Chapter Text
updated: 12/6/2025
Ally
The Highlands were too still that morning.
Not peaceful — not calm — but still.
The kind of stillness that presses against your ribs and settles behind your eyes, a silent warning that something is about to change. Mist drifted low across the heather, clinging to the stone walls around my cottage like a second skin. The whole world felt muted, caught between breath and exhale.
It wasn’t a farewell sort of morning.
But it felt like one.
Igor and Ingrid hovered near the doorstep, wringing their hands in anxious loops. House-elves always know more than they say — especially mine. They’d tended to me since the final battle, since the nightmares began, since the shadow first sank its claws into the edges of my mind.
“Miss Ally,” Ingrid whispered, her voice small. “You be careful at Hogwarts. Bad things linger there. Old things.”
I forced a smile. “Bad things linger everywhere. That’s why we plant gardens — to remind the darkness it doesn’t get the last word.”
It was something my mother used to say.
The memory of her voice tightened in my chest. She’d loved gardens — even in the Gaunt household where love was scarce and kindness rarer. She claimed plants were the truest magic: patient, stubborn, quietly defiant.
My father hated when she said things like that.
Hated anything that challenged bloodline, tradition, or the rotten pride that clung to the Gaunt name.
Dragone’s thought brushed mine — warm, grounding, tinged with judgment.
They worry because they know who you are.
I looked down at him — my guardian, my constant.
A massive white dire wolf, fur shimmering with faint silver light, golden eyes too intelligent to ever be mistaken for an ordinary creature.
“You make it sound ominous,” I murmured.
You’re a Gaunt, he said simply. It is ominous. But you’re also you. That’s the only reason I tolerate your optimism.
His tail flicked once, betraying affection.
I glanced at the cottage — the one I had chosen, not inherited. Ivy covered the stone walls in thick tangles, and rows of aconite, dittany, and moonbloom spilled from carefully tended beds. My mother would have loved it here.
My father would have burned it down.
I hadn’t lived in the Highlands long — barely two years — but it was the first place that had ever felt like home. Safe. Quiet. Mine.
Rhea had insisted I take the cottage after the war.
“You need soil,” she said. “You heal better when things grow around you.”
She wasn’t wrong.
We’d grown up together in a house where nothing grew.
A house that smelled of cold stone and rage.
A house where our father sharpened cruelty like a blade and called it legacy.
Rhea responded with fury.
I responded with silence.
And then Mother died.
I stopped believing silence could protect anything.
The letter from McGonagall had arrived on July 12th — neat, formal, but warmer than most Headmistress correspondence. I remember that day clearly.
The Highlands were quiet that morning.
Mist clung to the pines like ghost-breath, the air sharp enough to sting my nose as I stepped barefoot onto the frost-kissed wooden porch. Dragone trotted ahead, massive paws silent, tail flicking like a banner through the fog.
The world felt asleep.
I leaned down to refill the water basin when I heard it — the soft flutter of wings. A barn owl dropped out of the grey sky, circling once before landing on the railing beside me.
A scroll was tied to its leg with gold ribbon.
My stomach twisted.
Not ordinary gold.
Hogwarts gold.
The owl lifted its foot politely. I untied the ribbon with numb fingers.
“From Minerva,” I murmured.
Dragone padded back, ears perked.
Minerva rarely writes casually, he noted. You are bracing yourself.
I was.
The parchment felt heavy — heavier than it should have — as I unrolled it.
Althea Gaunt,
We extend once more an invitation for you to return to Hogwarts as Herbology Professor…
My breath cut off.
Return.
That word struck with more force than I expected.
I kept reading.
Your work has been exemplary. The greenhouses once thrived under your care. The castle misses you.
And, whether you choose to believe it or not — you are needed…
Needed.
Hogwarts missed me?
Impossible.
Unwelcome memories flickered — old stone corridors, whispered rumors, students staring too hard at my eyes, at my name. Gaunt. Gaunt. Always Gaunt.
I swallowed.
Then something else rose in my chest, unbidden:
A dark silhouette in black robes.
Cold eyes that somehow always saw too much.
A voice like velvet and knives.
“Professor Snape won’t want me back,” I whispered before I could stop myself.
Dragone huffed. That man hasn’t wanted anything in his entire life except misery and solitude. Your presence won’t change his tradition.
I snorted — but it didn’t loosen the knot in my chest.
“Still,” I murmured, “he hated me by the time I left.”
Hated, Dragone agreed. And yet… he spoke your name in the Battle. Twice.
I froze.
“What?”
The wolf blinked. Oh look, she’s listening now.
“Dragone.”
He shrugged, as much as a dire wolf could shrug. You were unconscious. Bleeding. Severus wasn’t exactly poetic, but he was not indifferent.
