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Chapter Text

Part I — The Last Night

The sky above Hogwarts was thick with smoke, spells tearing across the heavens in

glowing arcs, thunder cracking like war drums overhead. The ground trembled with

distant explosions, stone and screams colliding in a cacophony of battle.

In the shadows of the lower dungeons, Severus Snape moved through the flickering

torchlight like a man already walking to his own execution. He didn’t flinch when Lucius

Malfoy appeared from the corridor, pale and sweating, robes askew, wand gripped so

tightly in his hand the knuckles had gone white. “The Dark Lord,” Lucius said, his voice

hollow, “he requests your presence. Immediately.”

He didn’t say “summons.” Not formally. Perhaps he couldn’t bring himself to. But Severus

heard the word anyway. And he understood exactly what it meant. The pieces fell into

place. The way Voldemort had kept him at a distance since Dumbledore’s death. The

tightening circle. The way he never quite trusted Severus after killing the only man who

might’ve protected him. The prophecy. The boy. And now the final move. Of course.

Snape gave a single curt nod. “I understand.”

Lucius faltered, lips parting like he wanted to say more—but Severus had already turned

his back.

He didn’t head toward the courtyard, or the boathouse, or any of the paths he was meant

to take. Instead, he turned down a narrow hall that led away from the main staircase.

There was someone he had to see first.

She was already there. Ivy.

He could feel her presence before he saw her—like a thread pulling tight in his chest.

She was pacing the corridor in front of his office, her wand clenched in her hand, her face

flushed with worry. Her hair—always a bit wild—was falling out of its braid, cheeks damp

with sweat or tears. She looked like she’d run the entire length of the castle to get there.

Their eyes met. And in that instant, he knew—she knew. Of course she knew.

She was the one person alive who knew all of him. His truths. His burdens. His loyalty. His

sins. She had seen every corner of his mind, had trained beside him, watched him bleed,

suffered his worst moods, endured his coldest silences—and still, still, she came back.

She loved him. Stubbornly. Unconditionally.

He had never deserved her. But she was his.

She had been his for years now.

________________________________________________________________________________

It had begun with a hesitation.

She had been a Gryffindor — too clever for her own good, too bold by far — and yet

something about her posture that third year struck him as wrong. Her spine too straight.

Her jaw too still. Her presence... dulled. Not with immaturity or defiance — but fear.

He watched her in Potions class that first week back. She was quiet. Flawless in theory.

Her hands moved precisely, but every now and then, her breath hitched. Like when she

reached too far, or when the fabric of her robes caught at her shoulders. He noticed her

wince. Just barely.

He said nothing. But when class ended, he let the students shuffle out, and said, “Miss

Skyes. Stay behind.”

She stiffened. Then turned slowly. “Yes, Professor?” He didn’t ask the question burning

on the tip of his tongue. He just looked at her, long and slow. “You may go,” he said

finally. “Unless you’d rather stay.” Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. But she left.A week passed. Then one night, just past midnight, she knocked on his door. She was

trembling — half-frozen, her lips pale, eyes puffy from crying. She stepped inside

wordlessly and, with a kind of wild fear in her eyes, turned her back to him and pulled up

her shirt. His breath caught. Welts. Jagged. Angry. Fresh. Some still bleeding. Some

oozing. He didn’t speak. He summoned healing supplies with a silent wave of his wand.

“I couldn’t go to the Hospital Wing,” she said quietly, almost defensively. “They’d ask

questions.” He only nodded. “Hold still.”

And then began to work.

He was clinical. Precise. His hands efficient and cold. He didn’t ask how or why. But the

rage building in his chest was hard to mask. She didn’t flinch when he dabbed the

wounds. Didn’t cry when he poured essence of dittany over the raw skin. But when he

wrapped the final bandage, she said softly, “You’re not going to report it?” “No.” “You’re

not going to ask what I did?” “You did nothing.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “You didn’t tell me to go away,” she said. “No,” he

replied.

That was all.

The next week, she was back. Sat across from him in silence, pretending to read. He

ignored her. The week after, she asked about a potion she wasn’t actually struggling with.

He insulted her technique. But still allowed her to stay.

Soon it became routine. Her presence. Her voice. Her laugh — reluctant at first. A half-

smile here. A clever jab there. She started calling his office chair “the throne.” Called his

kettle “the cauldron that growls.” Brought him books he didn’t ask for. Left behind

sketches, scribbled notes, half-dried flowers in ink bottles.

He threatened to throw her out on a weekly basis, but never once told her not to return.

That Christmas, she stayed at Hogwarts. So did he. He found her in the library on

Christmas Eve and tossed a pair of dragonhide gloves onto her desk.

“They’re ugly,” she said. “They’re durable,” he snapped. She smiled. And hugged him.

Briefly. Fiercely.

He stood frozen for a full five seconds before muttering, “Enough.”

When summer came, he petitioned for custody. The orphanage didn’t even respond. They

hadn’t bothered to track where she went during the school year. They kept collecting the

funding. So he took her to Spinner’s End. The house was too small. Too dusty. The

furniture, too worn. He hated it. She called it cozy. He cooked one meal a day. She

cooked the rest. When he was too absorbed in his books to eat, she brought him a mug

of tea and muttered that he was going to starve to death unless someone civilised

intervened. She slept in the smallest room. She filled it with stories. Charms. Candles. Her

laughter began to echo down the halls. He didn’t laugh, but the corners of his mouth

twitched more often.

He taught her Occlumency the following winter. She was too young. Too raw. But she was

brilliant. Frighteningly brilliant.

She broke through his shields once. Only once. But it was enough.

She knew everything. About Dumbledore. About the Unbreakable Vow. About Voldemort.

About Lily’s son. The prophecy. The plan.

He expected her to run. To cry. To hate him. She did none of that. She said, “I trust you.”

She said, “You’re not alone.” She said, “I’m not going anywhere.”

Month after month, she chipped away at his walls. And before he could stop it, he was

letting her in.He bought her robes with his own Galleons. Let her pick the flowers for the windowsill. He

taught her defensive spells she was years too young for. Sat beside her when she had

nightmares. Called her a pest. A brat. An infuriating know-it-all.

She called him “Old Bat.” And every time she did, he let her live. Because she had

become his life.

No one knew. No one could know. But she was his. And now— Now, she was standing in

front of him. Heart in her throat.

________________________________________________________________________________

She was pacing the corridor in front of his office, her wand clenched in her hand, her face

flushed with worry. Her hair—always a bit wild—was falling out of its braid, cheeks damp

with sweat or tears. She looked like she’d run the entire length of the castle to get there.

Their eyes met. And in that instant, he knew—she knew. Of course she knew.

He stepped forward. Her chin trembled. “You’re going to him,” she whispered. “I must.”

“No, you—” she took a step closer, nearly tripping. “You can’t. You can’t, Sev. He’ll—he’ll

kill you—”

His hand lifted and gently rested atop her head, thumb brushing her temple. “Stay safe,

little witch,” he murmured. Her breath hitched.

It wasn’t enough. He should say more. Do more. But his throat was too tight. His mind too

fractured. He couldn't—he wouldn’t—let her see the full truth in his eyes.

But she knew. Of course she did. She moved faster than he expected.

Suddenly, her arms were around his neck—tight and desperate. Her body pressed to his

chest, and she buried her face in his robes. “I love you,” she said, the words breaking in

her throat.

He froze. Then folded his arms around her, crushing her to him. “I love you too,” he

whispered, voice cracking. “You are—everything.”

Her fingers curled into the fabric at his shoulders. “Please don’t hate me.” He pulled back,

confused. “What—?”

She looked up, eyes shining. Her hand brushed along the back of his neck. And then he

felt the sharp tug. A flash of movement. Hair.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. Before he could react, she raised her wand: “Petrificus

Totalus.”

He froze, muscles locking. He tried to shout. Ivy—no. But nothing came out. His eyes

widened in shock, in horror.

She caught him as he fell—just enough to ease his body to the floor. Her tears were falling

freely now.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, dragging him toward his office door, her voice trembling. “I—I

can’t lose you. You don’t understand, I wouldn’t even be alive without you, Sev, I—I have

to do this. I have to save you now.”

The door creaked open with a whisper spell. She pulled him inside, legs shaking, arms

trembling.

“I know what you need to do. You need to find Potter. You need to tell him everything. You

can’t die yet, you can’t. But you will, if you go. So—I’m going.”

He screamed inside. No. No, don’t do this. Ivy—please—

She rummaged through his shelves, hands practiced. Found the flask. Polyjuice. From the

batch they brewed last winter.

