Work Text:
1971
Poppy met the boy when he was eleven years old, at his new student physical. Of course, he wasn’t Severus, then, not the boy she came to know, but he was just as stubborn when he was Severine, all scowls and folded arms and pouting. He took the vaccination potions without complaint – and oh, how it infuriated Poppy that his mother neglected to inoculate him, it wasn’t as if the boy was Muggleborn – but threw a stink when he was informed he would be staying.
“Young lady.” Poppy levelled her best unimpressed gaze upon him, the kind that made even the most grouchy patients compliant. It worked a charm and Severus squirmed where he sat on the bed. “You are dealing with Muggle asthma. Now I can cure it, but I need to keep an eye on you, so you will be staying overnight. This is not up for discussion. Do you understand?”
Severus cast his gaze down at the flagstone floor.
“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled, and, satisfied, she went about beginning to do just that, feeding him the potions and conjuring the self-replenishing oxygen bubble when his breathing predictably became labored as the potions began to work.
His big, dark eyes were scared and his hands fisted in the blankets lying over his small body and Poppy had no more patients that night, so she sat beside him, rubbing his shoulder until he succumbed to sleep, curled up somewhat defensively on the mattress.
She took some time to look him over, to truly look him over – neglect at the very least was quite obvious, but not to the point where anything could be done. Any notes from the Ministry might escalate the issue, and that was the last thing she wanted. He was thin – his scans showed some malnutrition, some weak bones, and stunted growth, but hopefully the potion regime he’d taken would fix that up.
He’d cut his black hair short himself, that much was clear by the messy, jagged mess that was left, falling to just above his shoulders. His uniform skirt was quite old, second-hand, hemmed to fit him but not neatly. The only new article of clothing he had was his Slytherin tie, charmed new after his Sorting.
Even in sleep, his forehead was wrinkled, like he had the weight of the world on his tiny shoulders, and Poppy smoothed a hand over one of them, the ghost of a smile crossing her face. The boy was just a child, so very young, alone in the Hospital Wing.
She conjured a plush rabbit and tucked it in next to him, tugging a blanket up over his shoulders, before settling back to rest.
—
She heard the tales of Severine Snape versus the four Gryffindors, of course she did. Spats everywhere they met, almost daily. They were the talk of the staffroom, making every teacher shake their head in disbelief.
“Nothing I do reels them in!” Minerva said, exasperated. A pinched, harried look was on her face and Poppy knew exactly why – the three of them had gotten into it quite explosively in the middle of a corridor and now faced two weeks of detention. Never before could Poppy remember personalities clashing so horribly, and she considered it pure dumb luck their fights didn’t end in her Hospital Wing.
“Mr. Potter and Mr. Black are used to getting what they want,” Filius said. “Perhaps more stringent consequences might deter them?”
“And what of Ms. Snape?” Minerva demanded. Poppy couldn’t help it; she scoffed, audibly. Minerva turned to face her, eyebrow raised. Poppy had the attention of the entire staff room now, she noticed.
Good.
Just because they refuse to see it doesn’t mean she had to ignore it.
“Ms. Snape is routinely defending herself,” Poppy pointed out. Minerva opened her mouth, an outraged look crossing her face, but Poppy gave her no chance to interrupt. “Minerva, please. It is Mr. Potter and Mr. Black, every time, ganging up on Ms. Snape. Other Gryffindors even say so! You can hardly keep assigning equal blame to the victim of bullying for what the bullies do.”
“Thank you, Poppy,” Filius said, sounding triumphant. “That’s what I’ve been saying, Minerva. I know you mean well, but your blind spot for your Lions is going to get Ms. Snape hurt. Perhaps Mr. Potter and Mr. Black won’t stop because you keep insisting on punishing Ms. Snape as well.”
“I–” Minerva seemed a bit lost for words, looking from Filius to Poppy like she expected one of them to take it back. When neither did, she stood, brushing off her robes and exhaling. “Very well. I shall endeavor to approach this situation more objectively.”
She didn’t wait for any further words to be exchanged, sweeping from the room, leaving Poppy and Filius to share grim looks.
Minerva, doubtlessly, would give it her very best attempt, but Poppy worried it wouldn’t be enough to curb two rampant bullies already given so much leeway.
—
Poppy was right.
It didn’t even take until December before a confrontation landed the three usual suspects along with Ms. Evans in the Hospital Wing, along with what seemed like half the school as witnesses, all falling all over themselves to share what happened.
“Enough!” Poppy shouted once the four students were laid on beds, silencing the crowd. She pointed at the two most responsible students she could spot, one from each House, in hopes of the full story. “Mr. Malfoy, Mr. Prewett, remain. The rest of you, out!”
It took several minutes before the Hospital Wing was emptied of everyone but Poppy’s patients and her two witnesses. After checking to ensure the four were stable – and still unconscious – she beckoned Mr. Malfoy and Mr. Prewett closer.
“Undoubtedly you will be asked to repeat this story, so get it straight,” she told the two third years firmly, and they nodded. “I am only concerned about their health. What happened?”
After a glance at each other, Mr. Malfoy spoke up.
“Severine and her…friend were walking down the hall,” he said, head held high and shoulders back. “They were at the top of the stairs when a Tripping Jinx was cast by Black. It went wide, though, and hit Severine’s friend, and she went down the stairs. Severine went down after her and was chased by Potter and Black. Severine cast a Knockback Jinx at Black, who fell back and hit his head, and punched Potter, who punched back. They fought until two Prefects Stunned them to break it up.”
Poppy nodded, then looked at Mr. Prewett, who nodded as well.
“What he said.”
“Alright,” Poppy said. “If you would please fetch Professor McGonagall and Professor Slughorn.”
“Yes ma’am.”
Poppy watched them go, then turned back to her patients. Reassured that Snape and Potter were merely Stunned, she turned her attention to Evans and Black first, casting two diagnostic charms, watching the progress carefully. The charms were just wrapping up when footsteps heralded Minerva and Horace’s arrival into the Hospital Wing.
“Good Lord,” Minerva said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Mr. Prewett advised me of what happened, Poppy. You were right. I apologize.”
“I am concerned as to how a First Year knows the Knockback Jinx,” Horace said, frowning down at Snape. Poppy scowled at him.
“Really?” she demanded. “I’m more concerned at the thought process that led Mr. Black to cast a Tripping Jinx at the top of the stairs. Ms. Evans has a broken arm and a concussion.”
“He didn’t intend to hit Ms. Evans,” Minerva said, and Poppy’s scowl grew.
“Oh?” she asked. “But it was okay that he meant to hit Ms. Snape?”
