The Weight of Shadows

One Shot

The cold night air clung to Severus Snape's skin as he moved through the darkened corridors of Hogwarts, his black robes billowing behind him. His mind was buzzing with Harry Potter's words, their sharpness lingering like the edge of a blade. Every step he took felt heavier than the last.

"I'm tired of being the Boy Who Lived. Tired of all of it."

At first, Snape had dismissed the boy's complaints as melodramatic, the usual teenage angst. He had spent years assuming the worst of Potter—arrogant, spoiled, a carbon copy of James. But now, something in Harry's voice had been different, something far more real, more dangerous. The boy's eyes had held a desperation that Snape had seen before, long ago.

The memory hit him like a hex. Lily's eyes had once held the same look when she had begged him to protect her son.

But Snape had failed her. And now, as the cold night swallowed him whole, he feared he was failing her again.

He picked up his pace, his heart pounding faster than he would ever admit. The weight of Harry's words was suffocating. There was something Harry hadn't said outright, something that lingered beneath the surface of his anger—a sense of finality that gnawed at Snape's mind.

Suddenly, Snape's thoughts sharpened, his eyes widening in realization.

The lake.

His feet moved of their own accord, instinct guiding him toward the Black Lake. The vast, dark expanse of water was still as glass under the moonlight, but there—on the far side—ripples spread across the surface, too deliberate to be natural.

Snape's breath hitched. His legs carried him faster, his heart hammering in his chest as dread curled its icy fingers around him. He knew what those ripples meant.

No. No, no, no. Not again.

He reached the edge of the lake and saw nothing but the still, inky blackness. No sign of Harry. No sign of life. The realization hit him like a hex to the chest—Harry had gone into the water.

"Harry!" The name tore from his lips, raw and panicked.

Snape didn't hesitate. He threw himself into the lake, the freezing water biting into his skin, but the cold was nothing compared to the icy terror that gripped his heart. He plunged beneath the surface, his hands desperately searching, eyes straining in the dark water.

He reached out, and his fingers grazed fabric—Harry's robes.

Snape's breath caught. With all his strength, he hauled Harry's limp body up to the surface and dragged them both to the shore. As they collapsed onto the wet grass, Snape's mind raced, his heart slamming in his chest. Harry wasn't breathing.

"Harry!" Snape gasped, kneeling beside him. His hands trembled as he checked for a pulse. Nothing. The boy's face was deathly pale, his lips tinged blue, and Snape's own breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. No. Not like this. Not him.

The years he'd spent among Muggles flashed through his mind. He'd seen enough to know what needed to be done. Without hesitation, Snape tilted Harry's head back, pinching his nose shut and pressing his mouth over the boy's. He breathed into Harry's lungs, his hands already moving to the boy's chest. He pressed down, hard, trying to force life back into him.

"Come on," Snape muttered between compressions, his voice shaking with fear he could no longer hide. "Come on, Harry. Don't you dare leave me to live with this."

He performed another round of CPR, the frantic rhythm of his hands matching the desperate pounding of his heart. Time seemed to stretch and blur, every second without response an eternity. Please, please, he thought, his mind racing with panic. If Harry died, if he drowned here, it would be Snape's fault—his cruelty, his hatred, had driven the boy to this.