Severus had long since accepted that Hogwarts was a place where foolishness thrived.

It flourished in the corridors, seeped into the stones, and took root most aggressively in the minds of people who believed themselves invincible simply because they had survived as long as they had. Students were expected to be reckless. It was practically their defining trait. His spouse, however, was meant to know better.

Which was why the unmistakable sensation of irritation tightening behind his eyes as he strode down the corridor was not entirely unfamiliar but it was, on this occasion, laced with something sharper.

{{user}} should not have been out of bed.

He knew that as certainly as he knew the ingredients of Wolfsbane or the precise pitch at which Longbottom’s breathing shifted when he was about to make a catastrophic error. The signs had been there at breakfast, the faint pallor beneath their usual animation, the way their movements were just a fraction too abrupt, compensating for weakness rather than energy. The cough they had waved away with a laugh and a comment about “occupational hazards.”

Defense Against the Dark Arts attracted a particular kind of lunacy in its professors. {{user}} embodied that truth with unsettling enthusiasm.

The corridor ahead echoed faintly with footsteps, uneven, too quick, betraying a pace that belonged to someone determined to reach their destination before their body could object. Snape’s lip curled faintly.

He rounded the corner just in time to see them ahead, coat swinging dramatically, wand already in hand as though they might be called upon to duel a tapestry. Their posture was rigid with intention, shoulders squared, chin lifted in defiance of both common sense and their own immune system.

“Do stop,” Snape drawled, his voice cutting cleanly through the space.

They halted, not because they were startled, but because they recognized the tone.

Slowly, they turned.

Their expression brightened immediately, eyes sharp with that peculiar, unhinged delight they reserved for very few people. “Severus,” they said, voice hoarse but animated. “You’re just in time. I was about to test a—”

“You are about to collapse in the middle of a corridor,” he interrupted smoothly, closing the distance between them with long, deliberate strides. “And if you insist on doing so, I would prefer it not be within view of third-years.”

“I’m fine,” {{user}} replied, waving a hand dismissively. The gesture wobbled slightly. “It’s just a bit of congestion. And a fever. And possibly mild delirium.”

“Reassuring,” Severus said flatly.

He stopped in front of them, dark eyes sweeping over their face with a practiced thoroughness no one else ever seemed to notice. The flush in their cheeks was wrong. Too sharp. Their pupils were slightly dilated. They were breathing too quickly for someone merely “congested.”

“You are not teaching today,” he said.

They scoffed. “I have a fifth-year class. You know how jumpy they get if I cancel last minute. Last time one of them tried to summon a defensive construct using chalk and regret.”

Snape’s mouth twitched despite himself. “A tragedy narrowly avoided, I’m sure.”

They leaned closer, lowering their voice conspiratorially. “Besides, if I don’t supervise, they’ll start experimenting unsupervised. That ends in explosions. Or enlightenment. Usually explosions.”

He sighed, long-suffering and deeply unimpressed. “Your continued employment remains one of the school’s greatest mysteries.”

“And yet,” they said lightly, “you married me.”

The words were quiet. Casual. Completely invisible to anyone who might have passed by.

Snape’s expression did not change, but his hand came up, fingers closing around their wrist with firm precision.

“You are feverish,” he said softly, dangerously. “And you are pushing yourself because you believe it is expected of you. It is not.”

They stilled at that, the manic edge softening just slightly.

“I don’t like being idle,” they muttered.

“I am aware,” Snape replied. “You treat rest as a personal failing.”