She held it tight, stared at the lock of black hair in her palm. Then at him.

“I’ll come back,” she promised, whispering. “I’m a better Occlumens than he’ll ever know.

He won’t see through me. I promise.” She looked at him one last time. Eyes fierce.Terrified. Glowing with love. “Please don’t hate me,” she whispered again. “I love you.”

And then she drank.

Her features blurred. Shifted. Bones cracked, robes grew. His face looked back at him.

She reached into the wardrobe and pulled one of his spares. Robes. Boots. Wand. And

she left. His door creaked closed. And Severus Snape, bound by magic, collapsed inside

—not from the spell, but from the weight of a fear he had never known until now.

She had gone in his place.

She had taken his death.

And there was nothing he could do to stop her. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream.

Couldn’t run after her. All he could do was lie there on the cold stone floor, paralyzed by

her spell — and by the unbearable knowledge of what she had done.

She had gone in his place. His little witch. His Ivy. Reckless, stubborn, brilliant Ivy — who

had never once obeyed him without an argument, who had somehow made herself the

centre of his world.

And now she was wearing his face. His robes. Carrying his fate. And he couldn’t be sure

what that meant.

He didn’t know if Voldemort had summoned him to kill him — not with certainty. The Dark

Lord had been distant. Unpredictable. Ever suspicious. It could have been a test. A

punishment. A trap. But it could also be death. And Ivy had walked straight into it.

What if he sees through the Polyjuice?

What if she says something wrong?

What if he tortures her for answers she doesn’t have?

What if she never comes back?

His pulse thundered. His thoughts raced like a thousand knives. She had promised she

would return; but she had also whispered goodbye.

And all Severus could do — bound and useless on the floor of his own office — was listen

to the echo of her last words as they rang over and over in his mind:

“Please don’t hate me.”

“Stay safe.”

“I love you.”

Chapter Text

Part II — Look at Me

(Harry’s POV)

They had barely caught up with him.

The lake shimmered under moonlight, poisoned with ash. The night sky groaned with spells

thrown from the ramparts of Hogwarts. But here, at the edge of the boathouse, the sounds of war

were distant — muffled, as if this place had slipped just outside of time.

Harry pressed his back to the damp stone wall, heart pounding. He could hear footsteps inside,

measured and soft. Then voices. Two of them. And the deep, unmistakable hiss of Nagini moving

through the shadows.

Snape was already there. And so was Voldemort.

“Stay here,” Harry whispered to Ron and Hermione. They both nodded, pale in the moonlight.

None of them dared to breathe.

From behind the half-shattered wooden wall, Harry peered through a crack.

Snape stood at attention, rigid, wand tucked away. His face was blank as ever, unreadable in the

flickering light. The torch by the door cast long shadows over his black robes. Nothing about him

seemed out of place. Except— Harry squinted.There was something in his expression. Not fear — not quite. Not the usual disdain either. But

something unfamiliar. Like… sorrow.

Before Harry could think about it, Voldemort spoke.

“It is nearly done, Severus,” he said, tone calm, almost conversational. “Harry Potter approaches

the castle even now. I will meet him… alone.”

Snape didn’t move. “My Lord,” he said quietly. “If I might—”

“You have done well,” Voldemort interrupted. “Better than most.”

Nagini slithered at his feet, her eyes glowing like lanterns. She was coiled tightly within the

magical sphere that floated beside the Dark Lord — her prison, her throne. Her executioner’s

cage.

Snape tilted his head, just slightly. Voldemort’s voice dropped.

“But the wand… the Elder Wand… it does not yield to me. It answers only to its master.”

Harry felt the chill grip his spine. He knew what was coming. He knew it before Voldemort raised

his hand.

“It will not serve me properly, Severus, because… you killed Dumbledore. The wand belongs to

you.”

A heartbeat. A breath.

“My Lord,” Snape said again, but this time it wasn’t defiance. It was disbelief. Pain. A flicker of

something — regret? Panic?

But Voldemort had already turned away.

“I regret it,” he said. “Truly.”

And the magical barrier dropped. The snake launched.

It happened so fast that Harry didn’t even have time to move — to react — to scream. Nagini

struck like lightning, her fangs sinking into Snape’s neck, again and again. Blood sprayed across

the stones, splattering the broken floorboards, the rotted boat wood.

Snape crumpled.

The Dark Lord didn’t even stay to watch him die. He turned. He left. Nagini slithered behind him,

leaving a glistening trail of blood in her wake.

And then they were alone.

Ron and Hermione burst from behind the wall as Harry dropped to his knees at the side of the

fallen man. Snape’s chest was rising in short, sharp jerks. Blood bubbled at his throat, frothing as

he struggled to breathe. One hand twitched feebly, reaching for Harry — or the air — or

something unseen.

His wand was nowhere to be found.

“Professor—!” Harry choked.

Snape’s eyes locked on his. Not with hatred. Not with contempt. With something else. Relief.

“Take… it…” he rasped, voice hoarse and bubbling.

A silvery-blue light streamed from his mouth and temple, the same as the memories Dumbledore

had once shown him. They drifted like smoke, shimmering.

Hermione was already ready with a vial, trembling fingers catching every thread.

Harry leaned closer, heart in his throat.

Snape’s fingers clutched his forearm, staining his skin with blood.

And then—those black eyes flicked upward.

“Look at me.”

Harry paused.

He thought, for a moment, it was a demand. But the words were so soft. So fragile. Barely even a

whisper. And it wasn’t the voice of the cold, cruel professor who had haunted his school days. It

was… gentler. Raw.

It didn’t feel like an order.

It felt like a plea.

And the eyes weren’t quite on his. They were tilted, slightly. Focused just above him. Toward—

Harry froze.

His glasses.

Reflected in the round lenses — distorted but clear — was Snape’s face.

And that was what he was looking at.

His own reflection. Or—no. Someone else’s. Someone looking out from behind that reflection.

Harry couldn’t explain the feeling. A strange, aching twist in his chest. He couldn’t name it, but he

felt it.

Whoever he was looking at — whoever was dying in front of him — wasn’t thinking of him.They were looking at the reflection of their own face. Severus Snape’s face. One last time.

And then—

Stillness.

The hand slackened.

The breath stopped.

The black eyes stared, unblinking, into the flickering rafters of the ruined boathouse.

Hermione choked on a sob behind him. Ron looked away.

Harry simply stared.

And somewhere, deep inside, the grief began to bloom. He didn’t understand why yet.

But he would.