My heart stuttered. Once upon a time, I would have done anything to hear that.
Now?
I wasn’t even sure what it meant.
I looked back to Minerva’s letter:
I understand if your hesitation comes from the past.
But the past is not what awaits you here.
Come home, Althea.
— Minerva McGonagall
Home.
I sank onto the porch steps, letter trembling in my hands.
Home.
Hogwarts was never safe for me. Not with my bloodline. Not with what lived in the shadows behind my eyes. Not with nightmares that still prowled my sleep.
And certainly not with Severus Snape stalking the corridors, all sharp edges and haunted silence.
“What do I do?” I whispered.
Dragone stepped close, pressing his warm muzzle to my shoulder.
You go back.
I closed my eyes.
“You think I’m ready?”
No. But you are needed. And when have you ever turned away from what needed you?
A laugh — soft, broken — escaped me.
Then the wind shifted, carrying the faintest scent of something impossible:
Old parchment. Bitter herbs. Clove smoke.
Snape.
Except it wasn’t real. It was memory. A ghost of something unresolved.
I pressed the letter to my chest.
“Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll go back.”
Dragone’s tail swished triumphantly. I will prepare the journey. And sharpen my claws.
“For what?”
For whoever dares upset you.
I snorted. “So… everyone?”
Precisely.
I stood, gripping the rail, staring into the fog-drenched horizon where the sun threatened to rise.
For a moment — one heartbeat — I thought I saw the castle in the distance, its towers reaching upward like they were waiting.
“Home,” I repeated quietly.
The word hurt.
The word felt right.
“Let’s go, Dragone.”
And as the owl took off and the mist began to lift, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years:
Hope.
Thin.
Fragile.
Unexpected.
And terrifying.
It felt like destiny or doom. Possibly both.
I procrastinated until August.
I told myself I was deciding.
Really, I was hiding.
But the dream of Hogwarts had always tugged at me — even through war, grief, and the heavy shadow that had latched onto me at the battle.
I had loved Hogwarts once.
I’d been a Ravenclaw with ink-stained fingers and dirt under my nails.
Known for memorizing half the library and sneaking into the greenhouses after curfew.
Snape had hated me for that — or pretended to.
Rhea used to joke that I had the Sorting Hat in a headlock trying to drag it toward Gryffindor.
That life felt like a lifetime ago.
And then there was it.
The shadow.
Always watching.
Always close enough to feel but too far to confront.
It had first come to me on the battlefield — creeping into my periphery just as Voldemort fell, as if darkness, once freed, needed somewhere else to cling.
At first I believed it was trauma or exhaustion.
But hallucinations don’t follow you for years.
And they certainly don’t pulse like a heartbeat in the fog.
The elves loaded the last of my trunks — notebooks filled with sketches of plants, books I couldn’t leave behind, and the single faded photograph of my mother I’d kept hidden for years.
My father’s memory stayed buried where it belonged.
I turned one last time to the cottage. Smoke curled from the chimney. The windows glowed faintly. Everything inside had been built from my hands and healing.
Leaving felt like peeling away newly formed skin.
But Hogwarts called.
And Rhea had already written — twice — threatening to drag me back herself.
I stepped into the carriage.
And that was when the mist shifted.
Something darker than shadow pooled by the stone wall.
Thick. Forbidding.
Alive.
My breath stilled.
It watched.
It always watched.
Dragone’s growl lit the air with electricity.
“Ignore it,” I told him. “It feeds on fear.”
It feeds on you, he corrected.
He wasn’t wrong.
The road from the Highlands wound through fog so thick it swallowed sound. Even the horses’ hooves were muffled, disappearing into the gray like they were stepping into another world. I tried to shake off the unease, but it clung to me like cold fingers.
Dragone lifted his head first.
Something’s here.
I straightened, pulse tightening. “Where?”
He didn’t answer at first. His body went still as carved stone, ears pricking forward, fur rising along his spine in one slow, deliberate wave.
Close, he finally growled. Too close.
The driver didn’t seem to notice. The reins creaked, the carriage rocked over uneven ground, and then—
A howl tore through the fog.
Not a wolf’s howl.
A human throat ripped into a beast’s shape.
Before I could shout a warning, a massive gray blur burst through the fog, hitting the horses with a force that rocked the entire carriage. The animals screamed, rearing violently, harnesses snapping taut.
“Hold on!” the driver yelled, but it was too late.
The carriage lurched hard. I slammed into the wall, stars bursting behind my eyes.
Dragone moved first—an explosion of white fur and golden fire as he launched through the open door and hit the ground in a blur of claws and muscle.
