The dungeons of Hogwarts smelled of damp stone and ash, tinged with the acrid fumes of brewing. Cauldrons lined the benches, but it was the largest — placed at the center of the chamber — that held Severus Snape's full attention.
The potion shimmered with a dark opalescence, its surface rolling like oil. Moonflower essence to soften memory. Ground asphodel to quiet the heart. Powdered hellebore to dull attachment. A draught designed not to kill, nor even to break — but to erode. To loosen ties until they frayed, until bonds of love and loyalty weakened into shadows.
Snape stirred once, twice, then set down the ladle. His jaw was tight, his voice low.
"You will tell me, Headmaster, what becomes of the boy once this is done."
Dumbledore stood in the shadows of the chamber, his half-moon spectacles glinting in the firelight. His hands rested loosely on his wand, his face serene as ever.
"He will be placed where he may do no harm," Dumbledore said quietly. "An orphanage. Watched, unseen. When the time comes for Hogwarts, he will be summoned. Until then, he will grow apart, so that Harry may walk his path alone."
Snape's eyes flickered with something sharp — anger, or disgust, it was difficult to tell. "You would tear him from the only stability he knows," he said coldly, "because you fear what his presence may make of Potter?"
Dumbledore's gaze hardened. "The prophecy speaks of one, Severus. Not two. Void shields Harry. If that continues, the boy who lived may never become what he must be."
Snape's lip curled. "And so Void is expendable."
Silence followed. The potion hissed as a bubble broke its surface.
"No life is truly expendable," Dumbledore said at last. "But some lives must serve a greater design."
Snape's mouth twisted. He bowed his head, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed him. "I will finish it. But I will not call it for the greater good."
That night, when sleep finally came, memory and dream tangled together.
He was fifteen again, books scattered across the grass by the Black Lake, his face burning with humiliation. James Potter's wand flicked lazily, Sirius Black laughed, and Snape dangled upside down, his robes falling over his head to the jeers of their audience.
"Put him down," Amara Evans's voice cut across the laughter. Sharp. Steady. She stood at the edge of the crowd, her wand raised, her dark eyes fixed on James.
James smirked, twirling his wand like it was all a game. "Why bother, Amara? He's a Slytherin."
"And what of it?" she shot back coolly. "Does his House give you license to torment him?"
Sirius sneered. "You don't get it, Evans. He's Snivellus. He deserves it."
Amara didn't flinch. "His name is Severus. And I decide who deserves my loyalty."
For the first time, James's smirk wavered. His eyes narrowed, his voice sharpening. "Why defend him, Amara? He's nothing to you. You've got no reason to stand there for him."
Her chin lifted, defiant, every syllable deliberate. "He is my friend. That is all you need to know."
James's grip faltered. With a flick of his wand, Snape dropped to the ground, breath knocked from his chest.
Amara was at his side instantly. She extended her hand, unwavering, her gaze pinning him until he took it. "Don't thank me," she murmured as she pulled him up. "Stand straighter. Don't let them see you crawl."
That moment branded itself into him — her shield, her declaration, her refusal to let him be nothing.
Her eyes held his until he obeyed. That moment carved itself into him deeper than any wound.
Another memory followed, darker.
The war years. The Mark on his arm burned with fresh fire, whispers slithered around him: traitor, weakling, filth.
He had been cornered in a deserted corridor, three robed figures circling like wolves. Their wands gleamed. "Snape," one hissed. "Your loyalties stink of doubt."
And then she had stepped between them.
Amara. Wand leveled, voice like a lash. "Back away. He's under my protection."
One sneered. "A Gryffindor witch shielding a marked Slytherin? You disgrace your blood."
Her lips curved in a dangerous smile. "Say what you like, but remember this: cross me, and you'll regret it before your hex leaves your tongue."
They had slunk back into the dark, muttering.
She turned to Severus then, and for a heartbeat her fierceness softened. "I don't excuse your choices, Severus," she said quietly. "But I will not abandon you. Don't give me reason to regret standing here."
He could only nod, throat too tight for words.
When Lily had turned away, Amara had not. She had understood — not condoned, but understood. And for that, he had owed her more than he could ever repay.
The dream shifted, blackened, until he stood again at Godric's Hollow.
The house was broken, smoking, every step over rubble heavier than the last. He stumbled into the nursery and froze.
Lily lay lifeless on the floor, her red hair spread like blood across the boards.
And beside her — Amara.