“That’s not what I meant,” Minerva said weakly. Poppy sniffed in disapproval before turning to Black’s scan.
“Mr. Black also has a mild concussion,” she said. “I’ll keep them both overnight. As for Potter and Snape…”
She moved over to them, casting the same diagnostic charms. A long moment passed until she was able to read the results.
“Potter has a broken nose, Snape has bruises,” she announces. “I’ll Revive them and heal them now so I can focus on Black and Evans.”
“Thank you,” Minerva said, tone still somewhat meek. Poppy narrowed her eyes at her, but two waves of her wand had Snape and Potter blinking their eyes open blearily, flinching back from the disapproving looks of their Heads of House.
“Mr. Potter,” Minerva said sharply as. “At what point should you have prevented this from occurring at all?”
“I should have stopped Sirius, ma’am,” Potter said, voice small.
“Did you think it would be funny if Ms. Snape had fallen down a flight of stone steps?” Minerva pressed. “Ms. Evans has a broken arm and a concussion. Do you find that humorous?”
“No, ma’am,” Potter mumbles. Minerva sniffed.
“I will be writing to your parents,” she informed the boy. “You have lost Gryffindor House 50 points, and you have detention for the rest of the term.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Potter said, wincing.
“Ms. Snape,” Horace said. Snape ducked his head. “Upon Ms. Evan’s fall, what should you have done?”
“Gotten a teacher,” Snape murmured. His lips are barely moving.
“Was it appropriate to instead use Third Year jinxes and fling yourself into a brawl like a common Muggle drunkard?”
“No, sir.”
“I will also be writing to your parents,” Horace declared, nostrils flaring. “Given, however, that you were the intended victim in this, I will let you off with 30 points from Slytherin and detention for the rest of the term. If you conduct yourself in this manner again, Ms. Snape, I will not hesitate to increase your punishment, do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We will escort them both to their Common Rooms,” Minerva said, after a glance at Horace. “I will be back to deal with Mr. Black. He will not escape punishment. Ms. Evans, however, will not be punished, given that she had no real involvement in this other than being hurt.”
Poppy nodded and turned back to tend to Black and Evans, hoping against hope that perhaps this time, the steadily-growing animosity between Black, Potter, and Snape would be quelled.
—
“Madam Pomfrey, Madam Pomfrey!”
Poppy rushed out of her office at the urgent call of Ms. Evans, heels click-clacking on the flagstone steps. Evans was standing in the Hospital Wing, one arm around Snape, who was cradling his arm to his chest, silent tears streaming down his cheeks. One look at his arm told Poppy it was broken, and she ushered the still-small boy over to a bed as quickly as possible.
“What happened?” she asked Evans, who still had her hand on her best friend’s shoulder. Her teeth were worrying her bottom lip and her eyes were wide and wet as she watched Snape struggle not to cry out as Poppy gently took ahold of his arm.
“Flying lessons,” Evans said, voice tremulous. “Sev fell.”
For once, an injury not caused by the Gryffindor boys. Poppy clicked her tongue and made a soft soothing noise when Snape’s breathing stuttered and he choked on a small cry.
“There, there,” she told him gently. “It’s broken. It’s okay, I’ll have it fixed in an instant. Ready?”
Snape squeezed his eyes shut and nodded. Poppy aimed her wand at the broken arm.
“Brackium Emendo,” she murmurs, and a soft white glow enveloped the broken arm for a moment before the visibly deformed bone shifted back into place and the tension that had Snape’s shoulders somewhere around his ears dissipated. He let out a slow, shaky breath.
“Thank you,” he whispered, and she gave him a wry smile.
“Don’t thank me yet,” she said, Summoning Skele-Gro and measuring out a dose. “Drink this to strengthen your bone, then wait fifteen minutes and you can go. Ms. Evans can wait with you if she likes.”
“I’ll stay,” Evans said instantly, and Snape offered her a small smile. Evans hopped up onto the bed next to him and nudged the Skele-Gro over. “Drink, Sev.”
Snape picked up the cup and took a small sip, face instantly screwing up in disgust. Poppy couldn’t blame him – Skele-Gro was easily one of the most disgusting healing potions, hands down, and Poppy even thought it was one of the most disgusting potions, period.
“Blegh,” Snape says, giving himself a little shake before glancing sideways at Evans. “When I grow up, I’m going to find a way to make potions taste better.”
“If anyone can, you can,” Evans agreed with a smile, and Poppy couldn’t help but smile, too.
—
1972
“You know the drill, Ms. Snape,” Poppy said, holding out the potion for malnutrition, the inoculation booster potions lined up beside her. The newly-minted Second Year made a face, but accepted the phial, downing it with a grimace. “Thank you very much. Vaccines now.”
“I had them last year,” Snape protested, scowling. He was still much too cute for it to have any real effect, much too cute for it to really look like it would in a few short years, but he had a good start, Poppy had to admit. Still, she wouldn’t suffer brats, so she just gave Snape a look that quells the complaints.
“These are your boosters,” she informed the boy. “You won’t need any more until Seventh Year.”
Snape brightened and took them without complaint, nudging each phial back in line on the table once he was done. Poppy watched him, expecting him to leap to his feet and dash from the Hospital Wing immediately, and was surprised when, instead, he swung his feet back and forth, heels bumping lightly against the side of the bed.
“Ms. Snape?” Poppy asked, prompting. The boy worried at his bottom lip before sucking in a deep breath and meeting Poppy’s eyes.
“Erm,” he said. “I…fell. On my wrist. A few days ago. And it’s sore. Could – could you –”
“Let me see,” Poppy said, interrupting smoothly. Relief crossed Snape’s face and he held out his arm without complaint, letting Poppy roll the sleeve of his robe and blouse up to reveal mottled bruises covering his thin wrist. “Oh, dear.”
“I fell,” Snape repeated quickly. Too quickly, Poppy thought. Very rehearsed. Poppy had heard that line before, heard it many times, but she also knew better than to push. Snape clearly wasn’t ready for that conversation, and if the wrist was all the proof Poppy had, it wasn’t nearly enough, especially not for Albus ‘all-families-love-each-other’ Dumbledore.
“Okay,” Poppy said gently, though she knew Snape understood that Poppy did not believe him. Poppy could tell by the tension in his shoulders and the way he wouldn’t meet her eyes. Still, she Summoned her Bruise Balm and gently began rubbing it in, carefully, until the bruises began to fade before her eyes. “There we go. Does it still hurt?”
Snape rolled his wrist and gave Poppy a hesitant smile before shaking his head.