The werewolf—only half-transformed, caught between cycles—landed in front of him. Its limbs were too long, joints bent wrong, teeth jagged and dripping. Its eyes were wild, unfocused, rolling white.
And it was hungry.
“Dragone!” I shouted, stumbling out after him. “Don’t—”
The beast lunged.
Dragone slammed into it mid-air with a sound like colliding boulders. The two forms tumbled across the ground, tearing up dirt and moss.
I raised my wand, breath shaking. “Incendio Serpens!”
Fire spiraled from my wandtip, twisting into a snake of flame that lashed across the creature’s back. The werewolf shrieked, arching away from the heat—skin blistering but not burning through.
It spun toward me.
Too fast.
“Protego!” The shield flared just in time, the creature slamming into it so hard my arm went numb. The smell of rot and blood hit me like a slap.
Althea, MOVE—! Dragone’s voice roared inside my skull.
The beast’s claws scraped the shield and then broke through.
I stumbled back onto my elbows just as it lunged again.
“Bombarda!”
The dirt beneath it exploded, sending the creature sprawling sideways—but not far enough.
It recovered instantly.
It was on me in two heartbeats.
I swung my wand up again, breath tearing from my lungs, but—
Too slow.
Claws raked across my forearm, slicing clean through cloak, shirt, and flesh. Hot pain flared white. Blood spattered across the ground, steaming in the cold air.
My vision blurred.
Dragone roared—a sound so deep and violent it shook my bones. He barreled into the werewolf’s side, jaws clamping down on its shoulder. Something cracked.
They crashed into a tree, splintering bark and sending a rain of pine needles to the ground.
The werewolf twisted, snapping at Dragone’s neck.
I pushed myself up, arm trembling, wand slick with my own blood.
“Confringo!”
The curse struck the ground between them, blasting both creatures apart. Dragone landed upright, snarling, ready to strike again.
The werewolf didn’t.
It staggered, shaking its head, blood dripping from its shoulder. Half-human eyes fixed on me.
And focused.
It lunged.
NO—! Dragone slammed into me, knocking me back as the werewolf’s claws tore through the air where my throat had been.
I hit the ground hard, breath knocked from my lungs.
Dragone spun, putting himself between me and the beast.
Stay DOWN, he ordered.
“I’m not—” I pushed up, vision spinning. “I’m not letting you—”
The werewolf lunged again, Dragone meeting it head-on. They collided with a sickening crunch.
Dragone slammed the beast to the ground, teeth sinking into its collarbone. The werewolf screamed—a horrible, warped sound—and thrashed, claws slicing deep into Dragone’s side.
I staggered to my feet, cradling my bleeding arm.
The world narrowed to the sight of my familiar locked in a death struggle.
“Expulso!” The blast struck the werewolf square in the ribs, sending it tumbling into a gnarled tree. The trunk cracked. The creature collapsed against it, gasping, chest rising in uneven jerks.
Dragone stepped forward, lips peeled back, ready to finish it.
“Stop,” I breathed, reaching for him. “Leave it.”
He hesitated—but the rage in him burned bright and wild.
He wanted to kill it. Tear it apart.
For hurting me.
It hurt you, he growled, voice trembling with fury.
“I am fine. enough.”
We watched as the creature staggered to its feet. It limped into the fog, vanishing with a wet snarl and dragging a trail of blood behind it.
I sank to my knees, clutching my arm. Blood soaked through my sleeve in warm waves.
Dragone pressed his massive head against my shoulder, breath hot and frantic.
You’re bleeding, he whispered, guilt twisting through the bond.
“I’ve had worse.” My voice shook. “And so have you.”
But my vision swam, black creeping at the edges.
The driver finally approached, pale as death. “Merlin preserve us… are you—should I—”
“Just get us to Hogwarts,” I rasped.
As he scrambled back onto the carriage, Dragone nudged me toward the door, his body trembling with the effort of staying upright.
I climbed in just as the fog shifted again.
At the edge of the trees…
A darker shadow pulsed once.
Watching.
Waiting.
And I knew—
without question—
that the werewolf had not been the true danger.
By the time the carriage rolled through the gates of Hogwarts, the sky had dimmed into a bruised twilight. Torches lining the path flickered wildly in the wind, casting long streaks of gold across the lake. The castle loomed ahead — ancient stone, tall spires, windows glowing like watchful eyes.
My head throbbed. My arm felt like it was on fire.
Dragone walked stiffly beside the carriage, my blood still darkening the fur along his ribs.
The massive front doors creaked open before I could reach them.
Minerva McGonagall stormed out, tartan robes snapping behind her like a battle standard.
“Althea Gaunt!” she barked — then froze, her expression dropping from irritation to horror. “Merciful heavens—what happened?”
