Chapter Text
It was just another one of their nightly frolics.
Silvery light had already begun to spill over the Forbidden Forest as the full moon clawed its way up from the clouds, cold and unblinking.
A boy could be seen walking under the inky sky, shoulders hunched with a weary, almost animalistic sort of wariness under a mop of soft chestnut hair that stirred to reveal pale scars tracing down the nape of his neck — a glimpse of marks left by painful years of scratching, biting and thrashing against walls. His feet hit the soggy ground with hesitant scrapes, bristling each time a squelch tore from the grass.
Behind him, his three Animagus friends stumbled down the hill and struggled to cram themselves under the Invisibility Cloak: the tallest, all black waves and swaggering limbs; the shortest, round-faced with quick, darting blue eyes; and the one clutching the cloak, with messy hair, round spectacles and a toothy grin that held them all together. The material felt whisper-light and slippery between James’ fingers, catching on broom-hardened calluses and hangnails like silk snagging on thorns. They were half-laughing, half-hissing at each other to shut it, you’re stepping on my foot.
They used to all fit under the cloak easily, back when they were puny little first-years slipping stink pellets into the Slytherins’ bags and daring each other to nick pastries from the kitchens; back when it was all games and giggles, and they didn’t intend anyone to actually get hurt.
Now it was all elbows and knees and someone’s arse hanging out the back.
“Oi, Pete, move your fat head,” growled Sirius, jabbing him with an elbow. “Should’ve stayed in rat form like I said — would’ve had way more room under here. But no, can’t stand being called a rat, can you?”
Peter scoffed, but before he could snap back, James chuckled softly. “It’s not Wormtail’s fault you’re a giant, stinking hound instead of a lapdog. You’re the one hogging half the cloak, Pads.”
A grin spread over Peter’s freckled face, though the tautness in his shoulders lingered. “Right? And don’t forget who slipped the Dungbomb into Snivellus’ cauldron. Bit of fun’s all me,” he huffed, puffing out his chest with practiced ease. His chin tipped up just so, in the exact way James did when he knew he’d done something brilliant.
Sirius smirked, grey eyes storming up that smug, careless mischief and disdain. “Yeah, congratulations. But the fun’s a bit cramped when you’re wedged into my ribs, mate.”
“Better cramped than missing, right?” James quipped back.
They fell into their typical madness and laughter — hoarse, winded wheezing — as they launched into a spirited replay of their morning triumph: Snivellus shrieking and scowling and vowing, I’ll murder him! I’ll murder Potter! to a vaguely apologetic Slughorn despite his severe lack of evidence of the Gryffindor’s involvement. The Potions Master had leaned away from Snape’s ranting with a grimace, no doubt more concerned about the stench of troll piss on his shabby robes and dung dripping down his greasy black hair.
James only half-listened as Sirius mimicked Snape’s strangled yelp; his mind was busy replaying the image — the way Snape had whipped around, spit flying from his mouth, his eyes wild and murderous under those inky strands staining his face. A humiliated flush bloomed on his sharp cheeks, wand already clenched in his white-knuckled hand, yet with nothing to hex. Absolutely fuming. Absolutely ridiculous.
Really, the bastard had it coming, because how dare he?
How dare he hover around Lily, always slinking behind her with that pathetic, puppy-eyed look, like she owed him for existing? Like being soft-spoken and clever and delicate with his absurdly thin fingers somehow made him worthy of attention?
How dare he skulk around with those sallow cheeks stretched so tightly over his brittle bones, swathed in his oversized black cape like a bat forever shunning the sun? Hiding in the damp shade while the rest of them chased wind and warmth and everything worth having.
How dare he sneer and act like he was above them all with those cutting insults, when really, he had nothing but a filthy mouth? He was a nobody, a scraggy, fragile little thing with threadbare clothes hanging off his frame like rags, all wrists and knees poking through —
“Honestly, I thought Snivy was about to lose his mind,” Sirius snorted, shouldering James as he flicked his wand to illuminate the path ahead. “You should’ve seen his face when I tactfully dropped the hint that he’d find some life-changing secret tonight.”
His best friend’s deep voice jolted him out of his thoughts, and he was almost grateful for the distraction. “What’d you tell him?” asked James in a murmur, as though he hadn’t just been mentally retracing every detail of the boy in question.
Snivellus was a pain in the arse. That was all he was. Whatever prank Sirius was planning, he would sure as hell deserve it. He needed to be put in his place, reminded that just because he slinked around like some greasy little spy didn’t mean he actually knew anything.
So why did something feel… off?
They had already passed the greenhouses on the path to the Whomping Willow. The grass pinched their socks with night-damp fingers, the scent of the earth so rich yet so wrong. The forest loomed, as it always had — holding its breath at the edge of the grounds — but now it felt closer, as if Hogwarts had shrunk in shame.