“Thank you, ma’am.”
Poppy smiled back.
“You’re quite welcome,” she told him. “You may go. Please refrain from being a patient quite as often, yes?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Snape said, still grinning, and hopped off the bed, racing from the Hospital Wing. Poppy watched him go, fond smile still on her face, and shook her head.
Somehow, she doubted the boy would successfully avoid her all year.
—
“She started it.”
“He started it!”
“I don’t care who started it, it’s finished!” Minerva shouted in exasperation as Poppy aimed her wand at Snape’s nose, quelling the gush of blood. Black’s swollen eye had been healed already, leaving him scowling and glaring on Minerva’s other side.
“There you go,” Poppy told Snape, who sniffed a bit and accepted the damp flannel to wipe the blood from his face. “So what happened this time?”
“Ms. Snape?” Minerva prompted, making an outraged look cross Black’s face. Snape glared right back at Black, and Poppy laid a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“Black shoved me and I hit the wall,” Snape muttered, not taking his eyes off the other boy. “He grabbed my head from behind and knocked it into the wall. I elbowed him to get him off me.”
“Mr. Black?”
“Sniverine –”
“Mr. Black.”
“Snape called me thick-headed and told me she was surprised I even got a Hogwarts letter when I was as stupid as a Mountain Troll.” Black was seething, hands curled into fists, and Minerva looked unimpressed.
“So that gave you license to become violent?” she asked, and Black had the good sense to look abashed. “Have you ever heard of simply walking away instead of rising to the bait? And Ms. Snape, have you considered not stirring the pot with Mr. Black when you know there are already problems between you two?”
Poppy privately thought that sounded a bit harsh, considering the track record between Snape and Black, but she wasn’t going to argue with Minerva in front of students, so she settled for a displeased look aimed at the Deputy Headmistress, who didn’t notice.
“Twenty points from Gryffindor and ten points from Slytherin,” Minerva said. “Mr. Black, you have a week’s worth of detention. Ms. Snape, you will return to the Slytherin Common Room while I escort Mr. Black back to Gryffindor. Go.”
Snape turned on his heel and marched from the Hospital Wing, scowling. Minerva watched him go, lips pursed, before turning to Black.
“Get moving,” she ordered, and Black ducked his head, shuffling alongside her. Minerva looked over her shoulder as they walked. “Thank you, Poppy.”
“Keep them out of my Hospital Wing,” Poppy called in return, and Minerva rolled her eyes.
Likely.
—
1973
Poppy taught General Sexual Health and Wellness to every Third Year class, every year. It was separated by gender and was guaranteed to be embarrassing enough that the fact that the class was taught in combined Houses didn’t even matter.
None of the students even looked at each other for the duration of the six weeks.
The boys were almost guaranteed to be more rowdy, cracking jokes until Poppy embarrassed them enough to shut them up. The girls usually had thoughtful questions, albeit anonymous ones, and it was usually by the end of the course that Poppy got her first round of transgender students.
This year was no exception.
She gave her usual lecture – she talked about the theory, the history, the potions people take, the importance of being respectful. She spoke about Magic accepting someone’s true gender and pronouns, and how disrespecting that is the height of dishonor.
She got the usual classroom full of wide eyes, because usually only a few students had ever even heard of the concept. Usually there would be letters home, jogging parent’s memories of their class with Poppy.
Sometimes, she got Howlers, but those were becoming rarer and rarer.
She was sitting at her desk, reading through her anonymous notes and scrawling her answers. Magic would deliver the note to the student when she was done. This was one of the more fun parts of the class, seeing what the students were getting from her lectures.
Why hasn’t someone invented a spell to get rid of periods?
There is a potion, but only if you don’t want to get pregnant in the future, dear.
How come girls can get into the boys dorm but boys can’t get into the girls?
Hogwarts reads intentions. Boys can get into the girl’s dorm if their intentions are innocent (like just studying).
Finally, she unfolds one she’s frankly been waiting for. One she always, always gets. It’s written in cramped, almost spidery handwriting, with a few ink splotches like the writer had hovered their quill over the parchment, thinking about what to say.
What do I do if I don’t think I’m a girl?
There were about twenty transgender students at Hogwarts that year, so Poppy was quite experienced in dealing with this question and the ensuing journey the student would take. She smiled – no matter how many Howlers she got, she was honored to be part of it.
She put her quill to the parchment and wrote out her answer.
You can come see me and we can talk it over. You may be transgender or you may not be. Whatever you are, I promise it’s okay and you will be accepted.
Two days later, Snape arrives in her Hospital Wing, head ducked low, hair tumbling down to block his face. He’s wringing his hands together, and Poppy, not making the connection quite yet, frowned worriedly.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “Are you hurt? Sick?”
“No, ma’am,” Snape mumbled. He took a slow, shaky breath. “Um. I wrote a question. And you answered it. And I just – I wanted –”
“You had more questions?” Poppy asked, when it became clear that Snape was having trouble finishing his sentence. Clearly relieved, Snape nodded, and Poppy smiled gently at him. “Alright. Let’s step into my office, dear, shall we?”
Snape nodded again and followed Poppy quietly, sitting on one of Poppy’s comfortable chairs, still wringing his hands. He was worrying his bottom lip, looking anywhere but at Poppy, but Poppy had been the Hogwarts Medi-Witch for a very long time. She was well-versed in getting reluctant children to talk.
“Would you like some tea, dear?” she asked, and Snape blinked in surprise before nodding hesitantly. Poppy rapped her wand on her desk and a tea service appeared. She poured the boy a cup and he took it with somewhat shaky fingers, cupping his hand around it like he was leeching the warmth from it. “Do you want to start with what your question was?”
Snape gulped. He stared down at his tea for a long moment before visibly steeling himself and looking back up at her.
“I think,” he said, then faltered for a moment before swallowing and forging on. “I think that maybe I’m not a girl.”
Ah.
“I see,” Poppy said gently. “How long have you thought this?”
Snape’s lips pursed.
“I’m not sure,” he said haltingly. “I – I know that I don’t – I don’t think I’ve ever liked being a girl. But – I didn’t know there was another option before – before you said so.”
Poppy nodded.
“And if someone were to say you were a boy?” she prompted. Snape’s eyes lit up.
“I think I would like that better,” he said honestly, before deflating. “But – my mum, there’s no way she would let me.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Poppy assured him. “At least, not at Hogwarts. It’s considered medical intervention, something she agreed to sending you here. I can’t promise she won’t continue to call you a girl at home, but she can’t stop you taking the potions here, if that’s what you want.”
Snape frowned.
