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Chapter Text

The crowd pressed closer, voices rising, flashes of spell light flickering at the edge of Harry’s vision. He clutched Cedric’s body tighter, the Cup still locked in his hand, his chest heaving.

Dumbledore’s face was grave as he crouched over Harry. His eyes flicked not only to Harry’s scar but to Cedric’s body — and then, beyond the chaos, to the gates. He already knew.

Because even before this night, he had been preparing.

With a sweep of his wand, Dumbledore conjured a silver phoenix Patronus, its wings cutting through the night, bearing a message that would break the last barrier of bureaucracy. Immediate authorization. Bring her now.

He watched the Patronus vanish into the dark, his mind already ahead of it. He had argued for her presence for months, met resistance at every turn. Too unorthodox, they had said. Too bound to old ways of healing that had no place in Hogwarts. But Dumbledore had seen enough war to know the school would one day need more than spells and salves.

Within minutes — before Harry had even been guided away from the crowd — the air at the edge of the grounds shimmered. A young woman in her early thirties stepped through, a slender figure wrapped in a loose shawl, dark hair like unspun silk catching the torchlight as it fell around her shoulders. Her wide, dark eyes — luminous in a way that saw far deeper than surfaces — swept over the scene with a listening stillness that made even the chaos seem to hush.

Helena Oliveira had come.

She had been trained where body and spirit were tended together. She carried no office in the Ministry, no place in the textbooks, yet her reputation traveled quietly among those who understood the cost of battle. Dumbledore had kept her waiting on the edge of the board, until tonight’s loss tore through the last defenses of policy and pride.

She did not rush to the center — not yet. She paused, the weight of what she saw pressing into her. A boy collapsed with another boy’s body in his arms. A Headmaster crouched with sorrow heavy in his face. The clamor of screams around them. She knew at once: this was not just a school in need of a healer. This was the beginning of war.

Dumbledore rose, his expression shifting just enough to acknowledge her presence — not surprise, but grim recognition. “You came.”

“I was ready,” Helena murmured, her voice low, steady even in anguish. “I felt it. But I did not expect this…” Her gaze flickered to Cedric. “I should have been here sooner.”

Dumbledore shook his head, regret shadowing his eyes. “I could not bring you until now. They would not allow it. But tonight…” His voice dropped. “Tonight they have no choice.”

Her eyes softened on Harry, who clung still to the Cup and Cedric’s body, as though both were anchors against collapse. “Then tonight, I begin.”

---

Helena stepped forward with no wand drawn, no show of power, only presence. Her shawl swept close around her as she knelt beside Harry, the noise of the crowd dimming as if her calm carried a hush with it.

“Harry,” she said softly, her voice warm, low, steady — the kind of tone that made space around it. “You don’t have to hold both.”

He looked up, dazed, his throat too tight to answer.

“Let me,” she murmured, her hands gentle but sure as she touched the Cup first, guiding it from his grip. “This is mine to carry now.” With a flick of Dumbledore’s wand, it vanished into protective wards.

Then her hand hovered near Cedric. She did not tear him away, only laid her palm over Harry’s clenched fingers. “You’ve held him long enough. It 's okay, Harry. You can let go.”

The words — the permission — cracked something in him. His fingers slackened, trembling, and Cedric’s body was lifted carefully away by other hands.

Harry swayed. She steadied him at once, one arm strong around his shoulders, the other at his wrist, grounding his shaking.

“I’m Helena Oliveira,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “Dumbledore asked me to be here — to help. Come with me now. Where it’s quiet. Where you can breathe.”

Dumbledore’s hand was already at Harry’s other arm, his eyes grave. He spoke over the crowd: “Madam Pomfrey awaits. Helena will tend him.”

Snape followed at a distance, his expression unreadable but his eyes intent — a watchful shadow behind the Headmaster.

The crowd did not part easily. Dozens of eyes bore down on Harry — curious, horrified, suspicious. Questions flew like sparks: What happened? Is he alive? Is it true? The air smelled of sweat and smoke, the press of bodies too close. Harry staggered, every step dragging at him.

Yet Helena’s presence carried weight enough to clear a path. She did not raise her wand or her voice, but the hush around her spread outward like ripples. Her shawl brushed Harry’s arm, her steps steady, her grip sure. He leaned without knowing it, pulled forward by her certainty. Dumbledore’s shadow moved at his other side, the crowd reluctantly falling back.

---

The door closed, and with it the roar of the crowd fell away. Harry felt the silence seep into him like cool water, easing the raw edges of his breath.

Helena’s arm was still around him, steady, unyielding yet gentle. For the first time since the graveyard, he felt something unfamiliar: not just being guided, but being held. The weight was not his alone.

It startled him, that note of care — as if some part of him had been waiting all along without knowing it.

The air of the Hospital Wing was cooler, steadier, smelling faintly of herbs and potion.

Madam Pomfrey bustled forward, eyes widening at the stranger beside Harry. “Headmaster—”

Dumbledore lifted a hand. “Later, Poppy. For now, he must speak. There is danger still loose within these walls.”

Helena’s brow tightened. “Not now, Albus. He needs rest—”

Dumbledore’s tone gentled, but the urgency beneath it was unmistakable.
“There is no time, Helena. The boy holds knowledge we cannot delay to learn. Lives may depend upon it.”

She opened her mouth to protest again — but then looked at Harry, saw the tremor in his hands, the struggle in his breathing. Her voice softened.
“Then let him not stand alone in it.”

She moved closer, kneeling by the bedside, one hand at his wrist, the other steady at his shoulder. Her presence wrapped around him like warmth rising from a hearth.
“Harry,” she said softly. “You are safe now. Breathe.”

A faint shimmer bloomed under her hand — gold light, more warmth than brilliance — and the air in the room stilled.
Snape, standing just behind Dumbledore, stiffened almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes narrowing as though trying to make sense of what he saw.

Dumbledore’s gaze remained calm. He had seen Helena use this kind of magic before — not here, not at Hogwarts, but he remembered it well.

For Harry, the warmth spread like a tide inside him, steady and sure. It lifted the weight from his chest for a moment, enough that breath could move again. The fog of grief thinned. His thoughts cleared, as though someone had held the storm back long enough for words to find shape.

He felt anchored, steadied, held.

Then Helena finally spoke again, her voice low and even. “Tell what you must, Harry. I’ll keep you steady while you speak.”

Harry’s breath evened. His trembling eased, his vision clearing enough to find Dumbledore’s eyes.

“Tell me what happened,” Dumbledore said quietly. “All of it.”

And, anchored by Helena’s steadying hand, Harry could finally speak.
He told them about the Cup — the pull to the graveyard — Cedric’s death, the resurrection ritual, the duel.
He spoke until his throat went raw, until the words themselves shook loose the horror behind them.
Helena’s magic pulsed faintly, a rhythm that kept him from unraveling completely.
Snape said nothing. He only watched, the faintest crack in his stoic mask as the truth unfolded.

When the last words faded, silence pressed in.
Dumbledore stood very still, his face drawn, eyes shadowed with grief and thought.
“So it begins,” he murmured. “Then the world will wake to darkness again.”