Something was different. Not the gnarled, wind-battered, moss-patched trees — they were the same as always. Not the path, still trodden and mud-caked, scattered with hoof-marks and the bones of creatures too small to fight back.
It was the quiet.
There was no birdsong. No flap of wings, or even the hoot of a distant owl. The world had cinched inwards, and far ahead, the silver eye in the sky judged them closely.
“Just a little nudge…” drawled Sirius, barking out a laugh. “Acted like I’d been forced to reveal it when he’d had the upper hand — as if he’d ever, bless the pathetic little shit — and told him, if he’s so desperate to know our secret, he should check out that creaky tunnel under the Whomping Willow. Thought it’d be a harmless prank, what’s the worst that could happen?”
Peter let out a squeaky laugh. “You didn’t.”
“I bloody did!”
But James didn’t laugh. His steps faltered, smile dropping as a cold coil began to tighten in his gut, winding itself deeper with every word.
Surely not.
Sirius could be a downright idiot at times — reckless, theatrical and entirely too fond of escalating a joke until someone lost a limb — and he had told Snivellus about the Whomping Willow but he hadn’t gone so far as to tell him how to actually get in. He wouldn’t risk Remus.
A harmless prank.
They were almost at the tree now, and James pulled off the invisibility cloak, folding the silky fabric into his pocket. He caught a flash of Remus ahead, head bowed, pace steady, bracing himself.
Tonight would be as routine as ever: accompanying Remus through the night as friendly animal companions, making sure he didn’t hurt anyone, and more importantly, making sure he didn’t hurt himself during his monthly transformation.
A harmless prank.
It was fine. It had to be. Sirius was just exaggerating, just winding Snivellus up to scare him out of his wits for snooping on them all the damn time. What they really needed was for Remus to deal with his monthly illness in peace, and once Snape realised the whole thing was just a trick, he would finally give up sticking his overly large nose into their business.
Remus stopped.
So did they.
James squinted through the dark, his voice echoing into the still night. “Moony? What’s wrong?”
The brunet craned his neck back at them, his pallid face brightened by the moon’s light. “It’s strange. The tree doesn’t seem to be moving,” he muttered, his tone low and tense. “But there’s no time to think. The transformation... it’s already starting.”
He gave them one last, tight glance, then descended into the roots without another word.
The others stared at the willow, towering and still, its gnarled limbs perfectly motionless like a fossil. Not thrashing or guarding, but patiently waiting in its uncanniness.
A harmless prank.
James slowly turned to face Sirius, the knot in his gut now ready to snap.
“You didn’t tell him how to get in… did you?” he pressed, attempting to maintain casualness, but his voice came out thinner than he meant it to.
Sirius’ grin wavered at his best friend’s pointed look, but he quickly recovered, shrugging dismissively. “‘Course I did. What’s the point of a setup if he can’t take the bait?”
“You told him to press the knot? Do you know what you’ve done…!” yelled out James, his breath misting in the air as a sickening dread overcame him.
“Serves the git for being a right menace! Wouldn’t stop going on about Lily this, hex you that —” Sirius started defensively, though his voice faltered, “and Snivellus can’t actually be so stupid as to face a full-grown werewolf by himself!”
Oh god.
It wasn’t a harmless prank.
James broke into a run, all colour drained from his face.
Because Snivellus could be that stupid. He was stubborn, obsessed, proud enough to chase them right to the end of the world just to prove them wrong. And Sirius — wild, brilliant, just as stupid Sirius — would find that funny.
Oh god oh god oh god. What have you done, Sirius?
Blood was rushing to his head, his arms, his legs; everything around him was blurring with the scene that unfolded in front of his mind’s eyes: Snape ducking under the branches, scorn etched into his pointed features, only to walk straight into a nightmare.
He was in the tunnel. He charged forwards — bones cracking and reforming, skin crawling and stretching — with his hooves pounding on wood, panic and instinct propelling him into a sprint.
A howl ripped through.
It was louder than it should have been. More ferocious, more aware. No longer a sound of pain or resistance, but of hunger from a predator that had smelled prey. Blood-curdling screams followed, echoing through the rotting walls that pressed in closer and closer until it felt like he was crawling through a throat that meant to swallow him whole.
James skidded through the door, heart crashing against his ribs. The air was hot and foul, thick with fur and sweat and copper. His eyes immediately locked onto a smear of black on the floor — Snape’s body, already a mess of blood and torn clothing. The werewolf was on top of him, claws raking across his chest, fangs piercing into his shoulder —
Without thinking, James lunged forwards, ramming his antlers into the werewolf’s dark flank with a force that rattled his entire body. Remus snarled ferociously and tumbled into the far wall, then flung himself back at James, saliva dripping from his bared fangs. The beast’s claws swiped at him. A guttural shriek pushed out of the stag’s throat as James kicked and shoved with all his strength, his heart thundering with each failed blow.