“But won’t she notice me changing?”
Poppy shook her head.
“Before you leave for the summer, I can give you a two-month glamour potion,” she explained. “It won’t reverse the changes, but it will give the appearance of your old body. We have given that issue consideration.”
Snape’s eyes widened.
“Oh,” he said, then swallowed. “Madam Pomfrey?”
“Yes?”
“I think – I think I’m a boy.”
Poppy smiled warmly at him.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said. “Let’s talk about what happens next.”
—
Albus Dumbledore was a man stretched too thin to pay special attention to particular students, in a similar but different way to Horace Slughorn. Horace paid special attention to students he deemed were valuable, and less attention to others. Albus paid general attention to students as a whole, but lapsed in attention to Poppy’s special cases, nearly every time.
“And why does Ms. Snape need to partake in the special fund?” Albus asked, looking over the rim of his glasses at Poppy, a frown on his face. “From what I understand, she received her allowance already.”
“Albus,” Minerva said testily, beating Poppy by just half a second. “If I have to go over this with you one more time, I will transfigure every item of clothing you own two sizes too small. His name is Severus Snape and he needs a fully new uniform. We go through this with you several times every year and you continually act like the concept is brand new to you.”
“Ah,” Albus said. “Right. My apologies. Do we need to ask the Board?”
“No,” Minerva said. “They’ve already approved seven years of funds for him. He didn’t utilize his full amount this year, anyway. It’s more than enough to correct his uniform.”
“And the dorm situation?” Albus asked, lacing his fingers together in front of him. “What have the students been told?”
“The students have been told the same thing they are told every time a student changes their name and their dorm placement,” Poppy said. “They are informed of the student’s new name, introduced to their new dorm mates, and instructed in no uncertain terms that any bullying will not be tolerated.”
Poppy finished this with a meaningful look towards Minerva, who sighed.
“I’ve informed them specifically,” she said. “If any of them bully Mr. Snape regarding his change, they will lose fifty points each and earn two week’s detention per incident, including weekends. I also informed them that whether or not Mr. Lupin is involved in their attacks, I will include Mr. Lupin in the punishment. Hopefully this will tone them down.”
“Is that fair?” Albus asked. “Mr. Lupin doesn’t participate in their fights, does he?”
“Not usually,” Minerva acknowledged. “However, he also does not intervene with his friends nor fetch a teacher. Perhaps this will also teach him a lesson.”
“Luckily, Mr. Snape is in Slytherin,” Poppy said, feeling a swell of pride towards her old House. “They’re nothing if not loyal to each other. Whatever their feelings towards Mr. Snape’s change, they won’t permit other Houses to bully him for it.”
Minerva inclined her head.
“True,” she admitted, though it looked like it pained her to admit it. “I will be taking Mr. Snape next weekend for his new wardrobe. The transfiguration of his current one won’t last much longer than that. And Merlin knows Horace will consider himself far too busy for it.”
The tone of Minerva’s voice shows just how little she cared for Horace’s choices on that matter, and Poppy couldn’t blame her. Personally – and Poppy freely admitted she might be biased, but she hardly cared – she thought Snape was a wonderful child, full of potential. It was Horace’s loss if he chose not to recognize it.
Speaking of recognizing it.
“I have a concern,” Poppy said. Minerva looked at her, eyebrow raised. “I believe some older students have taken an…unhealthy interest in some younger students.”
Minerva gave her a sharp look.
“What kind of unhealthy interest?” she asked, voice low and dangerous. Poppy expected it; it was why she brought it up here and now, after all. Minerva was nothing if not protective, and this would not escape her wrath.
“I have no proof,” Poppy admitted. “Just suspicion. But I know some of these students have been…preaching to younger students of the benefits of joining up with the Death Eaters upon graduation. I don’t know if they’re Death Eaters themselves quite yet or just fanatics, but they definitely seem to be attempting to recruit.”
“Which students?” Albus asked, leaning forward, eyes hard. Good. Poppy knew he, at least, wouldn’t stand for this, either. For all his faults – and Merlin knew the man had plenty – recruiting children in his school to join a cult would not be something he allowed.
“From Slytherin, Bellatrix Black, both Lestrange brothers, Walden Macnair, Lucius Malfoy, and several others I’m not quite sure of,” Poppy listed. “From Ravenclaw, the Carrow twins and the Yaxley brothers. I have the names of specific younger students they are trying to reach.”
“Which ones?” Minerva asked immediately. Poppy took a steadying breath.
“All from Slythern,” she says. “Third Year and below. Gaspar Avery, Evan Rosier, Jacob Crabbe, Andrew Goyle, Regulus Black and –”
Poppy broke off, taking another deep breath, before meeting Minerva’s eye.
“Severus Snape.”
Minerva looked shocked.
“Isn’t he a half-blood?” she asked. “Why are they recruiting him?”
“He’s a prodigy in Potions, Minerva,” Poppy said. “An absolute prodigy. The only reason Horace hasn’t invited him to his bloody club is because he is a half-blood with no connections. The Seventh Year assistants say he’s turning in work at a Mastery level. Filius, Pomona, Silvanius, and nearly every other teacher he has raves about his abilities. It seems the only class he struggles in at all is yours, Minerva. He’s everything they would want on their side – I’m sure the likes of Mr. Malfoy could sway them to forget his blood status.”
Minerva stared at Poppy. Poppy shifted in her seat.
“What?” she asked defensively. “I listen to staff room gossip!”
Albus recovered first.
“It would be an absolute tragedy if they were successful,” he said quietly. Poppy immediately got a sinking feeling in her gut, compounded by the thoughtful gleam in Albus’s eye. Nothing good heralded that gleam, nothing at all, and a glance at Minerva proved that Poppy wasn’t the only one to notice it.
“Absolutely not,” she spat, and Albus blinked in surprise. Poppy pointed one shaking finger at Albus, who looked a bit put out by being scolded by his Medi-Witch. Poppy, however, did not even remotely care, and pressed on. “Albus Dumbledore, don’t you even dare. The boy is thirteen. If we are not letting Death Eaters recruit him, I am not letting you recruit him, either. Whatever plan you are concocting in your lemon-drop addled brain, you had best forget it. Because if you put that boy in danger, if that boy, who is so desperate for affection he has latched on to me, gets hurt because of you, I will ensure that the rest of your life is as miserable as I can possibly make it, do I make myself clear?”
“Poppy –”
“Do I?”
Albus sighed, but faced with Poppy’s wrath and a stony-faced Minerva, his shoulders slumped.
“Yes, dear.”
