you say defiantly. He glances down, noting the way your fingers move restlessly against the hem of your skirt.
You're lying.
“Is it as bad as before?”
“Stop it!” you shout at him. “You don’t get to do this! Do you think you can just pretend to care, or whatever the fuck this is, and I’ll let you in again? After all the things you said to me? Are you really that stupid?”
He stares at you, stunned by the force of it. He opens his mouth, ready to reprimand you for your disrespect, but you're faster. In his hesitation, he lowers the book without realising, and you manage to snatch it from his hand. His own arm darts out to take it back, but you take a step back and quickly and hide it behind your back.
Childish.
He exhales deeply again, grasping onto any edge of calm he has left in his body after today.
“I’m not here to argue with you,” he tries to say it gently, but the words come out rougher than he'd like. "Believe what you like, but I am trying to help you."
You shake your head. “I don’t want anything from you!” you hiss, shoving past him to your things. You throw your bag over your shoulder without so much as a glance in his direction.
He steps in front of you as you turn around, blocking you from moving any further. You meet his eyes with the same fury he's seen before, but this time, he can tell it's too close to burning out. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes - just a single, stray tear falls from your eye.
You wipe it away with the sleeve of your jumper and push your way past him.
He lets you go this time, and he watches, helplessly, as you walk away from him for a second time today.
Good job, Severus.