Her dark hair streaked faintly crimson in the firelight, her hand outstretched toward a cradle, as though even in death she had tried to shield her child.
Two sisters fallen side by side. Two halves of the same heart extinguished in one night.
Severus dropped to his knees, choking on a sob. He clutched Amara's still hand, whispering through the rawness in his throat: "You were the last who believed in me. The only one left."
There was no answer, only silence — and the steady stare of a child in the cradle.
Void.
Dark, fathomless eyes fixed on him, silent, unafraid.
Born into tragedy. Fatherless already — for Void L. Potter had died the very night his son was born, cut down by shadows none could trace. And now Amara too was gone, her son left with no shield but himself.
The dream twisted once more, showing a memory from years before. Amara had brought him to meet her husband for the first time.
Severus had braced for arrogance, for James's cruelty reborn. But Void Potter Sr. had only studied him with those calm, dark eyes, unreadable but steady. Then he had extended a hand.
"You are her friend," Void Sr. had said simply. "That's enough for me. Then you are my friend too."
No sneers. No jeers. Only quiet acceptance.
Amara's voice cut through the dream again, fierce and sorrowful all at once.
"All the times I stood in the way — is it not enough to spare my child from your hand? My son, who carries my protectiveness, his father's stillness, and eyes that see what others ignore? Will you break him, Severus? Will you betray me now?"
Snape staggered, breath ragged. "It isn't me. It's Dumbledore. Harry must—"
"Always Harry," Amara snapped, her tone like fire. "And what of Void? My child. Lily's nephew. Must he suffer because he unsettles your master's design?"
The dream dissolved into smoke, but her voice lingered, cutting sharper than any blade:
"Not enough… not enough…"
Snape jolted awake, palms slick with sweat. The potion still simmered on the bench, untouched. Slowly, his hand moved — not to complete it, but to extinguish the flame.
The surface darkened to black.
The next evening, the dungeon air was thick with the scent of cooled potions and torch smoke. Snape laid out seven vials on a strip of black cloth: silver to soften memory, green to dull attachment, gray to blur recognition. Each shimmered faintly in the firelight.
Dumbledore's steps echoed down the stair, slow, measured. When he entered, his eyes swept over the array. His lips curved in the faintest smile. "You've finished them."
Snape's hands stayed folded behind his back. His voice was flat. "All but one."
Dumbledore's gaze flicked to the empty space. "The draught that weakens will?" he asked softly.
Snape's hand hovered over the void where a vial should have lain. "The one that would hollow him out until nothing remained. You will not have it."
"Severus," Dumbledore said, coaxing, his tone warm as honey, "you know why it is needed. The boy carries himself too still, too guarded. He will resist gentler measures. His instincts must be blunted if Harry is to—"
Snape's eyes snapped up, obsidian hard. His voice cut like a blade. "You would strip from him the only gifts his parents gave him. Amara's fierce protectiveness. His father's stillness. Those eyes that see what others ignore. You would reduce him to a shadow for Harry's sake — and call it destiny."
Dumbledore's face grew grave, his spectacles glinting. "Harry must not be clouded. If Void shields him, if he diverts the pain meant to temper him, the prophecy itself may unravel."
Snape stepped closer, his cloak whispering across the stone. "You speak of prophecy as if it is scripture. But this is a child, Headmaster. Amara's child. Lily's nephew. He has already carried more than most men. And you would hollow him out to keep your design intact?"
Dumbledore's blue eyes met his, calm but unyielding. "I would ensure Harry fulfills what only he can. The fate of our world may depend on it."
Snape's voice dropped, low and dangerous. "You have your arsenal. Enough to meddle. Enough to scheme. But the line ends here. Cross it, and I will not stand with you."
For the first time, Dumbledore's composure cracked. His lips thinned, his wand hand tightened ever so slightly. Behind him, Fawkes shifted uneasily, golden eyes burning with sorrow.
At last, Dumbledore inclined his head. His voice was quiet, almost regretful. "Very well. If this is the line you draw, Severus, I will not press you further."
Snape said nothing. His gaze lingered on the empty place on the cloth, the vial that would never exist.
As Dumbledore turned to leave, gathering the other potions with delicate care, Fawkes loosed a single, mournful cry — a sound of grief that echoed off the stones like a dirge.
The footsteps faded up the stair.
Snape remained alone, staring at the cooled cauldron, fists clenched behind his back.
The line had been drawn.
And Severus Snape knew that from this moment on, he was not only Dumbledore's reluctant servant — but Amara's silent guardian, and her son's.