Before I could speak, Dragone lunged forward, placing himself between me and everyone else, lips peeled back in a silent, deadly snarl.
“Down,” I whispered, reaching for him with my uninjured hand.
His growl deepened.
They’re crowding you, he warned. They reek of panic.
“It’s Hogwarts, Dragone. They all reek of something.”
But he didn’t move.
Behind Minerva, two figures emerged from the shadows:
Draco.
“Ally?” His voice cracked with shock he tried to smother. “You look—bloody hell—what—?”
He stepped forward — and Dragone snapped, teeth inches from Draco’s throat.
Draco stumbled back, hands raised. “Right. Yes. Not approaching the dire wolf. Understood.”
Then Snape stepped out of the shadows. The moment I met his eyes I instantly was taken back to our last encounter.
___________________________________________
The castle still smelled of smoke.
Even with the windows open, even with the debris cleared, even with the dead counted and buried, the scent clung to everything — stone, robes, skin.
Me.
It didn’t matter how many times I washed my hands; the blood wasn’t coming off.
I stood in the remains of Greenhouse Three — what was left of it — staring at a shattered pot of moonbloom, petals strewn like broken teeth across the soil.
I barely heard the footsteps behind me.
But I felt him.
The air changed; grew heavier.
Sharper.
Colder.
“Miss Gaunt.”
His voice — smooth, controlled — cut through the silence.
I didn’t turn.
“Professor.”
The title tasted wrong in my mouth. Too formal. Too distant. After everything, it felt like a lie.
He stepped closer, robes whispering over scorched stone.
“You should not be alone,” he said quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
My jaw clenched. So did my heart.
“Neither are you,” I snapped before I could stop myself.
Silence.
I knew he was staring at me — that unreadable, dissecting glare he used when he was trying to decide whether to reprimand me or… worry.
Finally, he said:
“You’re leaving?”
I swallowed hard. My fingers tightened on the broken pot.
“Yes.”
“where?”
“Away.”
“That is not an answer,” he said sharply.
I turned then, anger tearing the exhaustion wide open.
“What do you want from me?”
His expression didn’t shift, but something behind his eyes flickered — a crack in the armor.
“The truth,” he said simply.
The truth.
Right.
The truth was that I couldn’t breathe here. Not anymore. Every hallway echoed with screams. Every shadow looked like death. Every night, I woke choking on ghosts.
And him?
I couldn’t look at him without remembering—
How he held the line.
How he bled for us.
How everything between us had changed in one terrible instant.
My voice came out thin and frayed.
“I can’t stay.”
His jaw tightened. “Because of the castle?”
“Because of—” I stopped. Swallowed. “Everything.”
He stepped closer.
Too close.
The way he always did when he was about to say something he shouldn’t.
“You are running.”
“I am surviving,” I shot back.
“You’re abandoning your work.”
“You’re one to talk,” I snapped. “You were ready to die a week ago.”
His eyes flashed.
Then his voice — low, cutting — broke something inside me.
“And perhaps I should have stayed dead.”
My breath hitched.
He flinched — the smallest, most human movement I’d ever seen on him.
“That is not—” he began, but I shook my head fiercely.
“Don’t,” I whispered. “Don’t say things you can’t take back.”
We stared at each other, two ghosts in the ruins of a greenhouse.
Then he said, more quietly:
“You are… important to this place.”
“Not anymore.”
“You are important to—”
He stopped.
Mid-sentence.
As if the words physically lodged in his throat.
My chest tightened painfully.
“Say it,” I whispered before I could stop myself. “Important to who?”
He looked at me like the truth might swallow him whole.
And then—
He stepped back.
Shut down.
Walls slammed up so fast I almost felt the wind of it.
“Your departure,” he said stiffly, “is your own concern.”
Cold.
Distant.
Gone.
I nodded once, even as something cracked inside me.
“Goodbye, Professor.”
I walked past him.
He didn’t move.
Not to stop me.
Not to reach for me.
Not to say anything.
When I reached the door, I paused — stupid, hopeful, aching —
But he said nothing.
So I left Hogwarts.
I left the ruins.
I left him.
And not once did he come after me.
I looked into his onyx eyes and threw up my walls.
The moment his eyes landed on the blood soaking through my sleeve, his entire expression shifted—flattened—darkened.
His voice was dangerously low.
“What. Happened.”
Not a question.
A demand.
I opened my mouth, but Minerva got there first.
“Yes, Professor Gaunt, I’d quite like to know how you’ve managed to get half-mauled before setting foot in this castle.”
“I’m fine,” I muttered.
All three of them responded in unison:
“You’re not.”
Snape stepped forward—
—and Dragone snapped again, louder this time, hackles rising like a storm.