Chapter Text

PART III — The Boathouse

The spell broke. Just like that. No incantation. No sound.
One moment Severus Snape was frozen mid-step, the world locked around him like glass—and
the next, it shattered. His knees buckled. His hands snapped forward to catch himself against the
stone wall. He gasped. For a moment, he could only stare at his fingers, flexing them. Breathing.
Moving. Then came the thought. It wore of.
His jaw clenched. His breath came shallow and fast.
It must’ve worn off naturally. That was it. The spell had a time limit. That was all. That’s all it was.
Not— Not because the witch who cast it… No. No, he would not think that.
He pushed away from the wall and broke into a run.
The castle around him was chaos. Stone corridors flickered with wandlight and fire, broken glass
crunched underfoot. Screams echoed from every direction, spells cracked through the air, the sky
outside the windows pulsed with lightning. But he ran through all of it—ignoring the cries, the
blood, the bodies. He only saw one face. Only heard one voice. Ivy. Ivy. Ivy.
Down the stairs. Past the fallen banister. Out through the shattered doors. Toward the lake.
The boathouse was barely lit, half-collapsed on one side, boards cracked and rotting from
neglect. Water lapped at the foundations with gentle, mocking indifference.
He reached the doors. Slammed through them.
And froze.
The boathouse smelled of damp wood and iron. And blood. Too much blood.
It spread across the warped planks in dark pools, catching the lamplight like spilled ink.
And in the middle of it—her. “Ivy!” The cry ripped through him before he knew he’d spoken.
She lay in the center of it all, small and motionless, his robes drowning her — sleeves too long,
collar torn, fabric dark with blood. Her hair had come loose, her true hair, red‑gold and tangled,
heavy with it. The Polyjuice was gone. Only she remained.
He dropped to his knees beside her, the boards slick beneath him. His breath hitched, sharp and
ragged.
“No—no no no—”
His fingers pressed to her neck, then to her wrist. Nothing.
He bent close, searching for the rise of her chest, for the faint whisper of breath. Nothing.
“Ivy, open your eyes… come on—please…”
His hand trembled as he brushed her hair from her face. She didn’t stir. Her skin was far too cold.
Then he saw it—the blood soaking her robes. All of it hers.
His eyes swept her body in panic. Frantically now, he ran his hands over her shoulders, down her
arms, her ribs, searching, pressing lightly, hoping—hoping—to feel a flinch, a breath, anything.
And then he found it. The gash at her throat. Two deep punctures, torn sideways into something
jagged. Blackened around the edges with venom. Blood still seeped from it, slow and thick,
slipping down her skin into the folds of his robe. His stomach turned. For a moment he couldn’t
breathe. Still—he pressed his palm against the wound. “Hold on. Just—hold on.” Her hand
brushed his. There was something in it. He pried her fingers open—and there it was. His wand.
It fell into his grip like it belonged there. Warm from her hand. He pointed it at her neck, hands
shaking. “Vulnera Sanentur!”
Golden light flickered. “Vulnera Sanentur!” Louder now. “Vulnera Sanentur!!”
The blood slowed for a moment… then surged again. The wounds remained open.
“No, no, come on—Rennervate!” he cried, desperation thick in his throat. “Rennervate!! Please—
please…”
Nothing. Only silence.
He dropped the wand. It clattered to the floor and rolled out of reach.
Then, slowly, he pulled her into his arms.
She was limp. Light. Too light. As if her bones had vanished and there was nothing left but cloth
and silence.
His robes swallowed her completely—black soaked in red. Her limbs hung awkwardly, her small
hand still slick with blood. Her curls—once so bright—were soaked now, clinging to her face and
neck. Sticky. Cold. And wrong.
She was so pale. As if there was no blood left to spill.
“No,” he whispered. “No no no…” His voice broke. His hands shook as they clutched her tighter.
“Please, Ivy… please.”
She was going to mock him. That’s what she’d do. She’d blink, wrinkle her nose, and complain
about the fuss. She’d call him old bat and pretend to be annoyed. And then she’d look at him like
she always did. Like he was worth something.
He waited. But she didn’t speak. Didn’t move.
“Ivy!!!”
His scream ripped through the boathouse like a blade, raw and broken, echoing off the wooden
beams until the sound collapsed into silence.
He bowed over her, forehead pressed to hers. His tears slipped down, warm against her cold skin.
“You promised me,” he whispered, shaking. “You said you’d come back. You said—”
Her face was too still. Her lips faintly blue. Her freckles barely visible, as if she had already begun
to fade.
“I can’t lose you,” he sobbed. “I’ve lost everyone. Everything. But I can’t lose you.”
His shoulders convulsed as he held her, as if he could keep her here through force of will alone.
“You stupid, impossible girl,” he breathed, his voice wrecked. “Why would you do this?”
But the lake stayed still.
And the girl in his arms—the only person who had ever truly, unconditionally loved him—did not
wake.