Snape’s face was unreadable; Dumbledore’s eyes burned with sorrow and resolve.

“The Ministry will not believe this,” he said at last. “I must act before they interfere. There are calls to make—people to warn—”

Helena rose, her presence grounding the air itself. “Not yet, Albus. There’s something else—something here.”

Dumbledore hesitated—but then something in her tone caught him.
Her gaze had shifted toward the far doors, brow tightening.

“What is it?”

She continued, voice calm but weighted with knowing:
“Before we reached the Wing, I crossed a shadow that wasn’t what it seemed. There’s someone here under false guise. You feel it too, don’t you?”

Dumbledore turned sharply to her. “You’re certain?”

Her eyes met his. “I am.”

He looked toward Snape. “I have suspected one for some time.”
Then, grimly: “The Veritaserum will do.”

Snape gave the smallest nod, already understanding.

Dumbledore’s expression softened again when he turned back to Harry. “Rest now, my boy. You have done enough. You will not be questioned again tonight.”

Then, he turned to Madam Pomfrey, who was standing close.

Poppy,” Dumbledore said quietly, “this is Helena Oliveira. She comes with my full authority. She will care for him”

He looked at Helena. “He is all yours now.”

She inclined her head. “he will be safe. Go do what must be done.”

Dumbledore’s gaze lingered for a heartbeat — something like gratitude passing there — before he turned to Snape.
“Come, Severus.”

Snape hesitated at the threshold, his eyes drifting once more to Helena as she steadied Harry, laying a hand on his shoulder — a quiet, anchoring gesture.
Whatever magic she worked, it was nothing he could name — and yet it held a power he recognized instinctively: steadiness forged from suffering, discipline born of compassion.

Then he followed Dumbledore out into the dark.

Chapter Text

The door closed behind Dumbledore, leaving the hospital wing hushed but tense.
Madam Pomfrey moved closer, her expression unusually soft. She placed a small vial on the bedside table and spoke quietly to Helena.
“I’ll leave him for you. He trusts you already.”

Then, with a flick of her wand, she drew the curtains tight around the bed, sealing them into a small circle of lamplight.
“The ward’s empty for now,” she added, her voice fading as she stepped away. “He needs quiet.”

Helena nodded her thanks. When the matron’s footsteps receded, she lifted her hand slightly, fingers brushing the air. A faint shimmer passed through the fabric of the curtains — a soft, golden hush. The crackle of the lamps dulled. Even the ticking clock seemed to slow.

It wasn’t a spell Harry recognised. It felt less like magic cast at something and more like the world itself agreeing to be still.
The hospital wing — the whole castle, maybe — withdrew a little, until there was only the small space between them and the sound of breath.

Helena’s voice came quiet. “It’s just us now. You’re safe here, Harry.”

Harry sat where he was, hands gripping the edge of the mattress. The air still smelled of smoke and blood. His clothes were torn, dried mud crusted on his sleeves. He couldn’t seem to move, as though one wrong breath might shatter the fragile calm that kept him upright.

The steadiness that had carried him through Dumbledore’s questions was slipping away. He could feel it retreating from his chest like warmth leaving after a spell fades. Underneath was a tremor — grief too large, too raw to name.

He stared at the floor, jaw tight.
Not here. Not now. You’ve made it through worse.

Helena hadn’t spoken. She was still near, standing quiet in the half-light.
He could feel her gaze before he looked up — steady, patient, as if waiting wasn’t something she had to do but something she simply was.

When she finally moved closer, the soft rustle of her shawl broke the silence.
Her voice came low, more breath than sound.
“You can breathe now,” she said. “There’s nothing you need to hold, or explain.”

For a moment he only stared at his hands, the dried blood along his wrist. The wound burned faintly — not enough to matter, but enough to remind him he was still here.

Helena’s hand hovered near his arm.
“May I?” she asked softly.

He nodded, wordless.

She brushed her fingers lightly over the torn skin. No wand, no familiar incantation — just a murmur under her breath, too old and quiet to belong to any spell he knew. A warmth spread through his arm, slow and even. The pain ebbed away, leaving only the echo of her touch.

It didn’t feel like magic cast at him, but something awakened around him — gentle, ancient, alive.
The act itself calmed him more than any potion could have.

She didn’t speak while she worked, and that silence gave him room — room to breathe, to feel the ache rising behind his ribs, the memories crowding in.

When she withdrew her hand, the cut was gone. Her eyes lifted to his, questioning but not pressing.
He found himself whispering before he knew why.
“I keep seeing him… Cedric. Just lying there.”

Helena nodded, her voice barely above the flicker of the lamps.
“I know.”

His throat tightened. “It’s my fault,” he said, the words fracturing on their way out. “If I’d stopped him… if I’d—”

“No,” she said, soft but sure. She reached and covered his hand with hers. “It wasn’t supposed to happen, Harry. None of it. You were both caught in something cruel — and you survived. That’s all.”

The words landed somewhere deep, but instead of easing the pain, they loosened it. His throat tightened. The air caught in his lungs.

“She watched him quietly for a moment, then said,
“Harry, you don’t have to be strong right now. Not with me. You can let it out — all of it.”

Something in her tone unsettled him — not because it hurt, but because it reached too deep.
He’d known kindness before, but never this kind: steady, wordless, like being allowed to rest for the first time.
He didn’t know what to do with it, that strange, quiet feeling of being held without being asked to be strong.

He swallowed hard, shaking his head. “No. I… can’t.”
His voice cracked on the last word.

“Why not?” she said softly. “It’s all right, Harry.”

He turned his face away, shaking harder now. “I can’t. I’ll fall apart.”

Her voice softened even more. “Then let it happen, Harry. You’re allowed to.”

She could see it — the tremor beneath his stubbornness, the way his breath caught and held as if even air might betray him. He was breaking already, only trying not to. And she knew there was no mending him tonight except through that. No words, no spells — only permission.

She touched his shoulder. He was trembling under her hand. Then she leaned close, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Harry, you can cry. You’re breaking already — there’s no point in fighting it. Everything you’ve been through... it hurts, I know. Let it hurt. I’ll stay right here with you, for as long as it takes.”

Something in the way she said it — calm, certain, utterly present — undid him.
His breath hitched once, twice, and then broke. The first sob startled him, sharp and loud in the still room. He hadn’t known it was possible to cry like that — not since he was a child locked in a cupboard, when crying had only made things worse.

He gasped for breath, trying to stop it, but another sob came, then another, until the sound was all there was.

Helena caught him before he could fold in on himself completely, drawing him against her shoulder. The movement had the immediate, grounding weight of someone steadying a collapsing wall. Her hand came to rest at the back of his neck, warm, sure.

“It’s all right,” she whispered. “Just let it be what it is.”

And he did. The sobs came hard and helpless, tearing through the stillness. Every breath felt like breaking and being held together at once.

He cried until his throat burned and his body shook, until the grief he’d held too long tore itself loose from the inside.
He wasn’t sure what startled him more — the sound of his own sobs or the strange relief they brought. Helena said nothing, only held him, her hand moving through his hair in slow, steady circles, her breath even against his temple.