Finally, with a violent heave, James slammed Remus into the corner of the shack with a sickening crack of stone and spine. He rolled, dazed and snapping, furiously scrambling to regain his strength to fight and to devour.
James wheeled around, panting, hooves slipping in blood. He shifted back before his legs could give out completely, kneeling beside the motionless body on the floor. Snape’s face was bleached white, eyes wide in horror, chest heaving in shallow, ragged breaths.
“Oh god, Snape — oh god…” James reached for the boy sprawled beneath him, blood slicking his hands.
“What the fuck are you doing there? RESTRAIN HIM! And you, CALL A TEACHER!” he roared back at Sirius and Peter, not looking up as his voice cracked apart.
He knew they had followed him there. They always did.
Sirius was frozen in the doorway, wand hanging limp in his hand. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Peter let out a strangled noise and scuttled past him in a flash of grey fur, vanishing down the tunnel as a rat. The soft patter of his claws against wood was swallowed almost immediately by the rising, low growl from across the room.
James looked up just in time to see Remus — not Remus anymore — lurching back to his feet. Amber eyes glowed with feral hunger as the werewolf turned towards James and the boy he crouched over.
“No — no — no,” whispered James, shifting slightly in front of Snape. “Don’t — don’t you see me? Remus, it’s me, James! Prongs, Moony, Prongs! Please…”
The werewolf growled louder, crouching low. His hind legs tensed.
Then, a black blur crashed into him. A large black dog slammed into the beast’s side with a snarl, knocking him off-course just as he descended. They crashed across the floor in a flurry of limbs and fur and fury. Snapping teeth. Yelps of pain.
James used the distraction to feel around for a pulse on Snape’s neck. A faint beat, but it was there. Barely.
He’s alive.
He pulled out his mahogany wand and tried chanting all the healing spells he knew with the little knowledge he had as a mere fifth-year — he swore he tried every single Charm in the book — but to his dismay, he only found confirmation of what they’d learnt in Defense Against the Dark Arts about werewolf wounds: they were too cursed for him to handle.
His hands shook violently as he pressed them to Snape’s chest, trying to stop the bleeding. The deep gashes — marks across his chest, another near his throat — continued to bleed freely, and there was nothing James could do to slow it. The blood was everywhere, soaking into the floorboards, spreading in crimson pools.
“Snape…” he whispered, barely audible against the thuds trembling the shack. “Come on. Look at me. Don’t you dare die on me, Snivellus!”
His doe eyes — black, furious, glassy with pain — weren’t focusing. His lips were parted, smeared red, quivering like he might try to spit something out, or curse James, or scream. James would’ve gladly taken any insult. Even the dirtiest of curses. But no sound came.
He swallowed hard, trying to blink back the haze rising in his vision.
Peter’s gone to get help. They’ll come. They have to come.
But time had slowed to a crawl, viscous and thick as the blood flowing through his fingers. It wouldn’t stop. His hands were too small, too useless.
It was just a joke. Just a fucking joke. Sirius didn’t mean for this. He didn’t —
Snape’s eyes had fluttered half-shut, jaw slack, face grey. James knew it was futile, but all he could do was press harder on his chest, so hard that he could feel the boy’s ribs beneath his palms. They jutted up from the paper-thin skin, and he was so light and fragile and breakable that James thought he might snap him in two if he pushed any further. He was shaking. Shaking like a trapping dying bird.
He was never supposed to be here.
He bit down hard on the thought. Remus was the one he cared about. He did this for Remus. To keep Remus safe. But now Snape might die, and everything would unravel.
If Snape dies, Remus goes to Azkaban. They’ll figure out what happened from his wounds. He’ll be tried as a murderer.
The shack shuddered again with a brutal slam as Padfoot was thrown against a wall. James didn’t dare turn to look. Not with Snape like this. Not with the growing fire in his chest, hot and rising, screaming do something.
The floorboards creaked. James tensed.
But this time, it wasn’t claws. It was boots.
The door flew open behind him, a gust of cold wind slicing through the metallic air. A blur of urgent motion filled the doorway.
“Step back, Potter!” Professor McGonagall’s shrill voice rang out, wandlight and a swish of green moving past him.
Madam Pomfrey rushed forwards in her wake. She levitated Snape’s body onto a stretcher and rushed him through the tunnel, away from the savage violence of brother against brother, fur against fur. The Head of Gryffindor ushered James out behind them, and he tried to ignore the sickening way the boy’s head lolled to the side as moonlight streamed onto their faces.
