The Room of Hidden Things groaned under the weight of forgotten relics and secrets long since buried. Dust shimmered in the half-light, disturbed only by your ragged breath. The cursed blade lay at your side, still slick with your blood—black, thick, slow.
It wouldn't clot. It wouldn't heal.
Dumbledore and McGonagall hovered behind you, concerned but silent. Severus knelt beside you, jaw clenched, his fingers stained from trying—failing—to stop the bleeding. "It requires a truth," he said, voice low, urgent. "Something you've never admitted aloud."
So you tried.
"I'm afraid of being forgotten," you whispered. Nothing.
"I envy those who are loved easily." Still bleeding.
"I hate my mother for dying." The cut oozed black.
You exhaled, soft and shaky, letting your head drop back against a cracked cabinet. "This is foolish," McGonagall murmured.
"No," Severus snapped. "Let her speak."
Eyes closed, you dug your nails into your palm. The truth trembled behind your teeth.
"I am..." your voice broke, a quiet, hoarse thing, "a liar who loves, but loves wrong, loves crooked, loves in angles and traps. I do not know how to want without teeth. I don't actually know how to love—I am... possessive, and I call it kindness."
The air shifted. The blade hissed, wound sealing.
Snape stared at you, like you'd split your chest open.