Poppy exhaled, but the churning in her gut did not leave. Somehow, she didn’t believe Albus. Not a little bit. Not at all.
—
1974
“Mr. Black.”
Poppy pulled back the curtain to find her latest patient slouched on the bed, covered in boils. Really, he has had four years to learn that he will not win in a duel against Severus Snape, but the boy never learned, it seemed.
“Madam Pomfrey.” The words were embarrassed and Black was looking anywhere but at the Medi-Witch, nose wrinkled with the clear effort at not picking at the boils. They must have been supremely uncomfortable. It was a precise and devastating hex. If Poppy had the ability, she might have given points to Slytherin just for the ingenuity.
Black probably deserved it.
Given the slight smirk on Lupin’s face as he stood beside Black, she wasn’t the only one to think so.
“Care to share how this happened?”
“No.”
“Interesting,” Poppy said. “I do believe that was a rhetorical question. What happened, Mr. Black, to leave you covered in boils? You most certainly did not wake up like this, as it is two in the afternoon and I would have seen you earlier, based on your clear discomfort.”
Black scowled. Poppy waited. Black said nothing, hunching further over.
“Don’t make me ask Professor McGonagall.”
“Fine,” Black huffed. “I got hexed by Snivellous. Happy?”
“Certainly not,” Poppy said, waving her wand. The diagnostic charm hummed as Black squirmed where he sat, and Poppy raised an eyebrow as she looked at the results. It was truly a simple hex. Black could have blocked it with a Shield Charm. It meant he had to have not seen it coming – or, was too arrogant to have seen it coming. “Is that the whole story?”
“Yes.”
Poppy merely looked at Lupin, who sighed and hung his head.
“No,” he admitted, and Black made a strangled sound. “Sirius, I can’t lie to an adult!”
Black mumbled something that sounded like yes, you can, but Poppy ignored it. She watched Lupin expectantly until he heaved a sigh.
“Sirius disarmed Snape,” he confessed. “On his way out of Transfiguration. Snape…he somehow summoned his wand back to him and then cast the hex at Sirius. He ran off before Sirius could do anything else.”
“I see,” Poppy said. She surveyed Black with pursed lips. The way she saw it she had two options: call Minerva and Severus would likely get in trouble as well, despite Black starting it and Severus arguably defending himself, or don’t call Minerva and let Black get away with attacking Severus first. She sighed, her decision made. Severus got his revenge, he didn’t need to face discipline for defending himself. “Have you learned your lesson then, Mr. Black?”
“Yes,” Black muttered, though Poppy doubted it. Lupin winced. Poppy raised her eyebrow at him.
“I’ll make sure,” Lupin said hurriedly, and Poppy nodded.
“Then I won’t call Professor McGonagall – this once,” she said. Black looked hopeful, so Poppy fixed him with her sternest glare. “However, if I hear about you attacking another student from behind, unprovoked, again Mr. Black, I will ensure your punishment is doubly harsh, am I clear?”
“Yes, Madam Pomfrey,” Black said, gritting his teeth.
Satisfied, Poppy raised her wand and aimed it at the boils covering Black’s face.
“Hold still,” she ordered.
—
1975
“Poppy,” Minerva called. Poppy stepped out of her office and sighed when she saw who was at Minerva’s side, looking for all the world like he’d rather be anywhere else. Severus’s clothing was mussed and he was trembling a little, though his arms were crossed defensively, shoulders tense and jaw grit tight.
“What happened this time?” she asked, resigned, and a muscle in Minerva’s jaw twitched.
“As I understand it, a prank,” she said, glancing over at the scowling teenager. “He is not forthcoming with any further information, but the Headmaster is concerned he may be injured.”
“Severus?” Poppy asked, and Severus scowled harder, looking away. Poppy sighed and laid a hand on his arm, steering him to the closest bed. Her concern piqued as the boy wobbled when he walked, and she quickly guided him down to sit on the mattress. He gripped the edge of it, knuckles white, and she glanced over at Minerva.
“See if you can get him to talk,” Minerva murmured. “Our esteemed Headmaster seemed to know what happened, but he was not forthcoming with information. I will try to talk to him, but I don’t have high hopes.”
Poppy nodded and Minerva left, leaving Poppy alone with Severus in the dark, quiet Hospital Wing. The boy was still not looking at her, glaring at the ground like he was wishing for it to swallow him whole, and Poppy sighed, waving her wand and conjuring a chair to settle into at Severus’s side.
“Severus,” she murmured, and the boy twitched. “Talk to me, dear. What happened?”
“I fell down the stairs.” It was a lie. It was so obviously a lie, Poppy could tell from the slight wobble to Severus’s lower lip to the way his breathing caught to the tremble that went through him. It was no fall Severus took. Something else had happened, something big, and given that Minerva suspected the Headmaster knew, it had to be something more than a simple answer.
Poppy reached out slowly, laying a hand over one of Severus’s clenched ones. Severus choked on a breath, squeezing his eyes shut, and Poppy’s heart ached. She stroked her thumb across Severus’s dry, chapped knuckles and listened to the boy struggle not to cry.
“What happened?” she asked again, and Severus sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head quickly. He blinked rapidly, and if Poppy looked closely enough, she could see tears gathering in his dark eyes. Poppy cursed Albus for a moment in her head as Severus swallowed roughly and shook his head again.
“I can’t,” he said plaintively, and Poppy frowned. “I can’t – I can’t say.”
“Why not?” Poppy asked, and Severus shook his head for a third time before dragging his gaze from the floor upward, to meet Poppy’s. There was pain in his eyes, such pain, and fear and frustration and Poppy just ached for this boy. She took his hand carefully, giving it a squeeze.
Severus cleared his throat.
“I fell down the stairs.” His voice was dull and lifeless. “If you don’t believe me, ask the Headmaster.”
Poppy closed her eyes and sighed.
—
1982
Her boy had become a man.
Of course, he was not her boy, not in any way that mattered legally, but she had watched him grow up, had known him since he was eleven, and now, seeing him nearly squirm in embarrassment in the staff room under the suspicious eyes of the rest of the staff, she wanted to gather his too-thin frame in her arms and glare her cohort into submission.
Albus was a step ahead of her.
“Severus fulfilled a role for the Light in the war that may seem unimaginable to some,” he informed everyone. Poppy saw a flicker of discomfort cross Severus’s face and she just knew the boy – no, the man – would rather them all think the worst of him than have Albus continue, but he wouldn’t speak. Wouldn’t interrupt.
Poppy, of course, already knew what Albus would say.
She refused to believe Severus Snape was a Death Eater. Not the boy she knew.