Chapter Text

Part IV — The Return

Dawn came and went.
The first light of morning slid across the lake in streaks of dull gold and grey. The battle was over.
The castle above still smoked, its windows hollow, its towers half‑broken against the sky. The
smell of ash clung to the air.
And still Severus knelt on the floor of the boathouse.
He had not moved since the night. His body ached from the cold; his legs had long gone numb,
but he didn’t notice. He simply held her—his Ivy—curled in his arms as if letting go might make
her fade completely.
Her skin was so pale now. So horribly pale. As if the blood had fled not just her veins but the
world around her. His robes, heavy with dried scarlet, clung stiffly to both of them. The dark cloth
hid the wound, but he could still feel the stickiness beneath his fingers, the crusted warmth turned
to chill. So cold; so wrong.
He brushed a thumb along her cheek again, tracing the line of freckles that the dawn light barely
touched. There was no softness left in her skin. The last traces of warmth had long been stolen by
the night.
Above the lake, the muffled thunder of voices rose and fell—searching parties moving across the
grounds. He barely heard them. His ears were full of silence, that heavy, endless silence that had
taken her place.
But then—a sound. Boots against wood. The crackle of magic sparking faintly as a lantern
bobbed closer.
“Who’s there?” a voice called. Sharp. Firm.
He didn’t answer.
“Identify yourself!”
The footsteps drew nearer. Then stopped. There was a breath of stunned quiet, and then—
“M‑Merlin’s beard—!”
The lantern light flared, spilling gold across the wreckage, catching the line of his shoulders and
the black of his hair.
“Severus?”
He looked up slowly. His eyes were hollow, his face streaked with dried blood and tears.
“Severus, you—” The voice broke. “You’re alive?!”
It was Minerva.
She stood frozen in the doorway, wand raised half‑way, her expression caught between disbelief
and horror. Behind her, the first rays of dawn painted the ruined floorboards, the water, and the
shape in his arms.
Her breath left her in a single, strangled gasp. “Oh… gods…”
The girl in his arms. Blonde hair. Barely more than a child. Her face slack in death, cheek pressed
against his chest. Minerva knew her; of course she did: Ivy.
Bright. Talented. Always in the library. Always near him.
And now— Her wand still clutched in her pale fingers, her lips tinged blue, a trail of dried blood
down her throat.
And Severus—he was clinging to her like a man drowning. His face buried in her hair, his eyes red
and hollow, sunken into a mask of grief so deep Minerva couldn’t breathe.
She took a slow step forward.
“Severus…” she whispered, voice trembling now. “What happened?”
He still didn’t look up.
Her voice cracked. “What did she do?”
Finally, he moved. Not to speak, but to press a kiss to Ivy’s forehead.
When he did speak, his voice was barely a ghost: “She saved me.”
He clutched her tighter. “She wore my face… and she saved me.”
Minerva’s hand flew to her mouth. Her eyes blurred. “Oh, child…” she breathed, looking at Ivy.
She sank to her knees beside them, slow, gentle, like approaching a wounded animal.
Her hand rested lightly on his back. “I’m so sorry, Severus.”
But he couldn’t hear her.
He was still rocking her slightly, back and forth, as if trying to lull her back to life.
And the sun kept rising.
And the world kept turning.
And still, Severus Snape knelt on the floor, holding the girl who had given her life to save him.
And he would not let her go.
Minerva’s voice was quiet at first, as if afraid any louder sound might shatter him completely.
“Come, Severus. You can’t stay here. Are you injured?”
He didn’t answer.
She tried again, her throat tight.
“W‑we need to move he—”
“No.”
The single word cut through the air like a blade.
He didn’t look at her. Didn’t blink. His fingers only tightened around Ivy’s shoulders, keeping her
close against him.
“No one touches her,” he whispered. His voice trembled, barely human. “No one.”
The light from the open door glinted in his eyes—dark and wild, fevered with something that
wasn’t reason anymore.
“Severus—”
“She’s mine.”
Minerva flinched at the rawness in his tone.
“Nobody is taking her from me. Do you understand?”
He pressed his face into her hair again, breathing in what little of her scent remained—the faint
trace of lavender, of parchment, of smoke and life. He could almost trick himself into believing
she’d stir, that she’d mutter about his dramatics and shove at him, rolling her eyes like always.
She was his child. His family. His miracle.
She was going to call him old bat and tell him to stop fussing.
She couldn’t die. She would never die. Not Ivy. Never Ivy.
The silence of the boathouse swallowed them both. Minerva stood frozen in the doorway, the
morning wind ruffling her cloak, her wand hand trembling uselessly at her side.
Outside, the lake glittered faintly in the growing light. The echoes of victory still drifted from the
castle—cheers, cries, the sound of survivors embracing—but down here, by the water, there was
only one sound left:Severus’s quiet, broken whisper.
“No one takes her from me.”
There was a long silence.
Minerva remained still, eyes on the shattered man before her, and when Severus finally spoke, his
voice was low. Distant.
“We spotted a cottage,” he murmured, as if talking more to Ivy than to her. “Up in the Scottish
forest. Middle of nowhere. You wouldn’t even find it without knowing exactly where to look.”
His hand shifted slightly—brushing a strand of her hair back from her brow.
“She promised me she’d have me buy it once the war was over,” he whispered. “Said I needed a
beautiful place to live in peace… once everything was over.”
Minerva’s heart ached. She said nothing.
“She said she’d return every weekend while she studied at St. Mungo’s. Every weekend.”
His throat worked around a sound that never made it out.
“She told me not to be a recluse. Said she’d bring groceries. Books. Biscuits. Said I’d complain,
and she’d ignore me, and I’d sit in a chair and pretend I hated it all—just like always.”
He let out something like a laugh, but it cracked too soon.
Minerva took a slow breath, blinking hard.
“Oh, Severus…”
He didn’t answer. His eyes never left Ivy’s face. His hand never stopped holding hers.
The lake lapped faintly against the stone below.
Outside, the war was over.
But inside the boathouse, time stood still.
“I never thought I’d know what it meant to be a father,” he whispered after a long while, the words
trembling loose from somewhere deep inside him.
His thumb brushed the back of her hand, tracing the faint grooves of her knuckles, the same way
he used to when she fell asleep over her textbooks in his office.
“She’s insufferable,” he said, almost to himself. “And stubborn. And so damn fierce.”
The corners of his mouth twitched — not quite a smile, not even a ghost of one — just a memory
of what one might have been.
“She never shuts up when she’s certain she’s right. And Merlin forbid she ever is right. I’ve never
met anyone who could talk me into anything the way she could…”
His voice cracked, slipping lower. “She’d sit on the edge of my desk, humming to herself,
pretending not to wait for praise… ridiculous girl…”
He swallowed hard, staring at her still face.
“You need to wake,” he moaned, leaning closer, his forehead resting against hers. “Ivy. Please…
y‑you need to wake.”
His voice trembled now, breaking apart with every breath.
“W‑we can go to the cottage now. Like you promised.”
His grip on her tightened. “You’ll see it,” he whispered fiercely, his breath hitching. “You’ll tell me I
chose the wrong curtains, that I’m impossible, that the tea’s too strong — you’ll sit by the window
with your damned books and laugh when I scowl at you. You’ll—”
His voice failed him. The words dissolved.
He buried his face in her hair, rocking her gently as the sunlight crept higher through the open
door.
The war was over.
But he had lost everything that made peace worth it.
“Please, Ivy…”
His voice cracked so hard on her name it barely sounded like speech.
He drew her tighter against his chest, as if by sheer force of will he could warm her, breathe life
back into her, undo the world itself. Her small frame remained limp in his arms, far too still, far too
light.
“I’ll spoil you rotten,” he whispered, shaking. “You always said I didn’t know how, but I’ll learn. I’ll
do it right. I’ll buy you stupid things, and books you already own, and let you eat cake for dinner if
that’s what you want—”
His hand found hers again, small and icy in his grasp. He pressed it to his cheek.
“I’ll burst with pride for every achievement you make,” he choked. “Every single one. I’ll write
letters to the Prophet if they don’t publish your research. I’ll stand in the front row at your oath
ceremony.”
“I’ll wipe any tear you cry,” he promised, breathless now. “I’ll make you tea and brush your hair
and mend every stupid jumper you ruin and curse every bastard who even looks at you wrong—”
He paused, throat tight. The silence pressed in again, thick as smoke.
“I’ll always be there for you.” He closed his eyes.
“A‑always.”
There was no reply.
She lay still in his lap, cradled like something broken beyond repair.
“You deserve the world,” he whispered, and then louder, voice rising with something like fury, like
grief sharpened to a blade— “I‑Ivy—!” He clutched her shoulders. “E‑enough. It’s time to wake.”
But the only answer was silence.
The world outside kept brightening.
The lake kept breathing.
The war was over.
And Ivy Skyes did not wake.
Minerva saw two wars and far too many deaths. But none broke her heart like that scene.
The dawn was almost bright now; the lake shimmered with pale light. Mist coiled across its
surface like breath, hiding the blood that still stained the water near the boathouse.
“S‑Severus,” she whispered after a while, her voice raw. “The tide is rising. W‑we need to leave.”
He didn’t react at first. Just sat there, rocking slightly, the motion almost imperceptible. His hand
smoothed Ivy’s hair again and again, as though he could tame the chaos of it one last time.
The waves lapped higher against the planks, touching the hem of his robe. The air smelled of salt
and iron and loss.
“Severus,” Minerva said again, crouching beside him now. “Please. The water’s coming in.”
For a long moment she thought he wouldn’t move at all. Then, slowly—like something ancient
creaking back to life—he rose to his feet, still holding Ivy against his chest.
She looked weightless in his arms. The sleeves of his robe fluttered loose around her small frame;
her head rested against his shoulder, hair spilling down his arm in copper ribbons dulled by blood.
Minerva stepped back to give him space. He didn’t look at her, didn’t seem to notice the lake, or
the light, or anything at all beyond the girl he carried.
Without a word, he started walking. Each step up the slope was heavy, deliberate, leaving dark
prints on the grass. The faint cheers from the castle drifted down—voices celebrating the end of
war, the victory, the fall of Voldemort—but here, in the morning haze, victory was meaningless.
Minerva followed a few paces behind, silent. She watched the way his shoulders shook every few
steps, the way his head bent protectively over the girl in his arms.
No one who saw them would have mistaken his grief for anything less than love.
They reached the castle grounds. Survivors still moved among the wreckage—searching, healing,
counting the dead. Heads turned as they passed, whispers rising, then fading to hushes as
recognition struck.
Severus Snape, alive.
And the girl in his arms—pale, still, her hand dangling from beneath his robes.
He didn’t stop. Not until they reached the Great Hall.
The vast doors stood open; inside, rows of cots filled the marble floor, healers moving like ghosts
between them. The banners of every House hung scorched and torn above, fluttering in the dawn
breeze.
He stood in the doorway. And there—under the fractured light of morning—Severus Snape
paused. His legs almost gave out. Not from pain. Not from grief. But because part of him still
believed—if he waited just a little longer—she might lift her head. Look up. Call him “old bat.”
Pretend to scold him for fussing. Smile at him like he was her entire world.
But she didn’t. So he stepped inside.

Chapter Text

Part V — The Great Hall

The Great Hall had been transformed into something unrecognizable.

The long tables were gone. In their place stood neat rows of cots and blankets, potion racks and

blood‑soaked bandages. Candles still floated overhead—burning low, their flames quiet, reverent.

The stained‑glass windows spilled fractured light across the floor.

One side of the hall belonged to the living. Healers moved from bed to bed with practiced

urgency, their hands slick with dittany and blood. Poppy Pomfrey stood at the center, barking

orders through exhaustion. Her apron was crimson to the elbows.

But the far corner was still.

The dead.

They lay beneath enchanted white linens, some alone, some surrounded by family and friends.

Fred Weasley. Tonks. Remus Lupin. Colin Creevey. And more. So many more.

The air was heavy with sobs already spent; with the numbness that follows the end of screaming.

Severus did not look at them. He carried Ivy toward the side still fighting for life, past the cots,

past the crowd of mediwizards, straight to Poppy Pomfrey.

“Move,” he rasped.

A witch gasped. Poppy froze mid‑stride.

“She’s wounded,” he said hoarsely. “Help her.”

Poppy took one uncertain step forward. “Severus—”

Pomfrey’s breath trembled. “Let me see her.”

He hesitated for a heartbeat—then knelt. He laid Ivy down on the nearest cot with painful care, as

if she might wake if jostled. Her head lolled to the side; her skin had that too‑still pallor. Her robes

were soaked through with dark blood, dried around the punctures in her chest and shoulder.

But her face—

Her face looked peaceful. Like she was only resting.

Poppy was already moving, her wand gliding above Ivy’s chest in precise sweeps. Diagnostic

spells shimmered, vanished. Her brow furrowed deeper with each one.

“Well?” Severus breathed. He hovered above them, his hands clenched into fists. “Well?”

Pomfrey swallowed hard. Her voice was heartbreakingly kind.

“There’s… no heartbeat, Severus.”

“No,” he said immediately, shaking his head. “No, that doesn’t mean—”

“There’s no magical aura either,” she continued softly. “Her magical signature is completely

extinguished.”

He staggered back, as if the words had struck him physically.

“She’s gone, Severus.” Poppy’s eyes shimmered. “I’m so sorry.”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. No sound came out.

Still kneeling beside the cot, he looked down at Ivy’s face once more. The blood had dried. Her

lips were pale. Her body had long since cooled. But some part of him still expected her to

breathe. To blink. To stir.

He reached out slowly, brushing her knuckles with the back of his hand.

And in a voice that sounded more like a lost boy than a war‑hardened man, he whispered again:

“She said she’d come back.”

Then silence. Deafening.

“You’re a healer, aren’t you?!” The scream ripped from his throat with such ferocity that half the

Great Hall turned. “Heal her!!!”

His voice cracked, but the raw, desperate force of it thundered across the stone walls. It wasn’t

just pain—it was rage, grief, refusal. The sound of a man coming undone.