Time blurred.
The room grew smaller — only her arms, the lamplight, the quiet rhythm of breathing that wasn’t his. Little by little, the storm began to ebb, leaving behind the hollow ache of exhaustion — and something gentler beneath it, something like peace.

When the trembling in his hands finally stilled, Helena reached for the cloth and placed it gently in his palm.
He managed a breath, then another, and tried to speak through the wreck of his voice.
“I—I’m sorry… I—”

“Don’t apologise for tears, Harry,” she said softly. “They’re only pain finding its way out.”

He nodded, eyes heavy, body limp. The world felt tilted, unreal.

“Drink this,” Helena said then, reaching for the vial Madam Pomfrey had left. She uncorked it, then took a small vessel from her satchel and let a single drop fall in. The liquid shimmered faintly, turning soft gold.
“It’s the calming draught you know,” she explained. “With a drop of something from my homeland. It will help you sleep — and soothe your soul as well.”

He drank it obediently, too tired to argue. The warmth spread through his chest almost instantly, loosening the last knots inside him.
When she set the empty glass aside and drew him close again, his head found her shoulder without thought. Her shawl wrapped around them both, her heartbeat steady beneath his cheek.

The air in the room felt different now — quieter, as if the storm had passed through and left a clearing behind.
His eyelids grew heavy. Helena stayed, unmoving, her hand still resting against the back of his head.

For the first time since the graveyard, Harry’s body gave in to rest.
Sleep came softly — deep and sure, free of the nightmares that had once chased him through the dark.
It was the kind of sleep that follows being seen, being held, being allowed to break and still be safe.

And Helena kept her watch, silent and steady — a quiet light that refused to go out.

Chapter Text

Soft morning light spilled through the high windows of the Hospital Wing, pale and gold.
It pooled across the sheets, across Harry’s hands, across the quiet space that smelled faintly of clean linen and herbs.
The castle seemed to be holding its breath — that heavy silence that follows a night no one should have lived through.

Harry blinked awake, groggy and warm beneath the blanket. For a moment he didn’t know where he was.
Then he saw her.

Helena sat beside him in a wooden chair, shawl wrapped around her shoulders, a small book half-closed in her hands.
She wasn’t reading. She was simply… there. Watching him wake with a soft, steady expression, as if this moment mattered.

He startled slightly.
“Oh — did you… stay here all night?”

Helena’s expression gentled.
“Most of it,” she said. “I slept for a few hours.”
She nodded toward a second chair, where a folded blanket lay. “Over there. I stayed close in case you needed someone.”

Something in his chest tightened — unsure, warm, and awkward all at once.
He nodded, embarrassed by how much that meant.

“Thank you, Miss Oliveira.”

A quiet smile touched her lips.
“You can call me Helena,” she said. “It’s all right.”

“Right,” he murmured. “Helena.”
The name felt strangely warm on his tongue.

She rose half a step and reached for a glass of water on the bedside table.
“Here. Drink a little before you talk.”

He took the glass, hands unsteady. The cool water cut through the dryness in his mouth, calming the tightness in his chest.
When he handed it back, he still couldn’t quite meet her eyes.

“I’m… sorry,” he said finally. “For last night. I didn’t mean to — to fall apart like that.”
His voice dropped. “I’ve never done that. Not like that.”

Helena moved closer, sitting at the edge of his bed, her hand resting lightly on his arm.
The touch was steady, gentle — the same way she’d held him when the night had broken open.

“Harry,” she said quietly, “there is nothing to apologize for.”

He shook his head a little, still unable to lift his gaze.
“I shouldn’t have—”

“You cried,” she said simply. “That’s all.”

He froze.

Her thumb brushed his arm in slow, grounding circles.
“Most people try to stand perfectly still while their pain tears them apart from the inside,” she continued.
“You didn’t. You let it move. You let yourself feel what happened instead of pretending it didn’t cut you to the bone.”

Her voice stayed low, warm.
“That isn’t weakness. It’s strength. And it takes courage to do it in front of someone.”

Harry finally looked at her. There was no judgment in her face. No hesitation.
Only a quiet steadiness — the kind that made warmth spread through him like sunlight sinking into cold water.

“I don’t know why it happened like that,” he whispered. “Everything just… came apart.”

“You’d been carrying too much alone,” Helena said. “Last night, you didn’t have to. That was all.”

He watched her for a long moment, feeling the truth of her words settle deep inside him — not as comfort, but as something real.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For… everything.”

She smiled faintly, the kind that softened the whole room.
“You needed someone to keep the ground steady while you found your breath again,” she said. “That’s all I did.”

Before Harry could speak again, Helena’s gaze shifted toward the curtain — a small, instinctive tilt of her head, as if listening to something outside the ward.

“They’re back,” she murmured. “Your two friends. They came earlier while you were asleep — very worried about you. I asked them to return once you woke.”

A strange warmth fluttered in Harry’s chest.
“Ron and Hermione?”

Helena nodded. “Yes. They’ve been waiting.”

She touched the edge of the ward; the golden hush loosened, soft as a sigh.
The curtains parted almost at once — and Hermione’s face appeared first, eyes already shining with relief.

“Harry!” she breathed, hurrying to his side. “You’re awake — thank goodness, we’ve been so worried.”

Ron followed, trying to look steadier than he felt.
“Blimey, mate… you look loads better. Still awful, but you know — better.”

Harry managed a faint, uneven smile. “Thanks.”

For a quiet moment, the three of them spoke — simple words, soft reassurances, fragments of comfort that didn’t need answers.
The sound of friendship filled the room like sunlight breaking through fog.

Then a new presence cut through — steady, unmistakable.

Dumbledore stepped through the curtains, robes whispering over stone, light catching on the silver of his beard.
Snape followed, silent as a shadow, eyes unreadable.

The warmth in the room thinned — not from cold, but from gravity settling in.

Dumbledore greeted Helena with a respectful nod before turning to Harry.
“My boy,” he said gently, “how do you feel?”

Harry hesitated. “Better… I think.”

“That will do,” Dumbledore murmured.
Relief softened the lines of his face.
“You showed great courage last night. Far more than anyone your age should be asked to bear.”

Harry glanced toward Helena — a quiet confirmation he wasn’t facing this alone.
She remained beside him, steady, grounding.

Dumbledore drew a slow breath, as if choosing the next words with care.
“There is something you must know,” he said. “And it may be difficult to hear.”

Harry sat a little straighter.

“Professor Moody…”
Dumbledore paused again, his gaze tender with regret.
“The man you have known this year — the one who guided you — was not Alastor Moody.”

Harry frowned, confusion tightening.
“What do you mean?”

“He was an impostor,” Dumbledore continued softly.
“A man using Polyjuice to assume Moody’s identity.”
Another breath.
“Barty Crouch Junior.”

Hermione gasped softly.
Ron’s mouth fell open.

Harry stared at him — the pieces tumbling too quickly.
“So he— he put my name in the Goblet? He — he planned all of it?”

“Yes,” Dumbledore said. “Every step was designed to lead you to that graveyard.”

He hesitated, then added,
“The real Alastor Moody was found imprisoned in a cursed trunk. He is alive, but greatly weakened. Madam Pomfrey is tending to him now.”