“He served as a spy for the Order of the Phoenix.” Albus’s words caused a murmur of shock, of awe amongst the staff that were all too willing to regard Severus with nothing but hostility mere moments before. Poppy wanted to hex them all but somehow restrained herself. “Without the valuable information he gathered, the casualties on our side would have been far heavier. We owe a great deal to the sacrifices he made.”
It was much later that Poppy found herself outside the quarters Severus now called his own. Severus answered the door with something like trepidation on his face that quickly morphed into confusion as he realized who was calling at the late hour.
He still wore his dark robes, wrapped around him like armour, and his pale, thin cheeks made Poppy want to drag him by the ear to the Hospital Wing for a Nutrient Potion right that second. She refrained, just gave Severus a soft smile as he blinked in confusion.
“Madam Pomfrey,” he said, and she tutted at him.
“I believe it’s Poppy to you now, Professor,” she scolded lightly, and a very slight blush appeared on his cheeks. “I’ve come to congratulate you. The youngest to ever achieve a Mastery in Potions, am I right?”
Severus ducked his head, but nodded. Poppy’s smile broadened.
“I am very proud of you,” she told him, and his flush deepened. “I knew you’d take the Potions world by storm one day.”
“You and no one else,” Severus murmured, and Poppy rolled her eyes.
“That is far from the truth but I know I shall not convince you tonight,” she said. “Just know you have standing orders to have tea with me on weekends.”
Severus’s lips curled into a slight smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, and Poppy reached out to squeeze his hand in hers.
“I’m very glad you’re here,” she told him, and his smile grew.
—
1991
Severus was staring at his teacup like it would answer every question he had in his life. He’d hardly touched his lunch – it sat pushed about on his plate, and Poppy frowned. He’d gotten better at actually eating since Poppy got after him, gotten better at taking care of himself with her dire threats, so this behavior was slightly worrisome.
“Severus,” she said, and he jerked a bit, as if coming out of a daydream, blinking and staring up at her. He exhaled shakily, picking up his teacup and taking a sip. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” he said, but when Poppy only graced that lie with an arched eyebrow, he sighed again. “It’s – her son.”
Poppy didn’t need an explanation to know who her meant. Severus’s grief and regret over Lily Evans Potter’s death – and Severus’s earlier estrangement from her – was indeed a large portion of his self- harm.
Because, make no mistake, refusing to eat or sleep or adequately care for his own well-being was most assuredly self-harm, even if Severus didn’t see it that way.
“What about him?” she asked gently, and Severus shut his eyes for a long moment. Poppy waited patiently – he’d tell her. He always told her, even reluctantly, even with a sneer, he told her. There would always be that little boy who ached for a mother that cared, and Poppy would be damned if she let that cry go unanswered. Severus was only thirty-one. Merlin.
“He begins Hogwarts in September,” Severus said eventually, once the silence between them spanned valleys. “Only five months away. I – I swore an Unbreakable Vow when Lily died that I would protect him, but I don’t know how I can even look at him knowing I’m the reason he is without his parents.”
“Severus.” His name came out pained, Poppy couldn’t help it. Of course she knew the sheer weight of the guilt Severus carried had not been alleviated and likely never would, given that the man refused a Mind Healer, but it hurt to hear it nonetheless. And oh, Poppy would be having words with Albus Dumbledore over the use of an Unbreakable Vow to manipulate an already-grieving child – because Severus was little more than a child back then, make no mistake – into such a Vow.
“I’m afraid one of two things will happen,” Severus admitted quietly. The hand holding his teacup was shaking. Poppy laid her own atop it. “The first is that the second I lay eyes on him, I will care for him. I will then be unable to even pretend to have loyalty to the Dark Lord, thus rendering me useless as a spy once the Dark Lord returns as Albus suspects. The second is that I will be so overcome with grief I will make the poor child’s life miserable, which is fitting as I am a miserable human myself.”
“Severus,” Poppy said in exasperation. His words then caught up with her. “Severus. Tell me you are not planning on returning as a spy if You-Know-Who returns.”
Severus shrugged one shoulder, the motion almost elegant.
“It’s what Albus wants,” he said, as if his safety and well-being hardly matter, and Poppy added another thing to argue with Albus about. Quite vigorously. She made a strangled noise. “Poppy, don’t. He has a plan.”
“He always does,” Poppy muttered, but let it drop for now. “You have five months to prepare yourself, Severus. And whatever happens, you won’t be alone.”
A faint smile crossed Severus’s face as he glanced up at Poppy.
“No,” he agreed. “I won’t be.”
—
1994
“I’m fine.”
“Keep saying that and I will stick you to this bed for a week,” Poppy snapped. She waved her wand and the Diagnostic Charm alerted her to the concussion Severus had, along with the facial abrasions, the bruises, and the broken ribs.
Along with the severely wounded pride when Albus decided to kick him while he was down – in front of the Minister, no less.
“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what happened this time?” Poppy asked, and Severus clamped his mouth shut. “Honestly. Hold still.”
Severus groaned in pain as she fixed his ribs and Poppy felt most of her anger drain out of her. She wasn’t mad at Severus, anyway, not truly. She was angry at Albus, for bringing her three unconscious children and an injured Severus without a word except for a twinkle in his eye, then having a discussion in the middle of her Hospital Wing about how Sirius Black was captured and was being held somewhere in the castle, as if tempting Potter!
“I’m sorry,” she told Severus quietly, Summoning her Bruise Balm before healing the lacerations on his face. A wave of her wand had the concussion sorted, though he swayed for a moment even seated on the bed. She steadied him with a hand on his shoulder until he nodded shortly, then unscrewed the cap to the Bruise Balm. “Hold still.”
He obeyed and she rubbed the salve into his bruised eye and nose as gently as possible. He kept his eyes closed, exhaling slowly when she finished and stepped back.
“There,” she said quietly. “No lasting damage – though you’re lucky. Any longer with that concussion and you might have not been.”
Severus huffed out a self-deprecating, nearly cruel laugh.
“I suppose I should be thankful,” he said bitterly. “That I was only knocked unconscious and ignored for an hour.”
“You should be bloody furious,” Poppy corrected sharply, and Severus sighed. Poppy tucked his hair behind his ear before dropping her hand to his shoulder and squeezing. “Oh, Severus. Why you can’t catch a break is beyond me.”
“I’m not meant to last,” Severus murmured, and Poppy’s breath caught. Severus shook his head. “I’m fine, Poppy. May I go?”
“Only if you promise me you’ll rest,” she said – begged, really. “You came very close to brain damage, Severus, and your body needs rest. Please.”
