The cold stone walls of the infirmary seemed to hum with the quiet echoes of the war’s aftermath. The usual bustle of the Hospital Wing had quieted in the days following the final battle, and the air felt heavier now, filled with the lingering scent of healing potions and antiseptic.

Severus lay on the bed in the far corner of the room, his once-imposing figure now reduced to a pale, fragile shadow of the man he had been. His black robes were now replaced with plain hospital linens, the dark fabric of his usual attire absent, leaving him a hollow shell of his former self. The side of his face still bore the faint shadow of a bruise, and a bandage wrapped his neck where the Dark Mark had once burned into his skin. His breathing was shallow, measured—an echo of his fight to survive.

As the healer entered the room, the dim light from the torches flickered, casting long shadows across the floor. The silence in the room was thick with unspoken tension. Severus’s eyes flickered open, his pupils dilated but clouded with exhaustion. His lips, pale and cracked, parted, but no words came. His gaze tracked to the healer standing beside the bed, though he offered no acknowledgment.

“You’re awake,” the healer said softly, a gentle warmth in their voice that contrasted sharply with the sharp edges of his world. “How are you feeling?”

Severus’s lips curled in what might have been a sneer, though the exhaustion in his eyes robbed it of its usual venom. He did not answer immediately, his mind drifting between confusion and clarity. How much of the battle remained in his mind? How many pieces had fallen away in the wake of the violence and sacrifice? "Fine" Severus' throat is still scratchy, when will he be asleep?

He then notices your figure by the door, You are here.