Snape froze.
For exactly one second.
Then he narrowed his eyes at the wolf. “Control your wolf.”
Dragone bared his teeth. Try me, bat.
“Dragone,” I hissed. “Enough. They’re not threats.”
He flicked his golden gaze toward me — then reluctantly stepped aside, though every muscle in him remained coiled.
I turned back to Minerva. “Werewolf attack. On the road.”
Minerva paled beneath her spectacles. “Were you followed?”
“No.”
Snape cut in sharply: “You don’t know that.”
“I wasn’t,” I snapped back.
“You weren’t aware of the first threat either,” he countered.
Minerva raised a hand. “Severus—”
“No, by all means,” Draco muttered. “Let’s scold the woman who was just nearly eaten.”
Snape shot him a look so sharp Draco physically flinched.
Minerva regained control with iron headmistress authority. “Enough. Severus, Draco — back. Give her space.”
They obeyed.
Barely.
Her attention flicked to my arm. “We’re going to the hospital wing. Immediately.”
“It’s just a scratch—”
“Is that why your blood is dripping onto the stones of my entrance hall?” Minerva snapped.
I looked down.
Oh.
Right.
Snape stepped closer again — slow, deliberate — his voice rougher this time.
“Let me see.”
Dragone tensed, but I touched his shoulder. He grudgingly allowed Snape to lift the torn fabric.
The moment Snape saw the gashes, something in him turned lethal.
His jaw tightened.
His nostrils flared.
His voice dropped to a whisper brimming with fury.
“Reckless woman.”
“I handled it,” I said through my teeth.
“Well,” Draco said lightly, “your definition of ‘handled’ and mine differ somewhat, considering you’re bleeding everywhere—”
Snape whirled on him. “Enough.”
Minerva pointed sharply toward the doors. “Hospital wing. Now.”
Snape didn’t wait. He moved behind me, his hand hovering — not touching, but close enough for his concern to cast a shadow.
Draco walked a few steps behind, eyes darting between Dragone and my arm like he expected one of them to bite him.
Minerva followed with quick, precise strides.
As we crossed the threshold, Snape murmured under his breath — too soft for the others, but not for me:
“You should have waited for help.”
“I didn’t exactly have time to send an owl.”
“You always have time to think,” he snapped. “Clearly not today.”
Dragone rumbled. He’s right and wrong. Annoying combination.
“Quiet,” I whispered.
“Talking to me?” Snape asked sharply.
“No,” I said. “Dragone.”
He made a low sound that might’ve been a scoff. “Excellent. You’re delirious.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re bleeding,” he countered. “Hence the delirium.”
Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose. “If you two are finished competing over who can be the most dramatic—”
Snape stopped walking. “I am not dramatic.”
Draco snorted. Loudly.
Minerva glared at him. “Mr. Malfoy?”
“Yes, Headmistress. Shutting up.”
Snape resumed walking, muttering.
“For Merlin’s sake…”
Draco murmured behind him. “Told you he was dramatic.”
Dragone’s shoulders shook in silent laughter.
And somehow — even while bleeding, exhausted, and shaken — I couldn’t help but smile.
The doors to the Hospital Wing swung open with a bang as Minerva led the way. The familiar scent of antiseptic potions, lavender steam, and freshly laundered linens wrapped around me like an old memory.
“Bed. Now,” she ordered.
“I can walk just fine—”
“You can bleed just fine, too,” Snape snapped. “We’ve all noticed.”
Dragone padded in at my side, enormous and silent, but every muscle in his body ready to spring. He scanned the room like a seasoned guard dog, golden eyes narrowing dangerously at anything that moved.
A figure rushed from behind a privacy curtain at the sound of our entrance — a young woman in healer’s green robes, her long honey-blonde hair gathered in a loose braid that brushed her hip. She practically skidded to a stop.
“Oh! Headmistress!” she blurted, wide blue eyes darting to my arm. “Oh dear—oh Merlin—Professor Gaunt?”
A black leather satchel slipped from her shoulder and thumped onto the floor. She didn’t even notice. She rushed toward me—
—and Dragone leapt between us, snarling so loudly the windows rattled.
The girl yelped, stumbling back and nearly tripping over her own robes. Snape moved instantly, wand half-drawn, not at her but at Dragone.
“Stand down,” he hissed at the wolf.
You stand down, Dragone growled back, hackles bristling.
“Dragone!” My voice was firm, but weak. “She’s a healer. Calm the fuck down”
He sniffed the air sharply, then huffed—still suspicious, still coiled, but he begrudgingly stepped aside.
The young woman exhaled shakily and pressed a hand to her chest.
“Thank you,” she whispered—to me, not the wolf. “I’m Felicity. Felicity Haworth. Madam Pomfrey’s assistant.”