A flicker of concern passed through Helena’s face.
“If his condition is severe,” she said softly, “I can assist. Cursed confinement leaves marks simple healing charms don’t reach.”

Dumbledore gave her a kind, appreciative look.
“You have my gratitude, Helena. But for the moment… Moody is wary of everyone. He has spent too long trapped with deception all around him.”
A pause.
“He will allow only those he already knows near.”

Helena inclined her head.
“Of course. When he is ready, I will be available.”

Harry watched the exchange — the quiet respect, the unspoken trust — and felt something steady settle inside him.
Helena didn’t push. She simply returned her attention to him as though that had been her place all along.

Dumbledore watched Harry carefully.
“I am sorry, Harry,” he said softly. “I wish it were not true.”

For a moment the world tilted — memories rushing, aligning, reshaping the entire year.
Harry’s breath hitched, but the panic that might have swallowed him didn’t rise.
Helena’s presence held the room steady.

Suddenly, the soft beating of wings cut the moment.
An owl swept through the high window in a swift arc, feathers flashing bronze in the morning light.
It landed at Dumbledore’s side with a precise, urgent clack of talons.

He took the letter with both hands, his expression sharpening as he read.
The parchment trembled slightly between his fingers before he stilled it.
His mouth tightened; the lines around his eyes deepened with weary disappointment.

“From the Ministry,” he said. “They deny everything. They refuse to accept what has happened. They call it confusion — a hallucination born of shock.”

Harry felt disbelief settle like a stone in his stomach.

Dumbledore folded the letter slowly.
“It will not be easy,” he murmured.

Then he turned to Snape, voice deepening.
“Severus — you know what I expect you to do. If you feel ready—”

“No.”

Helena’s voice cut across the air — quiet, but enough to halt it.

All eyes turned to her.
She stepped forward, her shawl whispering at her sides.

“Not here,” she said.

Dumbledore studied her, comprehension dawning in his eyes.
“You know what I was about to ask.”

“Yes,” Helena said calmly. “And that is why we will not do it here. There are things we must discuss first.”

She looked at Snape.

For a heartbeat, something passed between them — not understanding, but a faint sense of recognition, the way two storms might feel the other’s pressure across a great distance.
Snape’s eyes flickered, the smallest shift, as though a part of him registered her presence more sharply than before.

Silence held.

Then Dumbledore inclined his head.
“Very well. My office, then.”

He turned to Harry, voice softening.
“Rest, my boy. We will speak more soon.”

Helena approached the bed once more, her hand resting lightly on Harry’s arm.
“I’ll leave you with your friends, Harry,” she said gently. “I’ll return after this meeting, all right?”

Harry nodded, the corners of his mouth lifting faintly.
“Okay.”

She gave his arm a small, steady squeeze — reassurance pressed into touch — then drew back.
As she followed Dumbledore and Snape toward the door, the morning light caught the edge of her shawl, and for a moment Harry thought it looked like wings.

When the door closed, the room felt warmer again.
Hermione moved closer.
“You really scared us, Harry,” she whispered.

Harry leaned back against the pillow, breath soft but steady.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I scared myself too.”

Chapter Text

The morning light slanted through the tall windows of the Headmaster’s office, gilding motes of dust that hovered like a slow constellation. A kettle hissed faintly in the corner, and parchment lay stacked in precise towers across the desk, bearing the weight of signatures and seals from the Ministry. The war had not yet begun, and still bureaucracy clung to every page, insisting that even grief must wait for ink.

Helena stood by the hearth, shawl drawn around her shoulders, gazing at the framed instruments that whirred faintly on the shelves. She spoke with quiet ease, the tone of one who belonged there long before her feet had ever touched these stones.

“Albus, it seems the Ministry would sooner drown us in parchment than face the truth.”

Dumbledore gave a low chuckle, folding his hands over his desk. “Parchment is safer than reality, at least to those who have never stared into its eyes.”

“They delayed me for three years,” she reminded him gently. “Three years when you asked, and I could not come. They said Hogwarts had no place for one such as me.”

“And yet you are here now,” he replied, eyes twinkling with gravity more than mirth. “It took the shadow of a tournament and the death of a boy to loosen their knots.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The silence was not empty—it held Cedric’s name, unspoken, drifting like incense.

A knock at the door broke it.

Helena drew her shawl closer. Dumbledore’s expression shifted to one of formality.
“Come in.”

The door opened, and Severus Snape stepped inside, a faint chill clinging to his robes. “Apologies. I was delayed — the wards required attention.”

Dumbledore accepted this with a nod of understanding, as if expecting nothing less.

“Severus,” he said warmly, rising. “Allow me to introduce formally what last night permitted only in haste. This is Helena Oliveira. She has long served causes that needed her beyond these walls. Now she serves Hogwarts as well.”

Snape inclined his head stiffly at the introduction, his black eyes settling on Helena. She returned the gesture with quiet composure.

Their gazes held — a brief moment, slender as a breath.
Something flickered there, not warmth, not familiarity, but the faintest awareness.
A subtle shift passed through Snape’s expression, gone as quickly as it had appeared, though Helena felt it lodge somewhere just beneath her ribs.

“I have heard of you for years, Professor Snape,” she said, her tone even.

“And I of you,” he replied, his tone clipped, betraying nothing.

Helena did not press further. Instead, she allowed the silence to stretch until Dumbledore filled it.
“There is work ahead, work only Severus can do. The Dark Lord rises again, and his circle will be closed tight. We need eyes within.”

Snape’s jaw tightened, but he gave no answer.

Helena stepped forward, her voice calm but unwavering. “Eyes may see, but the toll is taken on the heart. Headmaster, you know this better than most. Professor Snape cannot be asked to stand alone in the storm again.”

Snape’s attention snapped to her, a flare of sharp irritation crossing his features.

Dumbledore asked quietly, “What do you suggest?”

Helena met his eyes.
“You know my magic, Albus — built upon our world’s foundations but shaped by older traditions. Healing that reaches deeper than spellcraft. Allow me to anchor him before and after the summons.”

“You presume much, Madam Oliveira.” Severus's voice came sharpened. “I do not require an anchor. Nor a minder. Nor another sentimental guardian, whispering of rest and healing. Forgive me, but I am not a crystal to be polished.”

Her gaze held his, unshaken. “No. You are a blade. And even blades, if pressed too long in the forge, may break.”

Snape’s reply came low, cool, and tightly controlled.
“I require no such… arrangement.”

His gaze hardened.
“And certainly not one wrapped in healing doctrines and gentle philosophies.”

Helena remained unshaken.
“I’m not offering philosophy. I’m offering support that keeps you from being torn apart.”

He stepped closer, voice edged but not raised.
“You presume the Dark Lord can be undone with steady breathing and kind hands.”

“No,” Helena said softly. “I presume you are human.”

His expression flickered — a flash of something raw, quickly buried.

“I have managed before,” Snape said, tone clipped but fuller now. “Alone.”

“And it nearly killed you,” Helena replied, her voice warm, not accusatory. “You survived by endurance, not safety. There is a difference.”

