He smoked Muggle cigarettes.
The bitter smoke escaped in a thin snake through a small crack in the window, which was open just a little. Severus wasn't breathing—he was inhaling. He dragged the burning taste of tobacco into his lungs, holding it in until the sensation became unbearable—until it burned, twisted like a knife, and crushed his chest. Only at the peak of that pain—when his vision darkened, and his ribs felt like they might cave in—did he exhale, forcing the smoke through the narrow gap between his half-closed lips.
He hated smoking.
The habit had repulsed him since childhood, a filthy remnant of his drunken father.
And the smell.
His overly sensitive nose had always been intolerant of it. But that had been in another life, a different world. A past that felt distant, unreal. He was no longer a Potions Master. No longer a spy. No longer a Hogwarts professor.
Who was he now?
Severus Snape.
No longer serving two masters. No longer settling old debts.
Who was he?
A floorboard creaked at the entrance of his temporary home, announcing the visitor's arrival. Not that he needed the warning—he had already sensed her presence. She reeked of longing. Of sadness. Despair. A trace of magical exhaustion clung to her like stale perfume. A suffocating bouquet of emotions far too familiar to Severus.
Idiot.
Why the hell had she latched onto him?
"Get lost," he croaked hoarsely, pressing his wand to his throat, forcing out the words. His voice was still weak, scratchy, barely a whisper.
"I won't leave," came the quiet reply from the other side.
He said nothing.
Another drag. His lungs filled.
One. Two.
Fourteen. Fifteen.
Forty-seven.
His record was seventy-four, but he was too tired today. Stubbing out his third cigarette against the scratched window frame, Severus shut the window and walked away.
Hermione Granger stood silently outside the door.
Thunder rumbled. Lightning cracked across the sky.
He felt no pity for her.
She had come of her own accord.
Like clockwork, this was the fifth time she had done this. An hour—sometimes longer—lingering outside his door. Always silent. Never pleading more than twice. Never attempting to strike up a conversation through the wood.
She just stood there.
Waiting.
Wanting.
And it infuriated him.
---
Two Months Ago
This time, waking up felt different.
He knew it before his eyelids even fluttered open.
A dark ceiling. Sunlight fractured through barred windows. And her.
She sat slumped in a battered armchair, head tilted to one side, resting against a shoulder swallowed by an old, stretched-out woolen cardigan.
In his haze, the sight of her stirred something buried deep—a distant echo of his mother. Not her as a whole. Not the full picture. Just fleeting moments of warmth, fragments of a childhood long lost.
The first time she had brought him tea with raspberry jam—moldy, but better than hunger. The way she wiped his fevered skin with vinegar, tucked him into bed, whispered soft reassurances. Until the animal returned. Until the monster dragged her out by the hair, shattering the illusion of safety.
The door creaked open.
A strange man stepped inside.
His gaze didn't land on Severus but on her.
Watching. Devouring. His eyes skimmed the curve of her chest, exposed just slightly beneath the hem of that threadbare cardigan. Taking in her parted lips, barely trembling in restless sleep.
Severus waited.
Hoped, if he were honest, that the bastard would take the insufferable Miss Granger and leave.
How long had she been here?
Days? Months? Years?
He didn't know. Didn't care. Didn't want to care.
This was a mistake.
He shouldn't have lived.
"Holy Merlin," the healer gasped, his gaze finally meeting Snape's. "You're awake."
She stirred. Her lashes fluttered, the veil of sleep slipping from her eyes.
The first emotion on her face was disgustingly familiar.
Joy.
No—relief.
No—hope.
"Professor," she rasped.
The idiot standing in the middle of the room went rigid, then bolted.
"Professor, can you hear me?"
She stepped closer.
Oh, yes. Of course, he had heard her.
He had heard her every damn time she read him that bloody magazine. Heard her breathing beside him. Heard her bringing those disgusting flowers.
He had heard it all.
Idiot.
The door swung open again. Four people filed in.
Two men. Two women.
Three old fools.
And the puppy.
"Mr. Snape, can you hear us?" one of them asked.
"You're in St. Mungo's. You were in a coma."
Idiots.
At least give him some water.
"You were bitten by a snake," the brainless puppy continued. "It turned out to be poisonous."
What else would the Dark Lord's snake be, idiot? Healing?
"It's June 18th, 1998. Do you understand me, Mr. Snape?"
A slow, pained breath.
The stale, suffocating air barely filled his lungs. Sweat clung to his skin. His body stank.
Filthy.
Morning? Afternoon? He shut his eyes, testing his reflexes.
His toes moved. His fingers too.
Severus tried bending his knees, his elbows—agony. The pain ripped through him, made him want to howl.
How long had he been motionless? Had these morons not thought to stimulate his muscles?
A dull ache pulsed in his left forearm.
No.
With a surge of fury, he wrenched his arm free from the blanket, staring at the Dark Mark.
Faded.
Slightly. Imperceptibly to others, but not to him.
Foolishly, he had hoped.
He knew better. But still—he had hoped.
"Professor?"
Her voice again. Small. Quiet.
"He's dead," she whispered. "We won. The war is over."
Her fingers—thin, small, fragile—suddenly brushed against his.
Against the hand of a murderer. The hand of a branded man.
A ragged wheeze tore from his throat as he jerked away.
The idiot instantly lunged forward, trying to help.
"Why are you just standing there?!" she snapped at the others. "You can see he's trying to sit up!"
He was too weak to respond. His throat burned as though he had swallowed fire.
Hands seized his shoulders, forcing him back against the bed.
The bed was disgusting. He was disgusting.
Had they ever washed him? Or had they simply used a cleansing charm once a day like lazy incompetents? Judging by the healer's curled nose, it was the latter.
A flick of a wand. A glowing projection materialized.
His throat—damaged. Severely.
His nervous system—poisoned. Nearly destroyed.
How had he survived?
He wasn't supposed to.
He had wanted to die.
Craved it.
Fought for it.
He had walked into battle with nothing. No antidotes. No stimulants.
His time had come.
And yet—
"It's a miracle, Mr. Snape," the healer announced, "that Miss Granger was able to administer a bezoar and a blood-replenishing potion in time."
Of course.
Of course, the insufferable, meddling, naive, infuriating fool hadn't let him die.
Gathering what little strength remained, he tore into her mind—brutal, deliberate.
Get out of my room, idiot.
A flash of dark light.
A scream.
And then—nothing.
---