“Assistant?” Draco murmured behind me. “She looks twelve.”
Felicity flushed scarlet. “I—I’m twenty-two!”
Minerva shot Draco a look sharp enough to slice through bone. He immediately busied himself with looking at a lamp.
Felicity straightened her robes, taking a tiny breath to steady herself. Despite her nerves, she moved with practiced efficiency, her hands gentle as she gestured me toward a bed.
“If you’ll just sit—I can help—oh—well, that looks… painful.”
“That’s because it is,” Snape muttered darkly.
Felicity ignored him—brave, or foolish, or simply too kind to notice snide comments. She gently supported my uninjured arm and guided me onto a cot.
Dragone immediately lay at my feet, massive head resting on the mattress, eyes locked on every healer’s movement.
Felicity winced at the wound as she carefully unwrapped my makeshift bandage. “Claw marks. Deep. There’s some curse-residue in the tissue. Wolfsbane contamination… maybe Doxycide traces? No—burn fragments?”
Her eyes flicked to me. “Did you use a fire-snake curse on the creature?”
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Oh good.” She smiled softly. “That makes this easier.”
Snape blinked. “Good?”
Felicity pulled out a tiny silver knife, bottles of pale green salve, and a clear potion that shimmered faintly gold.
“Yes,” she said simply. “Fire-snake burns neutralize some of the curse-venom from a partially shifted werewolf. It means the infection risk is lower.”
Snape folded his arms. “Or it could mean she burned half the flesh off her own arm.”
“Only a little bit,” Felicity said brightly.
I laughed—then hissed in pain as she cleaned the wound. Felicity immediately murmured a soft healing charm, her wand glowing faintly blue. Warmth spread through the tissues, easing the worst of the burn.
“You're very good,” I whispered.
Felicity’s cheeks flushed pink. “Madam Pomfrey taught me everything. I—I mean, almost everything. I’m still learning.”
From the back of the room, a familiar authoritative voice snapped:
“You’d better be.”
Madam Pomfrey swept in, carrying a tray of potions with the presence of a general entering a battlefield.
“Honestly, Felicity,” she scolded lightly. “You’re going to worry yourself into an early grave hovering like that.”
Felicity ducked her head respectfully. “I’m sorry—she’s bleeding quite a lot—”
“Yes, dear, she’s aware,” Pomfrey sighed. “She’s the patient.”
Snape cleared his throat icily. “Perhaps if we could avoid further delays—she’s losing blood, in case anyone missed that in all the… chatter.”
Pomfrey raised an eyebrow. “Severus, if you say one more word, I will make you sit in the waiting chair like every other overbearing worrier.”
Draco snorted loudly.
Snape’s glare nearly incinerated him.
Pomfrey turned to me, wand raised. “Arm out. Let’s dull the pain before I remove the damaged tissue.”
Felicity hovered close, biting her lip, ready to assist.
The charm flashed—cool, numbing, merciful.
My entire arm eased.
Pomfrey began repairing the torn muscle with precision. I watched Dragone’s golden eyes follow every movement, ready to tear apart anyone who hurt me.
Felicity whispered, barely audible, “He’s very protective.”
“He saved my life,” I whispered back.
Her expression softened with admiration.
Pomfrey finished the final charm, then wrapped my arm in magically absorbing bandages. “It’ll need healing salve every six hours. No spellwork with that arm for at least two days. No strenuous movement. And absolutely no wandering into the night.”
Snape’s eyes flicked to me sharply. “Hear that? No wandering.”
“Merlin’s sake, Severus,” Draco muttered. “She didn’t go frolicking in the moonlight. A werewolf attacked her.”
“There is a difference?” Snape hissed.
“Enough,” Minerva snapped, stepping forward. “Althea, how do you feel?”
“Tired,” I admitted. “Bruised. Alive.”
Felicity offered a shy smile. “You’ll be okay. Just rest tonight.”
Madam Pomfrey nodded in agreement. “We’ll watch her. Both of us.”
Snape visibly bristled. “She needs—”
“She needs sleep,” Pomfrey interrupted. “You need to stop looming.”
Felicity’s eyes widened.
I swallowed.
Dragone nuzzled my hand as Pomfrey dimmed the lights and drew a privacy curtain around my bed.
“Rest, Miss Gaunt.”
As they stepped away, I let myself sink into the cool sheets.
Felicity’s gentle voice whispered through the curtain as she checked the salve:
“You’re safe now.”
For the first time that night…
I almost believed her.
Darkness wasn’t supposed to have a shape.
But this one did.
It crept around me like smoke, thick and choking, swallowing every sound except the pounding of my heart. I knew immediately where I was—before the castle, before the war ended, before the world stopped burning.