Glasses jingled as the Mediwitch hurriedly opened her satchel of potions, her breath sharp and fast. “Minerva, I need steady pressure on the sternum — keep the blood flow restricted. Keep him breathing. Don’t let him go under!”
James stumbled back, blood drying tacky on his hands, heart thudding so loudly it drowned the chaos still unfolding behind them. His knees gave out against the wall and he slid down, watching in mute horror as the thick stench of copper and rotten wood overwhelmed his senses.
McGonagall’s face was just as horror-struck, but she remained steady as she knelt at Snape’s side, her wand flicking with expert precision. A bluish-white light glowed from her spell as she pressed it flat against Snape’s chest. The bleeding slowed — not stopped — enough for Pomfrey to dive in. She uncorked a vial and forced it between Snape’s lips with one hand while muttering diagnostics under her breath with the other.
“He’s lost too much,” hissed Pomfrey. “Circulatory stasis charms, now — and clear the lungs, he’s aspirated — damn it —”
Snape convulsed. A thin line of blood slipped from the corner of his mouth.
“Slughorn!” Pomfrey snapped over her shoulder. “Get me blood-replenishing draughts and one dose of Heartroot Elixir — no more, or his veins will burst!”
James glanced up to see that the Potions Master had arrived at the scene, dishevelled and breathless, his hands full of rattling potion vials. “Here, Poppy — here, here. Merlin, what happened? This boy needs St. Mungo’s!”
“Not now!” she barked, snatching the vials. Her hands were practiced, merciless as she uncorked them and tipped the draught into Snape’s mouth, wand ready to ensure he swallowed reflexively. “We move him now, he dies!”
No.
He had to stay alive. He had to. James had always thought of Snape as weak. A snivelling, shrivelling boy who was much too pale and skinny and greasy to fit in with a crowd. But never breakable.
Snape had taken every hex, every taunt, every curse they ever threw at him and never flinched or cracked. Never once cried or begged or let them see him falter. He had just glared back with those cold onyx eyes, full of rage but daring them to try harder. And that had made him strong. Infuriating, stubborn, but too strong to break. Too strong to bleed out on the floor. Too bloody strong to die.
There were supposed to be years left — years of insults traded to find which one would peel back that hilarious stony facade; of catching him alone and making him squirm in all sorts of places once the map was complete; of watching his face burn with humiliation, seeing if he’d ever cry, really cry, like a proper loser, with snot running from his nose and everything.
The grey glow of the moon lit every awful detail: the jagged flesh along his collarbone where the muscle had begun to peel back, the red-tinged shine of saliva at the corner of his mouth, the rapid rise and fall of Madam Pomfrey’s wand as she muttered incantations and dripped potions faster than he could follow. It all faded into a dull hum with the fire in his chest, and now he was underwater, he was drowning, the world had pulled away in disgust and —
James gagged. He turned his face away, but the image branded itself behind his eyes; the grotesque childishness in the way his hair stuck to his forehead, matted with sweat and gore. Iron and stomach acid and rot settled into the back of his tongue.
“Please,” he begged. “Please survive. Please.”
He didn’t know who he was begging — Pomfrey, the moon, Snape himself — but he begged anyway. If there was a god out there, he would pray to them. Pray for a do-over, a rewind, a miracle, anything.
But praying wasn’t enough.
The light in Snape’s eyes dimmed as the minutes stretched on. The shallow rise and fall of his chest hitched once.
“Snape,” James pleaded again, this time directly to the unconscious boy, “Severus… just hold on.”
But Severus didn’t.
With one final shudder, the last breath escaped his body. And the night air fell into an eerie stillness where every heartbeat pounded too loudly, drumming into his skull, choking his throat where a tidal wave threatened to retch out of him.
Madam Pomfrey’s hands paused. Her lips pressed thin, and without a word, she reached for the spare linen in her satchel. A white sheet, trembling in her grasp, pulled slowly and reverently over the boy who had once been their worst enemy.
James’ fingers twitched — foolishly, instinctively — to stop her, as though he could grab Snape back by the collar and drag him from the brink. But his fingers closed on nothing.
All those times they’d hexed his shoelaces together, jinxed him behind his back, jeered when he flared up in rage or shame or both — James had always believed Snape could take it. That he was too proud to break. That he was strong, in the ugliest way. Strong enough to hate. Strong enough to survive anything.
Yet he hadn’t survived this.
And there he was, no longer Snivellus; just a boy, made of broken flesh, blood drying in rusted streaks, sprawled and ruined.
Severus Snape, a boy who was gone.
And James Potter, too, was no longer the brave, honourable Gryffindor or the clever Marauder, but a mere boy: the boy who had failed to save him.