Snape’s lips thinned.
“I will not be coddled.”

“And I will not coddle you,” she said.
“I will keep you steady. That is all.”

A taut silence stretched between them — his resistance sharp, hers quiet and immovable.

Dumbledore finally spoke, gentle but firm.
“Severus, there will be no objections. It is decided.”

Snape inhaled slowly, a tight, reluctant acceptance settling over him like a cloak. “Very well. I shall endure whatever… measures the Headmaster deems necessary.”

Helena inclined her head, not triumphant, only steady. “I will be there before the first summons. Not to soften you, but to keep you whole.”

For the briefest moment, something flickered across his eyes—skepticism, yes, but also the echo of last night: the sight of Harry steadied beneath her strange, quiet power.

Dumbledore nodded, as though a seal had been set. “Then we are agreed.”

---

By late afternoon, the three of them descended together into the long corridor that led to the hidden chamber. Torchlight flickered over the stone walls. Beyond the door, voices already gathered, tense and hurried. The Order of the Phoenix awaited.

The door opened, and conversation stilled. All eyes turned as Dumbledore entered first, Helena at his side, Snape a step behind.

“My friends,” Dumbledore said, his voice filling the chamber with calm authority. “You know me well. Tonight you shall know another. This is Helena Oliveira. A witch of uncommon gifts, whose strength lies not in the usual channels of spell or wand, but in the deeper currents that bind magic and soul. She has chosen to stand with us, and she is now one of our number.”

Helena bowed her head, meeting each gaze without faltering. “I am here to help. To heal, when it is needed. To watch, when shadows gather. To stand, as all of you stand, against what comes.”

The chamber stirred, voices low, chairs scraping against stone.

Molly Weasley was the first to rise, her face drawn but her warmth instinctive. She stepped closer, hands clasped before her. “If Albus trusts you, then so do I,” she said softly. “He has never brought anyone here lightly. You’ll find we’re a family, even in the hardest times. And families need all the hands they can have.”

Helena inclined her head with quiet gratitude. “And hearts,” she answered. “Hands build, but hearts hold.” Molly’s eyes softened, as though the words brushed against her own hidden fears.

From the shadows near the far end of the table, Remus Lupin studied her quietly. His face was calm, the weariness of years lining his features, but there was curiosity in his eyes. “I’ve seen what the war does,” he said at last. “What it takes from those who fight too long. If you can truly keep us steady in that storm… then you’ll be more needed than any wand.”

Helena’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles. “Storms are not ended by lightning, but by light breaking through the clouds. I will do what I can.”

Snape stood apart, arms folded, his expression carefully shuttered. To those gathered, he was silent, offering no more than the slight tilt of his head. Yet Helena felt the weight of his gaze, sharp as if cutting through her words for flaws.

The rest of the Order murmured among themselves—Hestia Jones and Emmeline Vance whispering wonder, Arthur Weasley nodding thoughtfully, Kingsley Shacklebolt studying Helena with quiet respect.

Then Dumbledore raised his hand, and the voices fell silent.
“You have heard her, my friends. Let us turn to the matter that summons us: the Dark Lord has returned, and the world does not yet know it. But we do. Tonight, we begin.”

The chamber grew still, breath caught in every chest. Helena’s shawl whispered as she took her seat at the long table. She had crossed the threshold now; there was no return.

***

Chapter Text

The Hospital Wing was quiet in the early morning, washed in pale gold that softened the white sheets and warmed the stone floor. The hush felt different today — not brittle, not heavy, but calm. Healing, rather than aftermath.

Harry woke slowly. His chest felt sore in the way muscles ache after a storm, but no longer breaking. He took a breath, then another, and realized he’d slept through the night without any nightmares.

For the first time since the graveyard, the pieces inside him were not slipping.

And Helena was already there.
She had come back the previous day after the meetings, just as she’d promised, and her presence had settled the room before sleep overtook him. Whether she’d stayed long or returned at dawn, he couldn’t tell — only that she was here now, calm and steady as morning light.

Now she sat in the same chair beside his bed, elbows resting on the armrests, her shawl draped loosely around her shoulders. She looked up when he stirred, and her smile was warm — not pitying, not careful, just there.

“Good morning, Harry.”

He pushed himself upright, relieved to find his movements steadier. “Morning.”
A small pause. “I slept. Really slept.”

“I know,” Helena said softly. “I stayed nearby. You rested more deeply than before. Your spirit needed it.”

She studied him quietly. “How do you feel now?”
“A bit better,” he admitted, a faint smile on his face. “Tired. But not like before.”

Helena nodded, relief touching her features.
“I’m glad. Healing rarely comes all at once — just in small steps like this.”

They let the silence breathe a moment. Then Harry, curious, asked, “How long have you known Professor Dumbledore?”

Her lips curved, eyes thoughtful. “Many years, though often from afar. He asked me to come before… but there were always reasons—work elsewhere, or the Ministry’s endless hesitations. Yet we never lost touch. He told me of you, Harry. Not everything, but enough that I carried your story with me even before I met you.”

Harry absorbed this, his gaze steady on her face. “So you’ve known about… all of it?”
“Yes,” she answered softly. “And I am here now, not by chance. You’ve walked so much of this path alone. That must change.”

He hesitated, then muttered, “Classes end soon. Everyone goes home. I’ll have to go back to the Dursleys.”
His voice flattened. “I don’t want to.”

Helena’s expression softened, her hand coming to rest lightly over his.
“I know,” she said gently. “I’ve heard enough to understand that returning there is hard for you.”

He stared at the blanket, jaw tightening.

She continued, her voice low but steady.
“I cannot change that today, Harry. There are protections there — magic older and deeper than most wizards ever learn about. But what I can do is this: I’ll speak with Professor Dumbledore. I want to understand exactly why you must return… and what can be done to make that time less lonely for you.”

Harry looked up, eyes uncertain. “You’d do that?”

“Yes,” Helena said simply. “You deserve safety — and kindness — even when you leave these walls. I can’t promise what the outcome will be, not yet.”
Her gaze held his, warm and unwavering.
“But I will look into it. I won’t let your worries be ignored.”

He blinked hard, swallowing.
“Just… knowing you’ll talk to him… that helps.”

Helena’s thumb brushed his knuckles in a gentle, grounding arc.
“You won’t face that place alone, Harry,” she said softly. “Even if you must return there… you’ll have us looking out for you. I’ll make sure of it.”

The flicker of hope that rose in him was quieter this time, but steadier — the kind that didn’t feel like a dream, but like something real.

Then Helena’s tone shifted, softer, more solemn.
“There is something you should know. This morning I spoke with Cedric’s parents.”

Harry’s breath caught — but it didn’t crush him. Not like before. He steadied himself.

“They asked to see you,” Helena continued. “Only if you feel you can.”

Harry swallowed. “Cedric would… probably want me to talk to them. Tell them the truth.”

He hesitated, then looked up at her — open, trusting, almost childlike in his vulnerability.

“You’ll be right here, won’t you? If you’re here… I can do it.”

Helena’s hand came to rest lightly on his shoulder. “I will be right here, Harry.”

And that was enough.

