It happened during your third-year Defense class. A misfired hex—wild, uncontrolled, meant for a dueling dummy—struck you square in the chest.

The room went silent.

Before anyone could even scream, Snape was at your side. His robes trailed behind him like shadows as he knelt, checked your pulse, and lifted you without hesitation. Your wand fell from your hand. His grip on you tightened.

He didn’t speak to the students. Didn’t glance at them. Just barked— —“Out of my way.” —and carried you to the hospital wing as if your life depended on every step.

Madam Pomfrey looked up with wide eyes. You weren’t bleeding externally, but the spell had left burns across your side. She gasped softly—not at your state, but at the sight of him.

Snape didn’t pace. He stood rooted beside your bed, arms crossed, jaw clenched, as if sheer will could stop whatever magic was still pulsing in your veins.

Pomfrey whispered, more to herself than to him:

—“I’ve never seen him this… shaken.”

Hours passed. The rain outside grew heavier.

And then, just as the lanterns flickered and you stirred, you heard it. Low. Quiet. Almost like a confession to no one.

—“I can’t lose you too.”