Poppy froze mid‑spell. Her wand trembled. Her lips parted, but no words came out.

Severus was standing over Ivy’s still form now, fists clenched at his sides, shoulders shaking like a

building about to collapse. His eyes burned—not with fire, but with tears he refused to let fall.

“You heal children, don’t you?” he spat. “Scraped knees. Broken arms. Cursed bones. You’ve

done it all. You’ve fixed everyone. Fix her!”

He slammed both hands down onto the edge of the cot, the wood rattling beneath the force.

“You don’t get to look at her and tell me you’re sorry. You don’t get to pity her—DO

SOMETHING!”“Severus,” Poppy said gently, trying to keep her voice steady though her own hands were

trembling. “Please. I—I did. I’ve scanned for every signature, every trace—there’s nothing left.

There’s no magic in her anymore. She’s—”

“She’s not gone!” he shouted, voice sharp enough to cut. “She’s not! She—she made tea last

week. She left her bloody sketchbook open on my desk. She wrote me a note that said ‘Stop

being a broody bat.’ She said she’d come back!”

His breath hitched violently.

“I never told her it was alright. I never told her—” he faltered, eyes darting down to her still face. “I

never told her I was proud of her.”

Poppy moved slowly, kneeling beside the cot, her voice thick with sorrow. “She knew, Severus.”

His head shook.

“I couldn’t stopped her,” he whispered. “I should’ve stopped her.”

His voice rose again, tipping back toward fury. “You don’t understand. She was mine. She—she

called me her family. I never wanted anything. And then she gave me everything. And now you

stand there and—”

He turned on her again, towering, unhinged, barely able to hold himself together.

“You call yourself a healer and you can’t even save her? The only good thing I’ve ever had—!”

Poppy reached out, placed a hand on his forearm. She didn’t flinch when he pulled away.

“There are things no magic can undo,” she said softly. “And it’s cruel. I know that. But she gave

her life to save you. She chose that. Not out of duty. Not because of the war. Because she loved

you.”

He collapsed back down beside the cot, his hands trembling as he reached for Ivy’s once more.

He brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them.

Poppy’s eyes blurred. She reached for her wand to cast a preservation charm, but Severus

stopped her with a glare.

“Not yet,” he rasped. “Please… not yet.”

He bowed his head again, and the scream was gone now—replaced with silence and the

unbearable weight of what could never be undone.

First, there had been denial—violent and furious, digging its heels into the impossible. Refusing to

let go. Refusing to believe.

Then rage—howling, wild, directionless. A storm of grief hurled at the world, at Poppy, at himself.

A desperate need to lash out at something—anything—that wasn’t her.

And now—Now there was only grief.

Severus’s voice broke apart, soft and shattered. He knelt beside the cot, shoulders hunched over

Ivy’s still form, the bloodstained fabric of his robes clinging to his arms and chest. His head was

bowed, but his tears fell freely now, one after another, landing in small, glistening drops on her

cheek, her temple, the hand he refused to let go of.

“Please, Poppy…”

It wasn’t a command anymore.

It wasn’t anger.

It was pleading.

“Please do something.” His voice trembled so badly he could barely speak. “Please… help her.

Please. I don’t know how to—” He sucked in a shaking breath. “I don’t know how to be in a world

without her in it.”

The Hall had grown silent. All around him, people watched in stunned stillness—the students who

feared him, the colleagues who misunderstood him, the strangers who had only ever seen the

shadow of a man.

Now they saw the truth: a man broken open at the center. Not a professor, not a spy, not a war

hero: just a father, grieving the loss of his child.

“She’s my Ivy,” he whispered, his voice strangled with tears. “She… she made me tea every

morning, even when I told her not to. She filled the cottage with noise and clutter and laughter.

She’d pester me about using cinnamon in everything and—” He sobbed, trying to catch his

breath. “She was alive, Poppy. So bloody alive. She called me an old bat and smiled like I was

worth something. And now I—”

He broke off, crumbling inward. He pressed her cold fingers to his mouth, then to his forehead, as

though she might bless him one last time.

“Ivy,” he moaned softly, voice barely audible. “My clever girl. My little witch. Please wake up. You

promised.”Poppy Pomfrey wiped her face quickly with the edge of her sleeve, but the tears kept coming.

Slowly, she knelt beside him, placing a hand on his back—not to move him, not yet—but simply

to be there.

“There’s nothing I want more,” she said, voice cracking. “If there were anything left to do,

Severus, I would. You know I would.”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. He just shook silently, holding Ivy’s hand to his chest like it was the

only thing keeping him breathing.

And across the Great Hall, no one dared to speak, because in that moment, even the survivors

mourned her; not because she had died, but because someone had loved her this much.

He looked up suddenly, eyes wild and rimmed red, breath shuddering through him like the last

gasp of a drowning man.

His voice cracked as it rose, trembling and desperate—so raw that it cut through the murmuring

of the Hall like glass breaking.

“C‑can anyone help my Ivy?”

Every head turned. Every wand hand faltered.

“P‑please,” he begged, his gaze sweeping frantically from face to face—students, healers,

professors, strangers. It didn’t matter who they were, didn’t matter which side they’d fought on.

“Please—someone must—someone can! You’re witches, wizards—you do magic! Then do it!”

He was crying openly now. Great, shaking sobs that tore through the mask he had worn his entire

life.

“I‑I’ll give you anything,” he stammered. “Anything you want—gold, tomes, secrets—take my

wand, take my life if you must, just—” he turned in a circle, searching the crowd, eyes full of

terrified hope— “please, please someone help my I‑Ivy…”

He tried to lift her again, as though maybe if he held her high enough, if he showed her to the

world, someone might see what he saw—the life, the fire, the girl who had filled every dark corner

of him with light.

“She’s clever,” he cried, voice breaking. “She’s so clever. She wanted to be a healer, she was

going to be one of you. Please, she just needs—she just—” His words dissolved into a sob that

strangled him mid‑sentence.

Around him, the crowd had begun to weep too. A young Hufflepuff girl pressed her hands to her

mouth; an Auror bowed his head; Minerva’s eyes shimmered with tears she couldn’t hold back.

And Poppy… Poppy stood there trembling, her wand lowered, her face twisted in helplessness.

“Severus,” she whispered, stepping closer. “There’s nothing left to bring back. Her body’s gone

cold. Her soul—”

He shook his head violently. “No! Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare!” His voice cracked again,

higher this time. “She’s my child! You understand? She’s the only good thing I’ve ever done in this

miserable life and you’re all standing here doing nothing!”

He collapsed to his knees again beside the cot, clutching Ivy to his chest as though the force of

his arms might anchor her soul back into her body. His words came in broken gasps now.

“Please… please, anyone… help her. She can’t die, not Ivy. Not my Ivy…”

His body shook with sobs. The crowd stayed silent.

And then, slowly, Minerva stepped forward and knelt beside him. Her voice was soft, trembling,

the words barely holding together.

“She’s beyond magic now, Severus.”

He pressed his face into Ivy’s hair, his voice muffled and small.

“Then what good is magic…” he whispered. “If it can’t bring her back?”

No one answered.

Chapter Text

Part VI – The Morning After

“Severus,” Minerva whispered, her voice barely carrying in the vast silence of the Great Hall.

It was the next day. The sun had risen, crossed the sky, and was already beginning its slow

descent again. The wounded had been moved to the Hospital Wing. The dead had been taken for

burial. The castle was quiet now—eerily so—save for the occasional creak of shifting rubble and

the soft lap of water against the outer walls.

And still, he had not moved.He sat slumped against the stone dais where the staff table once stood, Ivy cradled in his arms.

His robes had dried stiff with blood and lakewater. His hair clung in tangled strands to his face, his

eyes sunken and red, his skin ashen. The faint breeze that drifted through the broken windows

stirred her hair across his sleeve—but she did not move. She had not moved for hours.

She was beyond cold now; beyond pale.

Her body had gone rigid sometime during the long hours of dawn, and still he held her as though

afraid she would slip away if he loosened his grip.

Minerva stepped carefully between the fallen beams and scattered benches until she stood

beside him. Her wand hand trembled. She lowered herself to her knees, her joints protesting

softly.

“Severus,” she said again, quieter. “You need to let her go.”

He didn’t look up. His thumb traced slow circles on the back of Ivy’s hand—tiny, mechanical

movements that made her fingers rock slightly, the way one might soothe a sleeping child.