***
The infirmary door opened with the gentlest creak, and Harry instinctively drew a breath.

Mr. and Mrs. Diggory entered — pale, dignified, holding each other’s hands like lifelines.

Harry sat straighter, Helena’s presence a quiet anchor at his side.

The conversation unfolded with pain and courage — halting, tender, true.
They spoke of Cedric — of his courage, his kindness, the quiet integrity that had shaped every choice he made.
Harry told them what he could, voice unsteady only once, when memory and grief collided too sharply.
Helena’s hand remained at his shoulder, warm and steady, a silent anchor keeping him from slipping into that old, familiar freefall.

When the Diggorys finally pressed the Triwizard winnings toward him — trembling hands offering what felt like the weight of a life — Harry shook his head with sudden force.

“I don’t want it,” he said, breath catching.
“It was Cedric’s tournament. I can’t take it.”

Helena’s touch lightened on his arm, gentle as breath.
“It is all right, Harry,” she murmured.
“What matters is that you carry Cedric’s memory, not his reward.”

Something eased in the Diggorys at her words — not their grief, which clung to them like winter frost, but the tension that had tightened the moment.
They accepted Harry’s refusal with grace, bowed heads, and a gratitude too raw to name.
When they left, walking slowly toward the corridor hand in hand, the silence that followed was softer than the one that had preceded them.

Harry released a long, shaking breath.
“I thought I couldn’t do that,” he whispered. “But I did.”

“You did,” Helena said, settling back into the chair beside him.
“And you did not do it alone.”

He looked at her then — really looked — and the weary lines on his face loosened just slightly.
A small, honest smile flickered.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “For being here.”

Her voice wrapped around him like balm.
“You won’t have to be alone anymore, Harry. You’ve carried more solitude than anyone should, even before Hogwarts.”
A pause, warm and certain.
“Let that end here.”

The words settled inside him with the weight of something true — not a promise made lightly, but one he believed.
Harry leaned back against the pillows, the weight inside him finally shifting, just a little.

Chapter Text

The castle held its breath.

Classes trickled toward their end, the summer term already thinning, yet the air seemed dense, as if the stones themselves knew what approached. Harry was better — pale still, quieter than before, but able now to walk the corridors with his friends again. Helena had been at his side each day, gentle, steady, keeping watch as his strength returned.

But her other task was heavier.

Every attempt to approach Severus Snape had met a wall: a clipped word, a cutting remark, his cloak swirling as he turned from her before she had finished a sentence. She had tried to offer him small practices of grounding, gestures of presence he might lean on when the storm struck — but he dismissed them all with scorn, as if the very suggestion were insult. She told Dumbledore as much, though she added her understanding: he will need time. Healing could not be forced open like a locked door.

Still, she knew.

It began as the faintest shift in him — a tightening along Snape’s shoulders, a slight falter in his breath, the kind of invisible bracing a body makes when old pain begins to rise. The Mark was stirring. Faint at first, then sharper, tugging beneath the skin.

She did not feel the curse itself, but the subtle currents it awakened in him: the ripple of tension, the quiet flare of hurt she knew how to read all too well.

The Summons.

It was close now.

She sent word, and Dumbledore summoned him.

---

Snape stood rigid before the Headmaster’s desk, his hands hidden in his sleeves, face paler than usual. Helena stood to one side, silent for now, her shawl gathered close.

“Severus,” Dumbledore began, his tone weightier than his usual calm. “It is coming. You must allow Helena to be your anchor.”

Snape’s lips pressed thin. “That is not necessary,” he said, clipped, though the faint tremor in his jaw betrayed what his words denied.

Dumbledore leaned forward, voice low.
“Severus, he will remember that you did not answer him at the graveyard. He will expect an explanation, and he will test you mercilessly until he believes it.”

Snape’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Dumbledore watched him for a long heartbeat.
“And there is more,” he added quietly. “You do not know what he remembers… of that night. Your choices. Your defection. Or whether his suspicions have softened in the years since.”

The room chilled. Lily was not named — but she was present all the same, a ghost in the pause that followed.

Snape flinched, shoulders tightening. He turned away from them, his head bowed, breath measured and thin.

At last he spoke, voice raw but contained.
“Whatever happens, I will endure. That is my task.”

Helena stepped closer, slow and deliberate, as if approaching something wounded and proud. For the first time, she said his name without title.

“Severus.”

He did not look at her, but his stillness shifted, listening despite himself.

In her hands she held a stone, obsidian polished to a dark sheen, its surface shimmering with a soft inner glow. She cradled it like a living thing.

“At least take this. It is a grounding stone, enchanted to hold warmth. When the tide becomes too heavy, its steadiness will call you back. It will remind you that you can return.”

Snape’s eyes flickered to the side but did not meet hers. His hands remained hidden.

Seeing no movement, she did not press. Instead, she placed the stone on the small table beside him, just within his reach.

“That is all for now, Headmaster,” she said quietly, inclining her head toward Dumbledore. “We will speak again when he returns.”

Then, to Snape — her voice softer still. “Severus, take care of yourself. Consider keeping the obsidian with you, if only for precaution. I hope to see you when you are back. Be careful.”

She did not wait for a response. She crossed the room and left, the door closing with quiet finality behind her.

Dumbledore’s gaze remained fixed on his professor. “Severus,” he said gravely, “listen to her. Remember — she is your anchor now. If the darkness presses too close, you must go to her. And when you return, I expect a full account. Take care.”

For a moment, only the sound of Snape’s breathing filled the office. Then pain struck — sudden, sharp, searing. The Mark blazed on his forearm, glowing like fire beneath the skin. His breath hissed through clenched teeth. It was time.

As dread tightened in his chest, his eyes fell on the stone she had left. Strange, that something so simple would draw him. But the obsidian gleamed faintly, as if remembering her touch. His hand moved before he could think, fingers closing around it.

Warmth pulsed against his palm, grounding, steady. For the first time in years, something other than pain answered the call of the Mark.

He slipped the stone into his pocket.

Then, with his cloak billowing behind him, he left to meet the darkness.

Chapter Text

Helena felt it before the castle fully whispered it back to her.

Not sound — something deeper.
A disturbance in the undercurrents she sensed when the halls were quiet: a thrum of pain, sharp and uneven, threading its way up from the dungeons. The residue of Dark Magic clung to the air like cold iron filings. Severus had returned, but strained, distorted — as though part of him had not found its way back with the rest.

She turned to Dumbledore, her voice low, composed.
“He’s here,” she said. “But something in him is… unsettled. He’s hurting.”

Dumbledore’s expression softened. “Then when he’s ready, he will come.”

But the moment stretched. Severus did not appear.

Instead Helena felt him withdraw — his presence slipping downward, sinking through stone as though pulled by gravity into the dungeons, folding in on itself. A self-contained implosion.

Her eyes lowered for a breath. “He warded himself in,” she murmured. “He’s not grounding. The pain is turning inward.”

Dumbledore drew a slow breath. “Then we should go to him — or rather, you should. I will accompany you as far as the door.”

Together they descended into the cold corridors, the torches sputtering as though uneasy with what lay ahead. At last they stood before a door layered with wards so heavy that the air itself hummed with their weight.