The Forbidden Forest.
But not as it was.
This was the forest from that night.
The night everything cracked open.
Branches trembled overhead, unnaturally still despite the wind. The air tasted like ash. And the shadows… the shadows were wrong.
They slithered.
Behind me, a voice hissed—high, cold, serpentine:
“Althea Gaunt.”
My spine turned to ice.
I didn’t have to turn to know.
I knew that voice.
I grew up haunted by it.
Lord Voldemort stepped from between the trees, as if the darkness had peeled itself back just for him. His pale face gleamed like bone under moonlight, eyes glowing red behind the slits of a half-smile.
“You thought you could hide,” he whispered, drifting closer. “From your bloodline. From your inheritance. From me.”
My wand wasn’t in my hand.
I looked down.
My hands were empty.
Just like they had been that night.
My breath hitched. “This isn’t real,” I said, voice rasping. “You’re dead.”
He laughed—soft, low, brittle like cracking frost.
“And yet you still dream of me.”
Around us, the forest ground shifted.
Bodies.
Broken stones.
Flashes of green light flickering between the trees.
Screams echoed—friends, strangers, enemies—all overlapping until they melted into a single, endless cry.
My cry.
“You failed them,” Voldemort whispered. “You failed everyone.”
“No—” I backed up, boots sinking into mud that wasn’t mud but ash. “No, I didn’t—”
“You ran,” he said. “You hid in the Highlands while your lineage rotted beneath you.”
The shadows behind him writhed and parted to reveal faces—
My parents.
Twisted, sneering, alive in the way only nightmares could recreate.
My mother stepped forward, cold violet eyes locking onto mine.
“A disgrace,” she whispered. “A Gaunt who fancies herself a hero.”
My father’s lip curled. “You were born for darkness, girl. And you pretend to fear it?”
Voldemort’s wand raised—slow, effortless.
I scrambled back—but something caught my ankle.
A hand.
A hand reaching from the ground.
Not dead.
Not alive.
A hand I knew too well.
Snape.
But not as he was now.
Pale.
Still.
Bleeding onto the floor of the Shrieking Shack all over again.
His black eyes met mine with silent accusation.
“You couldn’t save me.”
My throat tore.
“I tried!” I screamed. “I tried—”
Voldemort’s laughter cut through me like a blade.
“You lose everyone, Althea. Everyone who touches you dies.”
“No—”
“You bring destruction. You always have.”
“No—!”
He aimed directly at my heart.
“Avada—”
A roar shattered the forest.
White fur.
Golden eyes like suns.
Dragone exploded from the tree line, teeth bared, snarling with a violence I’d never heard from him.
“ENOUGH,” his voice thundered through the nightmare, shaking the ground.
The world cracked—splintered—
—and everything collapsed.
I bolted upright in the hospital bed, my lungs tearing for breath.
Hands—real hands—caught my shoulders.
Warm.
Steady.
“Ally—easy—breathe,” a voice said.
Not Voldemort.
Not my father.
Snape.
Alive.
His dark eyes sweeping over my face with a mixture of irritation and worry so sharp it nearly undid me.
Dragone’s massive head lowered beside me, pressing into my side, grounding me back into reality.
You were dreaming, the wolf murmured. Badly.
I pressed both hands to my face.
Just a dream.
Just the past.
But the words Voldemort whispered still clung to my skin.
Like a curse that had never really left.
I came back to myself in pieces—
air scraping into my lungs,
hands shaking,
the scream still raw in my throat.
And then—
Hands.
Firm. Steady.
One on my shoulder, the other bracing my back so I wouldn’t collapse forward.
“Ally.”
His voice.
I blinked the nightmare out of my eyes and found him there:
Severus Snape.
Close.
Too close.
His face was pale in the lantern light, sharper than usual, eyes darker than any dream could conjure. His hair fell forward, unguarded, a strand brushing his cheek as he leaned closer.
When he spoke again, his voice was low, taut at the edges, like something pulled too tight.
“You were screaming.”
I swallowed hard. My throat felt scraped raw. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“I didn’t ask if you meant to,” he interrupted, but his tone was softer than the words. “Are you hurt?”
“No,” I said. “Just… scared.”
His jaw tightened.
Not angry.
Something worse.
He looked like a man holding himself together through sheer force of will.
Dragone huffed and nudged my hip, but Snape’s stare never left my face—every flicker of emotion I tried to hide reflected back in the set of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
“What did you see?” he asked finally.
“I…” Tears pricked my eyes before I could stop them. “Him. The war. Everything. And you—”
His breath caught.
Just once.
Barely noticeable unless you were inches away.
Which I was.