“I’ll stay in my quarters,” Severus said, and then, at Poppy’s raised eyebrow. “Resting. I swear.”
“Please,” Poppy said again, cupping Severus’s cheek. “Don’t make me find you in a heap on the floor of the dungeons.”
“I won’t,” Severus said quietly. Poppy sighed before dropping her hand and stepping back, giving him a short nod. Severus rose, smoothing down the front of his robes before squaring his shoulders and striding from the Hospital Wing, looking for all the world like nothing had happened.
Poppy watched him go, sadness weighing her heart down like so many stones in a lake, before turning back to Mr. Weasley with a sigh.
—
1995
Mr. Potter was asleep.
Mr. Krum was asleep.
Alastor was asleep.
Poppy had no further patients to attend to, leaving her Hospital Wing quiet in the dark night. She should be resting, too – inevitably, one of her patients would wake. Mr. Potter would need more Dreamless Sleep, after his ordeal, or Mr. Krum more antivenom, but she just sat in her office, staring at her desk, mind full of disbelief and horror at the news Mr. Potter had told Albus, who’d then shared it with the staff.
He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back. Resurrected that night, after Potter had been kidnapped from a Tournament he should never have been participating in. He was back, and Severus was gone, ordered to that man’s side by Albus to resume his role as spy without a second thought.
Poppy felt sick.
Slowly, in the years since Severus had begun teaching at Hogwarts, bit by bit by bit, Poppy had seen some life come into Severus’s eyes. She’d seen him smile, seen him grow, seen him live, a little bit at a time, and now she just knew all that would vanish, in a heartbeat, locked away to give Severus a fighting chance at survival.
She wouldn’t see her Severus until this new war was over, if she’d ever see him again, and her heart broke in her chest at the thought.
She jumped in surprise as a Phoenix materialized in front of her, the bright blue-white of a Patronus striking worry into her heart immediately.
“Poppy.” Albus’s voice was strained. “If you could please come to the ward line. I’m in need of assistance.”
Poppy is out the door and down the hall nearly before the Phoenix has vanished. She makes it to the gates and the ward line in just five minutes and falls to her knees with a cry, ignoring the blue-spangled robed form of the Headmaster in favor of the black-robed form of Severus, lying prone on the ground, bleeding and shaking and groaning in pain.
She didn’t bother asking Albus – frankly, didn’t want to hear his damn voice – and cast a Diagnostic before pushing Severus’s damp hair back. His face was screwed up in agony, body drawn tight as he shook, and the Diagnostic confirmed exactly what she feared.
Cruciatus.
Twelve rounds of it.
“I’ll kill you, Albus,” she said evenly, jabbing her wand out and Summoning Nerve Tonic. “Do you hear me? I’ll kill you.”
“Poppy –”
“Not a word,” she growled, catching the potions as they flew to her. She uncorked the first and supported the back of Severus’s head, pressing the rim of the flask to his lips. “Severus, dear, drink. It’s okay. Drink.”
It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t nearly okay. Poppy bit back tears as she watched Severus shake uncontrollably, but eventually Severus managed to drink, spilling some but downing most of it, gasping for breath once he did.
His mouth was bloody from where he must have bit his tongue and lips and cheeks and his nose was bleeding, along with a cut near his eyebrow, likely from his face smashing into the ground. She pointed her wand at each, murmuring the spells to heal them, and wrapped an arm around him as the shakes slowed a little.
“They believed him,” Albus said, because apparently he did not understand how much Poppy truly wanted to murder him right then and there. “If they didn’t believe him, he would be dead.”
“Great,” Poppy snarled. “Fantastic. I’m thrilled. Let’s revisit this conversation in private, where I can castrate you.”
“Poppy –”
Severus groaned and Poppy leaned closer, stroking a hand through his hair. His body still jerked intermittently, but it was better than before.
“It’s all right, Severus,” she whispered, even though it wasn’t. “You’re home.
—
1997
She stood on the grass below the Astronomy Tower.
She stared at Albus’s crumpled, still, dead body.
She listened to Potter’s sobs.
She would not believe it.
She would not believe it.
She would not believe it.
She could not believe it.
—
1998
“He was – he was good all along.” Potter’s voice is earnest. So earnest. He stands in the front of the Great Hall, meeting everyone’s eyes individually, as if pleading for each of them to believe them.
Poppy wants to tell him that of course they’ll all believe him. They all watched him kill You-Know-Who. They all watched him win the war. He’s the reason they don’t have to be afraid anymore. He’s the reason the sun will shine on Wizarding Britain again.
They’ll believe every word that comes out of his mouth.
Poppy is certainly hanging on every single one. Her grip on Minerva’s arm is likely too tight, but Minerva is gripping her back with as much ferocity, eyes wide and mouth parted, both begging, begging Potter to tell them what they’ve been desperate to hear.
Poppy has been so desperate to hear it.
“I have Pensieve memories to back this up,” Potter says urgently. “It’s – it’s how I knew how to beat Voldemort. It’s the only reason I knew how to beat him. Snape left them for me so I would know. So I could end it. He and Dumbledore left me a plan. He killed Dumbledore on Dumbledore’s orders – so that no one else would get to him first, and torture him, or worse.”
“You’re saying Snape was good?”
The question is full of doubt, but Minerva’s grip tightens on Poppy. Poppy is begging.
Please.
Please.
Please.
“Yes.” Potter nods forcefully. “The entire time. He was working for Dumbledore. Everything he did was for Dumbledore, because Dumbledore had a plan.”
There’s silence, and then Weasley breaks it.
“Holy shit, mate.”
The Hall breaks into chatter, excited and intrigued, and Poppy can hear the consensus – if Potter is saying it, after all the history between them, it has to be true. There’s no way Potter would clear a man he hated if it wasn’t true.
Poppy sways on her feet and Minerva grabs her shoulder tightly, steadying her. Poppy chokes on a sob and Minerva buries her face in Poppy’s shoulder, muffling her own.
“What must he have gone through?” Poppy asks, voice cracking, and Minerva just shakes her head, more strands of her greying hair falling from her bun. Her grip on Poppy’s arm hasn’t wavered. Poppy’s grip on hers hasn’t, either.
“Madam Pomfrey, Professor McGonagall.” Poppy blinks back to reality when she hears Potter’s voice. He’s weaved his way through the crowd to stand before them, swaying from foot to foot, looking quite uncertain. He glances over his shoulder, where Granger and Weasley are waiting, then looks back at Poppy and Minerva. “Um. Professor Snape’s body. It’s still – it’s still in the Shrieking Shack. I think – I think it should be moved. But I don’t know where to put it. I’m worried if I put it in here, people who haven’t heard –”
Minerva places a shaking hand on Potter’s shoulder, cutting him off. She smiles at him, though it’s watery, and nods.