Dumbledore lifted his hand and gave a single, soft knock.
“Severus,” he said, his voice calm, “if you hear me, we are here.”

No answer.

Helena stepped forward, not with urgency but with the calm she always carried. Her hand hovered briefly above the surface, reading the tension in the spells, the shape of his distress pressed into them.

“He’s conscious,” she murmured. “And struggling. He isn’t managing himself. He is breaking under it.”

Dumbledore nodded once, troubled. “His wards are sealed. No one will enter.”

She stepped closer, laying her palm gently against the wood. “Not no one. I will ask the castle.”

Her eyes closed. For a minute the silence stretched, only the hum of wards filling the hall. Then — a soft click. The door gave way.

She turned to Dumbledore, her voice low. “Albus, I will meet you later in your office. I hope to bring him with me. But for now, I must tend to him first.”

Dumbledore studied her for a moment, then inclined his head. “I trust your judgment. Bring him when he is ready.”

He stepped back, leaving her the doorway.

---

The room was dim, only the faint glow of wardlight clinging to the stone. Snape sat in the corner, undone. His body folded tight, arms draped over his knees, his face buried. His fists were clenched — but in one hand the obsidian stone glimmered, faint and warm.

His head lifted as she entered, his eyes sharp but hollow. He avoided her gaze.
“How did you—” His voice broke, rough and unfinished.

“I asked permission of the castle,” she answered simply. “It allowed me in.”

Her steps were slow, each one measured, as though crossing toward a fragile creature. “Severus. You are deeply wounded. Allow me to tend to you.”

“Not now,” he hissed, his voice fraying, every word pulled from the edge of his strength.

She came nearer, sensing the tremors running through him like cracks in stone. Her voice remained calm, unshaken. “Severus. Dumbledore awaits you. If you allow me, I can anchor you through this storm. You know what I can do.”

His jaw clenched. His whole body wavered in the fight — pride against collapse, resistance against need. At last, a single sharp nod.

Helena knelt and reached, her fingers brushing lightly against his forearm.

The change was immediate. Warmth spread from her touch into his arm, then into his chest, and his breath shuddered free for the first time since his return. The tremor eased, not gone but softened, like a storm breaking over water.

Her eyes flicked to the stone. “Hold it, Severus.”

He opened his palm. The obsidian glowed faintly. His gaze met hers for the first time, dark and hollow but searching. She laid her hand over his, covering the stone. A brighter warmth surged between them, steady and calm.

“It is stronger now,” she whispered. “Hold on to it. It will ground you. It will help you speak during your report.”

He clutched it tighter, his breathing wavering, then settling. Slowly, stiffly, he rose to his feet.

“Severus,” she said gently, rising with him, “the stone will carry you through what you must recount. But afterward, we must tend to what was wounded.”

He gave another curt nod, sharper than words.

Together, they left the chamber, the heavy wards melting away behind them. Step by step, through stone and silence, they walked toward the Headmaster’s office.

Chapter Text

The corridors of Hogwarts stretched long and dim, shadows clinging to the stone. Snape walked swiftly, cloak trailing, the obsidian stone gripped hard in his fist. Helena kept pace behind him until he clipped out, voice rough, “The stone is enough. I can go on my own.”

“Severus—” she called softly, but he pressed forward, ignoring her.

He turned the corner ahead, and when she followed, she found him braced against the wall, face hidden in the fold of his arm, breath harsh and uneven. The stone alone was not enough — not yet. She knew it.

She did not speak words of correction. No trace of I told you, no pity, no judgment. Only quiet presence. She stepped close and set her hand gently between his shoulder blades, palm warm and steady.

“Breathe, Severus,” she murmured — not an order, not a plea, only an anchor. A breath to take. A place to land.

His shoulders stiffened… then loosened, the ragged edge of his breathing easing beneath the calm she offered.

Only when the tremor in him steadied did she speak again.

“Come,” Helena said quietly. “We’ll go the rest of the way together.”

Not a command. Not a question. Simply truth.

He didn’t speak, but after a long moment he pushed away from the wall and gave the smallest nod — not concession, only acknowledgment.

They moved forward side by side, neither leading nor following, until the staircase to Dumbledore’s office rose before them.

---

The room was lighter than usual, the fire glowing with a quiet warmth that seemed to invite trust. After a formal greeting, Snape sat rigid in the chair before the desk, knuckles white around the stone. Helena took the chair beside him, her hand pressing lightly to his forearm — an anchor he did not shake away.

Dumbledore studied him with grave understanding. “Severus,” he said gently, “I know this is difficult. That is why I expect you to use your anchor — as you are now.” His gaze flicked briefly to Helena, then back. “Now, please. Report.”

Snape’s voice was steady, though tight. “He does not summon them all. Only two, three at a time. He wants them isolated. Wants them afraid.” His jaw clenched. “The first hour was questions. Pressing. Testing. Pain used as punctuation. I… answered. And for now he is satisfied.”

Helena’s fingers pressed again, discreetly, a reminder of breath.

“He will not stop there,” Snape continued, eyes fixed on the far wall. “He will test again. And again. Until he is certain. Or until I fail.”

The stone glowed faintly in his palm, warmed by her touch. His voice wavered once, then steadied.

“He made an example.”
Snape’s words were clipped, pared down to bone. “To ensure fear. To show what happens when someone cannot endure.”

He paused, breath catching, then went on. “He has no strategy yet. No design beyond terror. He is recruiting. Sorting. Measuring who will hold and who will break.” His eyes darkened. “One broke. A woman. She asked for mercy. He killed her.”

Silence settled, dense and cold.

Dumbledore closed his eyes briefly, then opened them again, sharp and clear. “He prunes weakness before building strength. That is his way.”

Helena spoke then, her voice warm but discreet, shaped with care.
“And still, Severus returned. That is no small thing.”

Dumbledore leaned forward. “It means the Order must be patient. He has not revealed his design. We must wait for the next summons. Severus — when the time comes, we will be ready. All of us.”

Snape’s breath wavered for a heartbeat, but Helena’s hand steadied him.
He nodded once, eyes fixed on the fire.

She added gently, “You have endured much already. And you will again — but this time, you won’t have to do it alone.”

For the first time, Severus drew a long, slow breath, releasing some of the tension bound tight in his frame.

Dumbledore inclined his head. “That is all for now. Thank you, Severus.”

Helena rose. Snape followed, her hand still resting lightly on his forearm. At the threshold she said, quiet but firm, “Come with me now. Let me tend to you. There is no need to face the aftermath alone.”

Reluctantly, with the same sharpness he gave to all things, Snape nodded. Once.

Together, they stepped out of the Headmaster’s office.

Chapter Text

Helena’s office was a world apart from the rest of the castle. The hearth glowed softly, firelight spilling over two armchairs. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of herbs and folded linens, with the faint fragrance of balm and rosemary in the air. Enchanted chimes hung high in the beams, their tones subtle, like a song remembered rather than heard. The space was warm, intimate, and steady — as though built to hold what others could not.