“She’s cold,” he murmured, his voice hoarse from weeping. “She’ll catch a chill. She never listens

when I tell her to keep warm.”

Minerva swallowed hard, her eyes glistening. “Severus… she’s gone.”

He shook his head once, slow, stubborn. “No.” His voice was low, almost gentle. “She’s resting.

She’s tired, that’s all. She worked too hard. Always worked too hard.”

He shifted her slightly, trying to tuck her closer, as if that could coax life back into her. The stiff

joints resisted him. He froze, staring down at her arm—unnaturally rigid now—and something

deep inside him cracked.

“No…” The word came out as a broken breath. He stared at her, truly seeing her for the first time

in the morning light: her lips blue, her skin waxen, her hair brittle where dried blood clung. The

reality that he had been holding off for nearly a day came crashing down all at once.

He bent over her, shaking, a choked sound tearing from his throat—half‑moan, half‑sob.

“I can’t,” he whispered. “I can’t let her go. She’ll be frightened. She hates being alone.”

Minerva reached out, resting a trembling hand on his shoulder. “She isn’t alone, Severus,” she

said softly. “She never was. You gave her everything she needed. You gave her love.”

He turned his head toward her, eyes wild, wet, desperate. “I promised her the cottage,” he

rasped. “She said she’d come every weekend. She said she’d make tea and fill the place with

noise. I—I can still do it. I can keep her warm there. She doesn’t have to—”

His voice failed him. His chest heaved.

Minerva squeezed his shoulder gently. “Let her rest now, my dear boy. You’ve done enough.

You’ve kept your promise.”

He didn’t answer. He just bowed his head over Ivy’s lifeless form, his tears dripping onto her hair.

The afternoon light spilled across them, pale and golden. Dust floated in the air like falling snow.

Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled softly.

He moved like an old man—stiff, aching in places grief had hollowed out.

With hands that shook, Severus leaned over the cot where he had laid her the day before. Gently,

reverently, he adjusted her head so that it rested against the clean pillow someone had placed

there. A preservation charm, likely Poppy’s, had halted the signs of decay—but not the silence.

Not the stillness.

He smoothed her hair back, fingertips ghosting over her temple. The locks were dull now, lacking

their usual shine, but still her. Still his Ivy.

He bent down and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger there for a moment longer than

necessary. Her skin was ice.

He closed his eyes against the sting.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he whispered, low and hoarse, voice cracking on the final word.

He brushed the backs of his fingers across her cheek one last time.

“Wait for me, little one. I’ll be by your side in a moment. I promise.”

Then, slowly—achingly slowly—he turned. His robes were stiff, shoulders hunched, face pale and

lined with more years than he should have worn. But when he spoke next, his voice had steadied.

Just barely.

“Where’s Potter?” he asked, facing Minerva.

She looked up at him from where she had remained quietly by the edge of the cot. There were

tears drying on her cheeks, but she had not dared interrupt. Her grief was fierce—but his was

shattering.Now, she met his eyes. He looked as though he hadn’t slept, hadn’t eaten, hadn’t breathed

without pain in days. And still—somehow—he was standing. Straight-backed, hollow-eyed, but

burning with something underneath.

“He’s in your— in the the Headmaster’s office,” she said softly. “With the others. They’ve been—

discussing arrangements. Plans. Names.”

“He’s waiting to speak with you.”

Severus nodded once, a slow, grave tilt of his head. He turned toward the doors, his steps

uneven, heavy. But not from injury—he had long stopped noticing pain. He did not look back at

Ivy. Not because he could bear to leave her— But because if he did, he knew he wouldn’t walk

away at all.

Dumbledore’s office still smelled faintly of smoke and old parchment. The portraits along the walls

whispered to one another, low and uneasy, as Severus entered. The light from the high windows

cut across the floor, pale and cold.

He stood just inside the door, every inch of him composed—the black of his robes immaculate

even beneath the grime and blood. Ten minutes ago, he had knelt beside Ivy’s cot and placed his

wand beside her hand, tucking it there as though she might still reach for it. Now, he had nothing

left to hold.

“Out,” he said to the cluster of people gathered there. Everyone looked up sharply.

“I need a moment with the boy. Alone.”

Something in his tone left no room for argument. It wasn’t anger, nor command—it was finality.

The kind that made even the portraits fall silent.

A couple people hesitated, eyes flicking from Severus’s hollow face to Harry’s confusion, but one

by one they filed out, the door closing with a soft click.

The room felt suddenly smaller, quieter.

Severus turned. He looked at the boy—no, the young man—standing across from him.

The same messy black hair, the same thin frame and Lily’s eyes—green, luminous,

heartbreakingly familiar.

He had kept his promise. He had protected those eyes. Protected her child.

And yet, as that realisation clawed through him, it hollowed him further.

He had saved Lily’s son… but not his own.

The pain of it was a blade in his chest, twisting slow and deep.

But his face didn’t show it. He forced his mouth into that same old sneer, the one that had been

his armor for decades.

“Well,” he drawled softly. “Here I am, Potter. Finally.”

Harry blinked, wary, uncertain.

Severus’s voice didn’t waver.

“I killed Dumbledore. In front of you.”

He pulled back his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark, still black and stark against his skin.

“I am a Death Eater. Probably the only one still free.” His words were sharp, deliberate. “I

managed to fool everyone—and I still do.”

The portraits stirred uneasily, but he ignored them.

“Enough lies,” he continued, his tone quieter now, almost tired. “I’m done with masks. My master

is dead. The war is over. And I—” he took a slow breath, his eyes flicking briefly to the empty

space where Ivy’s voice should have been—“I am tired.”

He took a single step closer, his expression unreadable.

“I told the Dark Lord about the prophecy,” he said simply. “He came after your family because of

me.”

Harry’s eyes widened; his mouth opened, but Severus raised a hand, silencing him before he

could speak.

“Make it even,” he said, spreading his arms. His voice was calm now, steady in its surrender. “Kill

me. Avenge everyone. End this.”

He stood there, unarmed, wandless, utterly still.

Inside, his thoughts whispered, a litany he could not say aloud.

Make me reach my Ivy.

Please. Let it be enough.

The room was silent but for the faint ticking of an old brass clock and the ragged sound of his

own breath.

Harry didn’t move; didn’t raise his wand.Severus waited. And for the first time in his life, he hoped for death not out of self‑hatred, but out

of love. For a girl who called him “old bat.” For the only child he had ever truly had.

“Do it, Potter!”

The words cracked through the room like a whip. The portraits flinched, their painted eyes wide.

Severus’s voice rose, a raw, savage sound that came from somewhere deep—too deep—for

control. He took a step forward, arms still spread wide, his chest heaving.

“You’ve always wanted me dead!” he roared. “DO IT!!”

Harry staggered back a half step, wand trembling in his hand. The fury in Severus’s tone, the

desperation—it wasn’t the cold, venomous spite he remembered from school. It was something

else. Something unbearable.

“Go on!” Severus shouted again, voice breaking. “You want revenge for your father? For your

mother? For every insult, every curse, every humiliation? Here I am!” He struck his own chest hard

with his open hand. “The murderer of Dumbledore! The man who delivered your parents to their

deaths! You think me a monster—THEN ACT LIKE A HERO AND KILL ME!”

The last words tore from him as a shriek, half‑anger, half‑anguish. He was shaking now, shoulders

heaving with every breath.

Harry’s wand arm wavered, but he couldn’t raise it any higher. “No,” he said hoarsely. “I know

what you did. I saw your memories. You—”

Severus’s eyes widened—shocked, furious, maybe even betrayed. Then he laughed—a horrible,

broken sound. “Then you know how much blood is on my hands!”

He stumbled forward another step, his hair falling into his face, eyes fever‑bright. “You know what

I told him. You know how many I watched die. You know that even when I tried to atone, it wasn’t

enough! And still I—” He stopped, gasping, his throat tightening.

His voice dropped to a whisper.

“And still I couldn’t protect her.”

The silence that followed was heavy. His arms fell slowly to his sides.

He looked utterly spent now—eyes hollow, breath unsteady, chest rising and falling with ragged

effort. “You don’t understand,” he whispered. “I did everything I was told. I did everything I could.

And in the end, I saved her son… but not mine.”

Harry’s brows furrowed, confusion flickering across his face. “Your…?”

Severus’s mouth trembled. He swallowed hard, forcing the words out. “She called me her family,”

he said. “She was… my daughter in every way that mattered. And I let her die.”

He took another step forward until he stood barely a pace away, his eyes bright with tears. “So kill

me, Potter. Please.”

