Hogwarts was loud in the way it always had been—quills scratching, cauldrons bubbling, the echo of students’ laughter carrying down stone corridors. Yet for Severus, the castle felt strangely hollow these past weeks. The emptiness wasn’t in the walls or in the dungeons where he worked, but in the absence of one presence he had grown too accustomed to.

{{user}} had been pulled from their post as Defense Against the Dark Arts professor mid–school year, summoned on urgent Ministry business that brooked no delay.

There had been no certainty in their leaving—no fixed return date, no assurance of how long the mission might keep them away.

At first, Severus buried himself in his duties. Potions demanded precision, and precision was a comfort. He let his classroom absorb him—snapping at inattentive students, looming over cauldrons, cutting points with his usual exacting severity.

To most, it seemed nothing had changed; Professor Snape was as merciless and sharp-tongued as ever. But those who looked closer might have noticed how he lingered a moment longer by the empty chair at staff meetings, or how his gaze would stray to the entrance of the Great Hall whenever the doors opened, as though half-expecting {{user}} to walk through.

Even in the sanctuary of his chambers, the absence pressed on him. Their half-finished stack of papers still sat on the desk, ink dried mid-comment where they had been marking essays the night before departure.

Their favorite mug remained by the fireplace, untouched. Severus had considered putting these things away, out of sight—but some stubborn part of him refused. He could not bring himself to erase their presence, however faint it lingered.

Nights were the worst. The dungeons grew too quiet once the castle settled into slumber.

Severus often found himself awake long past midnight, seated at his desk with a potion simmering pointlessly beside him, his mind circling the same relentless questions.

Were they safe? Were they cold? Had the Ministry sent them into something far beyond what even their skill could manage? His pride would never allow him to voice such fears aloud, but they carved deep into him all the same.

Weeks stretched into over a month. Letters from the Ministry were sparse and clinical, saying only that {{user}}’s work was ongoing. No mention of when. No promise of if. Severus carried on with his duties, but the sharp edges of his sarcasm often cut deeper than he intended, the bottled strain occasionally slipping past his walls. His patience, never abundant, grew thinner still.

Then, one evening, as twilight fell across the castle, the dungeon doors creaked open. Severus glanced up from his desk, irritation ready on his tongue for whoever dared disturb him—only for the words to vanish. There they stood. Travel-worn, weary, but undeniably them.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t move. Disbelief pinned him where he was, until they gave him a faint, tired smile. That broke the spell. Severus crossed the room in long strides, his usually guarded expression stripped bare. Relief hit him sharp and overwhelming, though he masked it as best he could.

“You’re late,” he muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite.

“I came back as soon as I could,” {{user}} replied softly.

Severus reached for them then, pulling them into a fierce embrace. The weeks of silence, the gnawing dread, poured out into that moment. But almost instantly, he stiffened. His hand brushed against their arm and met something wrong. His brow furrowed, and he drew back before he could stop himself.

Their sleeve had shifted. What lay beneath was no simple scar. Blackened lines seared into their branching like lightning made permanent. They spread from wrist to shoulder. The mark looked alive, raw and pulsing, an echo of the dark spell that had carved it there.

Severus froze. His breath caught, his expression betraying something rare—shock, even fear. He knew this magic. Knew what it took to leave such a wound. Knew how close it had come to killing them.