Severus paused at the threshold, taut as a drawn bow. His cloak swirled as though he might retreat, but Helena’s presence steadied the moment. She moved closer, voice low and gentle.
“Come in… it’s quieter here. Sit by the fire, Severus.”

She guided him toward the armchair. He obeyed, stiffly, stone clutched tight in his hand.

Helena lifted her hand to the air. Without wand or flourish, she murmured soft words in a foreign tongue he didn't recognise, the syllables carrying like a lullaby. A hush spread through the room, the atmosphere shifting. The weight in his chest eased as though the very air had grown kinder.

Her voice followed, warm as the hearth. “This will help you rest more easily. It’s a little like when I steady you with touch — not as strong, but it will give you some peace.”

She stirred the fire, laying a log onto the flames, then poured a cup of tea fragrant with herbs. She offered it gently, her gaze meeting his.
“Here… take it. It will ease the strain a little, nothing more. Let it help you breathe again.”

He accepted it, reluctant but obedient, fingers pale against the porcelain. The warmth slipped through him, and with it, some of the tension bled away.

Helena settled near him and took his wrist, her touch gentle and sure. A quiet warmth flowed into his skin, softening the ache he carried. The residue of dark magic loosened, dissolving in slow waves until his breath came easier.

“It will still anchor you,” she murmured, “but this way, it can heal as well.”

Her eyes flicked to the stone in his palm. “May I show you something?” she asked softly. “It will help the stone hold you more steadily.”

When he gave no objection, she guided his hand, her touch light and sure. “Just trace it slowly with your thumb… like this,” she murmured, drawing a curved pattern across the opaline. “Breathe with it — in, and out — and let the warmth answer you.”

The stone shimmered faintly, its glow deepening.

Helena’s voice was low, almost like a lullaby. “There… you see? It listens to you. Each breath makes it stronger.”

Severus exhaled, a long breath breaking from him before he could stop it. His voice was low and, for the first time, unguarded.
“I am… not certain I can withstand another summons..”

Helena’s gaze was steady, her words gentle as balm. “You won’t have to. Come to me the moment it stirs — I’ll steady you, and I’ll stay until you’re yourself again.”

He gave a single nod, sharp as always, but it was enough.

His gaze sharpened slightly. “Your magic… what is it? Why no wand? How do you… hold it?”

Her eyes softened, her voice threaded with memory. “It is older than wands, Severus. Knowledge from my homeland, where magic is taught as part of the body, the soul, the breath. Anchoring is not a spell to cast. It is simply being present until the other can find their footing again.”

He studied her, eyes unreadable, but silent.

Helena leaned toward him, voice quiet and warm. “I won’t keep you, Severus… but don’t hurry back to your quarters now. Stay here a while, at least for today. Let the room hold you. The fire, the stone — they will soften what’s still raw inside you. If you want to speak, I’ll listen. If not, silence is more than welcome. You can sit by the hearth, take a book… or simply breathe.”

She rose quietly, her shawl falling close. At her desk, the quill scratched faintly against parchment. The fire crackled, the enchanted chimes gave their faint rhythm, and the air itself seemed to cradle him.

Severus lingered. His posture was still rigid, but some weight had lifted. The stone pulsed in his palm with steadier warmth, and his breath no longer caught on every draw. He did not thank her, but he did not leave. For now, it was enough to remain — strangely relieved, if only for a moment.

Chapter Text

The corridors were hushed when Severus finally left her rooms. The stone lay warm in his palm, steady against the calluses of his fingers. He slid it back into his pocket, though his hand lingered there longer than it needed to.

It was a peculiar thing. He had walked through countless chambers in this castle, most thick with memories he would rather forget, yet none had felt like hers. Her office was no sanctuary of spells, no arsenal of power — and still it had disarmed him. The air itself had shifted, lighter, as though her presence coaxed the walls to breathe.

He remembered the cadence of her voice murmuring in that foreign tongue, low and melodic. It had pressed against his bones like music, filling places he had long kept shut. And the fire… the way it caught when she stirred it, spilling warmth that had reached even him.

He had resisted — of course he had. He had sat stiff as a statue, tea burning his tongue, refusing to admit that the tremors were leaving him. But when she took his wrist, steady hands unflinching, the pain that had clawed at him since the summons loosened. He had not wanted to believe it, yet the relief had come all the same.

And there was something else he could not quite shake:

he had seen her do this before.

Not to him…
but to Potter.

He remembered that terrible night — the boy trembling, grey-faced, barely standing under the weight of what he had carried back from that graveyard. Dumbledore had questioned him sharply, urgently, and Severus had braced himself for Potter to shatter mid-sentence.

But he hadn’t.

The boy had spoken with a steadiness no potion could have granted, no Occlumency lesson could have forged.
And behind him — quiet as a breath — Helena’s presence had held him upright. No wand. No spell. Just that stillness, that strange anchoring glow that steadied the boy without softening the truth.

When Severus and Dumbledore returned the next morning — after the impostor had been unmasked, after the horrors of that cursed trunk — Potter had looked… different.
Worn, yes. Bruised, certainly.
But not collapsed.
Not hollow at the center, as Severus remembered himself being after his first summons.

He had dismissed it then as youthful resilience.

Now he knew better.

The rune traced across the opaline stone still pulsed faintly beneath his thumb, its rhythm matching his own breath. He had scoffed at charms, at crystals, at anything that smelled of sentiment. And yet, the stone had steadied him when his voice nearly failed before Dumbledore. It had steadied him still now.

Her words lingered too: Don’t face it alone. Come before, come after. Let this place hold you.

He had not promised — he did not make promises. But he had nodded. And perhaps that was already more than he had given in years.

He took several steps down the corridor before the truth slid, unwelcome, beneath his ribs:

He had wanted that steadiness.
Not now — not suddenly — but for years.
Since childhood, when a quiet hand on his back might have changed the shape of everything.
Since Lily, when he first learned that gentleness could exist and then learned how sharply its absence could cut.
Since the night he begged Dumbledore to save her and found himself standing alone in the wreckage that followed.

He had been starving for something like this long before he knew what to name it.
Starving for calm instead of censure…
for warmth instead of suspicion…
for presence without judgment.

And only now did he feel the depth of that hunger — still refusing to call it by its name.

And still… beneath the relief, another current stirred. Unease. Wonder. Awe. She had entered his private chambers — his fortress of wards and defences — without force, without intrusion. The door had opened because she had asked it, and the castle had allowed her. She anchored him not with spells, not with potions, not with the familiar weight of wizardry, but with presence, warmth, and a kind of magic he did not understand.

Helena Oliveira was not another eccentric healer. She was something else. Something other. She unsettled everything he thought he knew of power, of magic, of control.

Severus was not a man easily moved, but as he remembered her stillness by the fire, the surety of her touch, he felt it press against him even now — not as weakness, but as a strange, unfamiliar strength.

His chest ached still, but the ache had dulled. And when his thoughts turned toward her, it was with a quiet awe he dared not voice, and questions he did not yet know how to ask.

He pulled his cloak tighter, straightened his shoulders, and walked on. His mask of composure was still intact — but beneath it, for the first time in years, there stirred the sense that he was not entirely alone.