The boy didn’t move. His wand stayed lowered.

“I can’t,” Harry whispered.

Severus stared at him for a long moment—his jaw trembling, his hands shaking violently at his

sides. And then, finally, his expression crumbled. The mask slipped.

“Then I’m already dead,” he said softly.

“You mean…” Harry swallowed, trying to piece the memory together. “The person I saw dying in

the boathouse. The one I thought was you…” Harry paused, horrified.

“…it was her?”

The silence that followed was answer enough.

Harry’s wand-hand dropped to his side completely. He felt cold. Like the wind had gone right

through him. The boathouse. The blood. The body crumpled to the ground, black hair, black

robes, the low whisper—“Look at me”—

He’d thought… he’d believed it had been Severus. That he had died to deliver those memories.

That his final act had been selfless. That he—

But it wasn’t. It wasn’t him.

Severus slowly turned his head. His face was grey. Hollow. A ghost of the man Harry had once

hated, once doubted.

“She wore my face,” he said, quietly now. “She took my wand. She petrified me. Said she knew

what I had to do, that I needed to survive long enough to reach you.”

Harry’s lips parted, stunned. “She… chose that?”

A flicker of something passed through Severus’s face—too raw for words. Grief, guilt, awe.

“She said it was her turn to save me.” His voice cracked on the last word.Harry didn’t speak. He couldn’t. His stomach turned. The image replayed in his mind—the person

bleeding out before him, the weight of the memory vial, the whisper—Look at me.

And now he understood. It hadn’t been to see his eyes. It had been to see herself—to see the

face she had worn one last time, reflected in the glass of his lenses.

“That’s why you said she was your daughter…” Harry murmured, heart sinking. “And I—I just—”

“You watched her die,” Severus whispered, voice as brittle as dry leaves. “You watched her die

and never even knew her name.”

Harry’s chest tightened. “I’m sorry,” he said, barely able to get it out. “I didn’t—I didn’t know. I

thought it was you. I didn’t know what she—what she gave.”

Severus’s hands curled into fists, not out of anger but restraint.

“She was seventeen,” he said, staring blankly at the wall beyond Harry. “She had dreams. She

had plans. She wanted to be a healer. She was supposed to have a life.”

He took a trembling breath. “Instead, she died pretending to be me.”

Harry felt something crumble inside him. All the victories, all the celebrations—they rang hollow

now.

“Ivy,” Severus said softly, barely audible. “Her name was Ivy.”

The name echoed between them.

“Professor Snape…”

The title hit him like a memory, and for once, it didn’t feel like mockery.

Harry stepped closer, his voice barely more than a whisper now. “She… her last words were ‘look

at me.’”

Severus turned, slowly—eyes wide and hollow, braced for pain and yet not prepared for this.

“She wasn’t really looking at me,” Harry went on, his words quiet, careful. “Not… not my eyes, I

mean.”

He fidgeted, reached up to touch the rim of his glasses. His voice shook.

“I think she was looking at the reflection. In the lenses.”

Severus’s lips parted. His shoulders sagged.

“I think…” Harry swallowed. “I think she wanted to see your face. One last time.”

A pause. Then softer still:

“Your eyes.”

The Hall seemed to vanish. The sunlight. The portraits. The war. All of it.

Only that image remained.

Ivy…

Covered in his robes, wearing his face, bleeding, dying—choosing to die—so he could live.

And in her final moment…

She looked not at the world she was leaving.

Not at the boy she was saving.

But for the man she loved.

The man who had raised her in everything but name.

The only family she’d had.

His knees buckled before he realized they had. He sank into the nearest chair like gravity had

finally won. One hand covered his mouth. The other trembled violently on his knee.

“She was looking for me,” he whispered into the silence. “Even at the end… she was looking for

me.”

The words broke him.

Shattered him.

Because he had not been there.

He hadn’t held her hand. He hadn’t seen her eyes.

He hadn’t whispered back.

And yet… she had found a way. She had found him anyway.

Tears slipped silently down his face. He didn’t try to hide them.

“She wasn’t afraid,” Harry said quietly. “She was… she looked calm.”

He paused, voice thickening. “She was thinking of you. That much I’m sure of.”

Severus stared at the far wall, but he wasn’t seeing it. He was seeing a girl with stubborn eyes

and wild laughter. A girl who made tea that tasted like flowers. Who called him old bat. Who never

stopped believing in him.And who—

even as death closed in—

searched for his face one last time.

His hand fell to his lap, limp.

“Thank you,” he said. It was barely more than breath. “Thank you… for telling me.”

It was the first time in decades he had spoken to a Potter without venom.

“I don’t think that someone that looked at your reflection the way she did would want you to die,

Professor”

Severus closed his eyes.

Those words—spoken softly, carefully, without any hint of mockery—landed with more force than

any curse ever had. The room was still. His breath caught again, sharp and uneven.

She had looked at him with love. Even in her last moment. Especially in her last moment.

Not with fear, not with regret, not with anger at the world for ending too soon. But with peace.

With the quiet comfort of someone who knew they were looking at home.

He opened his eyes and looked at Harry—really looked at him.

And for the first time, there was no trace of bitterness in his expression. Only weariness. Grief.

And something close to… reverence.

“You saw it,” he whispered.

It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of quiet awe.

Harry nodded, gently. “Yeah.”

He looked down at his hands, unsure how to carry the weight of what he was saying.

“She was in pain, but she wasn’t scared. Not really. She knew what she was doing. She meant

every word.”

Severus's eyes burned, and he didn’t bother to wipe the tears this time.

“She gave everything,” he said, barely audible. “And I… I nearly threw it away. Begging for death

like a coward.”

Harry stepped forward, just one pace, but enough.

“She gave you her life,” he said. “I think what she’d want back… is yours.”

Severus flinched slightly, as if the words struck too deep.

“Without her, I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Harry’s voice didn’t waver. “Then figure it out. For her.”

Severus sat in silence. His fists slowly uncurled. He didn’t answer, not yet.

But he reached into his pocke and pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment—the last note

she had left on his desk before the battle. Her loopy handwriting, smudged in one corner with tea:

Don’t be late for breakfast, old bat. I made scones.

You better eat one or I’ll hex you.

Love, your favourite gremlin.

His fingers shook as he held it and for the first time in hours, he exhaled.

Maybe he wouldn’t join her today.

Maybe not tomorrow either.

Maybe—somewhere down the line—he could still honour her by living.

For her.

For the cottage.

For Saturday mornings with bad tea and worse scones.

Harry watched him in silence.

And Severus whispered, to no one and everyone all at once:

“…She’d hex me for giving up.”

Severus stood.

Not with his usual stiffness, nor with the weight of old war wounds, but with the quiet, solemn

resolve of a man stepping into the aftermath of everything he thought he’d never survive.

He looked at Harry—Lily’s eyes watching him closely, curiously. There was understanding there

now. A bridge neither of them had expected to cross.

And then, with a voice low, steady, and achingly human, Severus said:

“I have a cottage to buy.”

No dramatics, no sneer: just a simple truth; a promise kept.He turned without another word and walked out of the Headmaster’s office.

The steps were long, winding, and silent. He passed rubble, ash, cracked stone. But where it had

felt like ruin yesterday, today… it felt like what remains. What can be rebuilt.

When he re-entered the Great Hall, it was nearly empty. Just Minerva now, standing near Ivy’s cot,

whispering something as she smoothed the edge of the sheet. She looked up as she heard his

footsteps, surprise flickering across her face—then quiet relief.

He walked to her without hesitation. His eyes—still ringed with loss, still bruised with

sleeplessness—held something else now too: direction.

He reached down and gently retrieved his wand from where he had tucked it beside Ivy’s hand.

His fingers brushed hers as he did, lingering for one final moment.

“I’ll be back by evening,” he said to Minerva.

She straightened slightly. “Severus…” Her voice was careful, thick. “Are you—?”

“I’m not alright,” he said, before she could finish. “And I won’t be. Not for a long time.”

Minerva nodded softly.

“But she wanted peace,” he went on. “And a home. A real one. And she wanted me to have it.”

“She said she’d come visit every weekend,” Minerva murmured, a faint, wistful smile trembling on

her lips.

He looked down at Ivy. Her face had been gently cleaned. Her golden hair lay smoothed, her arms

folded as though she were sleeping.

“She still will,” he whispered.

Then, turning to Minerva, he met her eyes with a quiet, almost formal intensity.

“I’m trusting you to watch over her while I’m gone. She… deserves not to be alone.”

