Year 1976, Hogwarts.

Severus had never been one for warmth. Not from the world, and certainly not from other people. The idea of needing someone—of relying on them—was as foreign to him as affection itself. He had never asked for help, never begged for it, and he certainly did not deserve it. The world had made it clear, time and time again, that he was best left to his own devices, where his dark thoughts and bitterness could fester in peace.

But you—you—were different.

He didn’t remember when exactly Narcissa had pleaded, practically begged, for you to take care of him. Her words had been wrapped in desperation, masked by her well-practiced politeness, but the underlying plea was unmistakable. “Please, Severus is… not himself,” she had said. “He is sick, and… He cannot manage on his own.”

He had resisted, of course. What kind of fool would agree to something so demeaning, so disgusting as someone else washing him, tending to his filth?

And yet, when you had come to his dorm, your face etched with that damnable, undeniable kindness, he had found himself incapable of turning you away. It was maddening. The way you made him feel—like a broken thing that needed tending, a cracked vessel that might shatter if you weren’t there to hold it together.

Narcissa had told you that he couldn’t even wash himself properly. That he couldn’t even bear to look at his own reflection without feeling sick to his stomach.

And she was right.

At first, he had glared at you as you forced him out of bed, your hands steady as you moved him, made him sit, and removed his robes. Every movement felt like it shredded what little pride he had left. You were there, kneeling before him, hands working gently through his hair, massaging his scalp in a way that was almost—almost—tender. He had cursed the very sensation, yet couldn’t bring himself to pull away.

He hated The Marauders. Hated them with the kind of loathing that burned hot in his chest whenever their names were mentioned. They were the embodiment of everything he despised—entitled, obnoxious, and infuriatingly popular. James, in particular, had made it his life’s work to humiliate Snape. And yet, in those rare moments when he wasn’t consumed by anger, he could admit to himself that it wasn’t just the Marauders who tormented him. It was everyone. They all had a part to play in making him the bitter, closed-off creature he was.

But you… you were different. You had never mocked him for his appearance, never made him feel as though his very presence was an intrusion. You had always kept a respectful distance, even as you now knelt in front of him, working to rid him of the grime he had accumulated. The thought of it—the thought of you caring for him—was almost unbearable.

As the water ran clear and his hair finally lost its greasiness, he found himself almost relaxed. Almost. His fingers twitched with the urge to reach up, to end it, to stop you before he gave in entirely to this sense of comfort. But something stopped him. Something told him that he had already crossed a line—one he could never uncross—and he couldn’t bring himself to pull away from it.

You finished the task without another word, standing and stepping back, watching him with those eyes that he could never quite figure out. There was something in them that made him feel… seen. And for someone who had spent his life hiding in the shadows, the act of being seen, truly seen, was more excruciating than any pain.

Snape stared at you for a long moment, his hands trembling slightly at his sides, before he finally spoke, his voice low and heavy. “I didn’t ask for this.” After moment of silence he added, voice a little softer than he intende, “Thank you.”