For one dizzying moment we just sat there—his hand still on my shoulder, warm and grounding, as if he hadn’t realized he hadn’t let go.
I forced myself to breathe. “It felt real.”
“It wasn’t,” he said roughly. “You’re here. You’re safe.”
Safe.
The word hit me harder than the nightmare.
I stared at him. “Why are you—”
He stiffened, expression locking back into something colder, something familiar.
“Because you needed to wake up,” he said, as if that explained everything.
But it didn’t.
Not when his thumb had unconsciously brushed against my skin.
Not when his eyes kept flicking to the way my hands still trembled.
Not when fear still flickered behind his calm mask—fear for me.
I tried to control my breathing, but the nightmare still echoed in my bones.
“You don’t have to stay,” I whispered.
His head snapped up, eyes narrowing sharply.
“I am not leaving,” he said. Not a suggestion. A command.
My pulse jumped.
He realized, too late, what he’d said—and immediately straightened, withdrawing his hand as though burned.
“I meant,” he corrected stiffly, “Dragone and I will remain nearby. For safety.”
“Right,” I said, though my heartbeat refused to slow.
He stood too quickly, robes flaring. “Get some rest.”
But he didn’t turn.
Didn’t walk away.
He just stood there beside my bed, back rigid, hands clasped behind him like he was bracing for another battle.
“Severus,” I said quietly.
He stopped breathing.
“Thank you.”
His shoulders lowered—barely.
The smallest fracture in his armor.
“…Sleep, Ally,” he murmured.
And even though he didn’t touch me again,
even though he kept a careful distance the rest of the night,
I could feel him there—
a storm held at bay,
standing guard while my nightmares faded into the shadows.
Snape
Her scream shattered the stillness.
For one horrifying moment I thought we were back there—
back in the ruins, the fire, the choking smoke of the war.
But no.
The flames were only the lantern light.
The trembling was hers.
And the tightening in my chest was… mine.
Damn it.
Damn the war.
Damn the shadows.
Damn whatever was tormenting her in her mind while she slept not three feet from me.
I pushed the thought aside and moved to the chair. My legs did not trust themselves to stand any longer.
She watched me for a moment, exhausted, and finally drifted back into a restless sleep.
I exhaled, slow and harsh, pinching the bridge of my nose.
Then—
Dragone.
His voice slid into my mind with all the subtlety of a brick.
She dreamed of him, the wolf said simply.
My hands tightened around the arm of the chair. “It is to be expected. Trauma—”
and You.
My breath stilled.
Dragone adjusted his massive shape at the foot of the bed, tail flicking like an irritated cat.
You stir her nightmares, but you also calm them. You are woven into both.
“I do not know what you mean,” I hissed under my breath.
You do, he replied, unbearably calm.
But right now, I have questions. About her. Before the war.
And you will answer me.
I glared at him. “I owe you nothing.”
He rumbled in amusement. You owe her honesty. And I guard her. So I ask.
I clenched my jaw, but he continued anyway:
She feared you.
She admired you.
She challenged you.
She trusted you, even when she didn’t want to.
My heart lurched in a way I despised.
“Her trust was misplaced.”
Was it? Dragone pressed.
You watched her closer than any other student.
Why?
“I—”
My voice faltered.
Ridiculous.
The wolf leaned closer, eyes burning gold in the dim light.
Before the war… what was she to you, Severus?
I looked at Ally—sleeping now, her red hair spilled across the pillow, her breath soft, uneven.
Memories flickered where I least wanted them:
Her wand raised at me in third year, furious and brilliant as she argued about aconite ratios.
Her fierce glare when she defied me in class.
Her trembling in the aftermath of the Dark Mark attacks.
Her silence the day she found out her bloodline was haunting her.
Her leaving Hogwarts with a suitcase full of grief she refused to show.
What was she to me?
A storm.
A mirror.
A reminder of everything sharp and bright I’d buried.
“Before the war,” I whispered, “she was… dangerous.”
To you? Dragone asked.
“No.”
A breath.
“…To my detachment.”
The wolf studied me.
She mattered, he said.
I looked away sharply. “She shouldn’t have.”
And yet she did.
Silence pressed between us.
Then Dragone lowered his head.
Tell her none of this, he said.
Not yet.
But know this, Severus Snape—
you can lie to yourself all you wish.
His eyes flicked toward Ally.
But you will never truly walk away from her.
Even when you try.
I stared at her small, exhausted form beneath the sheets.
“Trying,” I murmured, “is all I have left.”
Dragone snorted.
You are doing poorly.
I did not dignify that with an answer.
I simply sat back in the chair, arms folded, eyes fixed on the woman who should not—must not—be mine.
But who I could not force myself to leave.