Minerva’s throat worked as she nodded, tears springing again. “Of course.”

He gave a small, grateful nod, then turned on his heel. His robes whispered behind him, cleaner

than they’d been hours ago, though still marked by war. By love. By loss.

And he walked out through the open castle doors, out into the golden light of afternoon.

Toward the forest.

Toward the path Ivy had once dragged him down, laughing.

Toward the cottage.

Their cottage.

Chapter Text

Part VII – By my Ivy

By the time the sun dipped behind the highland trees, the deed was done. Every last step. Every

last signature.

The cottage—their cottage—was now officially registered under two names:

Severus Tobias Snape.

Ivy Snape.

He made sure the ink dried fully, sealing her into it forever. No clause, no exception. Her name

would never be erased from that parchment. And if the world ever tried to forget her, the land

would not. The earth itself would remember her as its own.

But before that—before he made the long walk to the clearing in the Scottish woods—he had

gone to London.

To the Ministry.

He stood in line, red‑eyed and ragged, wearing the same tattered robes that still bore the

bloodstains of war. The clerk behind the desk had looked at him twice before recognizing him.

When she did, her face blanched, but she said nothing.

“I’m here to file for legal adoption,” he said, voice flat. “Emergency filing.”

She blinked. “Is… the minor present?”

He stared at her, and when he spoke again, the quiet steel in his voice made her sit straighter.

“No. But she’s still alive in your records. I need it to be official before you change that.”

The woman opened her mouth, thought better of it, and simply nodded. The paperwork was

rushed through in less than an hour. Magical legalities adjusted, sealed with Ministry wax, and

handed back to him.Ivy Snape.

Daughter of Severus Tobias Snape.

By law. By magic.

And when she was laid to rest, she would be buried as his daughter. With his name. With his arms

around her—still. She would never rest as a stranger. She would never rest alone.

The cottage came next. The one she had chosen. He remembered the walk—her tugging his

sleeve, calling him a hermit for complaining, chattering the entire way while he only pretended to

scowl. The place had been run-down, barely standing. She said it had character. She said it had

light. She said it was perfect for them.

He thought it ridiculous… until now.

He stood in the Muggle owner’s driveway, coat flapping in the highland wind. The man, suspicious

at first, relented when Severus handed him a thick envelope and said simply, “My daughter loved

this house. I’m making sure it’s always hers.”

Ten minutes later, the keys were his.

A magical signature was added.

Two names on the deed, burned into the foundation with a quiet spell he’d only used once before

—for Lily’s grave.

Then—finally—he returned to Hogwarts.

The Great Hall was nearly empty again when he entered. A few were still there—cleaning,

rebuilding, grieving—but the center was quiet. Ivy’s cot had been moved. She was no longer laid

among the wounded or the dead.

She was in the Hospital Wing now. In a corner bathed in gentle candlelight. He could feel the

wards Poppy had placed—soft, warm. Protective.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him.

Minerva was there. Poppy too. They said nothing when he entered, only looked up with tired eyes

and stepped aside.

He walked straight to her.

She lay in the bed, her face cleaned, hair brushed gently over her shoulders. Still as stone. Still

too pale. But finally free of blood.

“I’m back, little one,” he murmured.

He summoned a bowl of warm water with a flick of his wand—retrieved from her side, exactly

where he had left it—and began washing her himself. Gently. Silently. Reverently. As though every

motion was sacred.

He cleaned her arms, her fingers—lingering on each one with a tenderness no one had ever seen

from him. He brushed her knuckles with his lips. Wiped her neck. Her cheeks.

“I went to the Ministry,” he told her quietly, his voice low and steady. “You’re mine now. In every

sense. They won’t take that from us. Not even in death.”

Minerva wiped her cheek silently.

“I bought the cottage,” he continued, dipping the cloth again, wringing it gently. “The one you

liked. The one you said I was too grumpy to deserve.” He smiled faintly through a tear. “It’s ours

now. Legally. Magically. Eternally.”

He finished drying her face and reached into the small bag he carried. From it, he pulled a pale

green dress—her favorite. The one she’d worn the day she danced barefoot in the dungeons just

to annoy him.

He dressed her slowly, delicately, muttering little apologies every time he jostled her arm too

much, like she might wake and scold him.

And over it, he slipped one of his own sweaters.

The black one with the frayed sleeves—the one she always stole, despite his protests.

The one that still faintly smelled of her.

The one she used to wear on cold mornings when she came into the kitchen and complained that

tea wasn’t hot enough, that he wasn’t awake enough, that he didn’t smile enough.

He ran his hand through her hair one last time. “There. You look like yourself again.”

He took her hand. Kissed her knuckles. Rested her palm over her heart.

Minerva watched, eyes wet, lips trembling.

Poppy held her wand to her chest.

Neither said a word.

They couldn’t.Because there was something holy in the silence.

In the way Severus Snape mourned.

Not with screaming.

Not with rage.

But with the quiet, steady devotion of a man who had nothing left—except love.

And he gave it to her still.

The following afternoon dawned bright, the kind of sharp, pale light that only comes after days of

rain. It filtered through the branches of the forest, scattering in small, trembling beams that led the

way to the clearing.

The cottage sat at the heart of it—quiet, timeless, already beginning to breathe again after years

of neglect. Its stone walls were softened by fresh green vines that had crept upward overnight,

curling across the windows and roof as if the earth itself had decided to wrap the house in its

arms. Ivy. It was everywhere now. Tender, new, alive.

And beneath the great wisteria tree—her tree—stood a circle of people.

Minerva and Poppy stood side by side, both in black, their wands clasped in front of them. Potter

was there too, flanked by his friends, their faces pale and solemn. Around them were dozens

more: teachers, healers, students, survivors. The same faces that had watched him carry her

body into the Great Hall that morning. The same faces that now watched him carry her out again.

Severus’s arms ached from holding her, but he didn’t care. His steps were steady. Every

movement was deliberate, each breath measured. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

Harder than battle. Harder than dying.

He had chosen the place himself—beneath the wisteria. Its branches hung heavy with blossoms,

pale lavender swaying gently in the wind. Their scent filled the air, sweet and faintly melancholy.

He laid her down upon the patch of earth he’d cleared with his own hands. Poppy murmured a

charm, one that wrapped her body in light; Minerva spoke another, sealing the ground with

protection. No stone, no marble—just earth and roots and petals.

He looked up once, briefly, at the branches above. “You chose well,” he murmured.

He could picture her tugging him here the day they’d first visited. How she’d stopped beneath this

very tree, sunlight tangled in her hair, declaring, ‘This is the one. You’ll love it here, Professor. You

just don’t know it yet.’

He’d rolled his eyes, grumbling something about drafty chimneys. But she’d only smiled, turning

her face toward the flowering wisteria. He hadn’t noticed then, but now… now he understood.

She hadn’t chosen the cottage for the view. She’d chosen it for this tree.

It made perfect sense. It was so her.

And he loved her even more for it.

The service was short. Quiet. He wanted it that way. No speeches, no fanfare. Just her name

whispered on the wind, the sound of leaves rustling, and the soft murmurs of goodbye.

When the last handful of earth fell, when the wisteria’s shadow settled fully over her grave, the

others lingered in respectful silence. One by one they approached, laying flowers, touching the

trunk of the tree. And one by one they left—Minerva and Poppy last, each pausing to rest a hand

on his arm before they too walked back down the path.

When the clearing was empty again, Severus knelt.

He traced her name on the new headstone—simple and small, etched by his wand into the wood

of the marker:

Ivy Snape

Beloved daughter. Healer of hearts.

For a long while, he said nothing. The air was filled with the soft hum of summer. The wind

brushed through the wisteria, and the blossoms drifted down like lavender snow, settling on his

shoulders, her grave, his hands.

Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, breaking with exhaustion but steady all the same.

“I’ll be just there,” he said, glancing toward the cottage. Its windows glimmered faintly in the late

afternoon light. “Across the grass. You’ll see the light in the window when I make tea. You can

come every weekend, just like you promised.”

He smiled faintly, tears streaking his cheeks. “Or every day, if you like. I’ll wait for you.”

His hand rested against the soil, fingers pressing gently into it. The ground was warm beneath his

palm. Living. Breathing.“And one day,” he whispered, his throat closing around the words, “one day I’ll join you here. By

the wisteria.”

He bowed his head, eyes closing, a single tear falling to the earth.

“By my Ivy.”

The wind answered him softly, a whisper through the blossoms that sounded—just faintly—like

laughter.