“We’ll take care of it,” she tells him, and Potter nods back jerkily. “We’ll put him in a private room in the Hospital Wing for now. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thank you,” Potter whispers.
The Shrieking Shack is almost too quiet.
Poppy’s heart is in her throat knowing what is waiting for her at the end of the hallway, just inside the room. She’s not ready. She’s not ready to see Severus lying dead on the floor, having given his life like Poppy has always feared he would. She’s not ready to see the man she’s known since he was an eleven-year-old boy for the last time.
Minerva pushes the door open with an awful creaking sound. Poppy smells the blood before she sees it – it’s pungent in the air, heavy and thick. There’s a puddle on the ground, it’s splashed on the walls and on the broken bed to Severus’s left, and it’s soaked into Severus’s robes, making the dark colour darker.
Poppy feels her knees give out and she collapses at Severus’s side with a choked-off cry. She reaches for him, picking up one of Severus’s limp, cold hands between her own and cradling it close, pressing it to her cheek as if to will life back into the horribly still body.
“Severus,” she sobs, bowing her head, tears dripping down her cheeks and running down Severus’s wrist. Minerva lays a hand on her shoulder, squeezing, but it’s trembling as she struggles to remain poised. Her breathing is ragged and she chokes on her own sobs as Poppy continues to cry, bowed over the body of the man she loved like a son, who died so alone and so brutally at the hand of You-Know-Who.
She’ll never take tea with him again, never tease that smile out of him, never listen to his opinions in staff meetings or watch him care deeply for his Slytherins because no one else will. She’ll never hear his voice or see life in his dark eyes or watch him command a room like he’d learned to do so very effectively. She’ll never cow him into submission with a single look, never worry over him or fuss over him until he rolls his eyes, never glare at him until he eats his food.
She’ll never see him again and she feels as though she’s being ripped in two.
His blood is drying, it’s tacky and sticky, and Poppy knows the wound would have been fatal even if she had been here, but she wishes she had been, if only to hold his hand. If only to brush his hair back, and whisper reassurances, and let him know that she never stopped caring for him, not for a second, even when she should have.
She closes her eyes.
She cries.
—
1999
It’s nearly a year before Poppy can bring herself to visit.
In that time, she threw herself into rebuilding Hogwarts – it remained closed only for six months, reopening just after Christmas of 1998. She gave her time and energy at St. Mungo’s, at orphanages, at Hogwarts – anywhere there was a need, she was there, so she could just not think.
Thinking was so hard.
Minerva was confirmed Headmistress, of course, but it was Potter who very gently cleaned out the Head office for her. Minerva couldn’t bring herself to. She was nearly as torn up by grief as Poppy, compounded by the grief for Albus that Minerva hadn’t let herself feel before now.
Severus kept every single thing Albus had, hid it all from the Death Eaters that held the castle that year, and when Minerva discovered that, she couldn’t clean the office further.
The envelope Potter handed Poppy in December was a surprise.
The handwriting across the front of it was not.
Poppy hasn’t been able to open it yet, but it’s in her pocket as she navigates the rows of graves until she finds the one she’s looking for. It’s not ostentatious, which is somewhat of a surprise. Poppy almost expected the war hero to have a matching grave, but she supposes somebody would have pointed out how much Severus would have absolutely loathed such a display.
Instead, it’s a smooth, black marble headstone, upon which is an engraved lily at the top. Below that, in neat cursive, was his name.
Severus Tobias Snape
9 January 1960 - 2 May 1998
Fides in Aeternum
There are flowers planted everywhere around his headstone. Poppy was never much good at Herbology, but she can recognize a few – monkshood and lavender, chrysanthemum and columbine. All flowers used in Potions. She knows that much, remembers tonnes of those in his classroom.
They’re well-kept – someone is keeping up with them, and for that, Poppy is grateful. She has no idea who it is, but they’re doing a wonderful job. It’s clean, it’s lovely, it’s what he deserves.
She sits in front of his headstone, close enough to reach out and touch if she wishes, and exhales slowly. It’s quiet in the cemetery, warm for Spring. All she hears is the rush of the breeze in the trees above her and the far-off twittering of a few birds. She’s alone, despite the well-known names in this cemetery – she knows Amelia Bones is also laid to rest here.
“Hello,” she whispers. It feels like a place to whisper. “I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to come. I have no excuse except that it hurt.”
She falls silent. The breeze rustles the flowers and it feels almost as if Severus is reaching out to reassure her, and her breath hitches, a small smile twitching her lips despite the sorrow twining around her heart.
“I miss you greatly,” she confesses. “I keep looking for you, expecting to see you everywhere I go. But you’re never there. I was – I was so angry, at first. At Albus, at you. How dare you put yourself in danger like that? How dare you get yourself hurt? Didn’t you know it would tear me apart?”
She sniffs, closing her eyes for a long moment.
“Selfish, I know,” she continues, voice tight. “I know what it was for. I know why you did it. And – oh, Severus, I couldn’t be prouder of you. You are – you were – so brilliant and cunning and dedicated and loyal. You did what you had to so that the war would be won and how could I be angry with you for that?”
She wipes her eyes, swallowing hard.
“But it still hurts.” Her voice cracks. “It hurts every day. Every day I remember that you aren’t here to see the greatness you achieved. It’s not fair that you had to die. It’s not.”
She wraps her arms around herself and something in her pocket rustles. Frowning, she reaches in and pulls out an envelope. Turning it over, she spots her name in that familiar, familiar scrawl, and her breath feels punched from her.
“Oh,” she whispers, and, like someone is guiding her hands, she pops the seal and pulls out a single folded sheaf of parchment, unfolding it with shaking hands to read the rushed words.
April 1998
Poppy,
You were always kind to me, even when it was undeserved. That was enough…it was more than enough.
Thank you.
S.S.
Poppy chokes on a sob and her chin drops to her chest as she struggles against full-blown tears. The breeze picks up, blowing through her hair, carrying the sweet scent of flowers and the Springtime bird song as she manages to gather herself and look up.
“Oh, Severus,” she whispers, pressing the letter to her chest. “You always deserved kindness.”
She presses the tips of her fingers to her lips then stretches her arm out, pressing them to the curved S of his first name engraved on his tombstone, holding it there for a long moment.
“Always,” she whispers, dropping her hand.
The birds keep chirping as she sits in the warm Spring sunshine.