You were ending your seventh year at Hogwarts the same way you had started it; pacing the dungeon floor outside of the Potion's classroom at the crack of dawn, and anxious out of your mind. The difference being that you'd actually been invited this time, which was a little nerve-wracking in its own way. You arrived early, earlier than Snape's note had recommended, because you were overwhelmed with the fear that there might not be enough time. In fact… time was nearly up. After your meeting with your professor, you would go to breakfast. And then after breakfast, you would be getting on the Hogwarts Express.

Probably for the last time.

You had been dreading this very moment for three months. After the absolute shit show that the Most Extraordinary Society of Potioneers had turned out to be, you'd returned to Hogwarts only to come face to face with the reality of having to sit your N.E.W.T.'s. The tests were fast approaching, but frankly, you'd been grateful for the distraction; pouring yourself into your studies had been an excellent excuse to not think about things. Things like how Gilderoy Lockhart had violated your mind and body, and you had practically invited him to do it. Or how much worse it could have been if Snape hadn't shown up when he had. Or about the hideous things you had spat into his face while your mind had not been your own.

Except… you actually ended up thinking about those things constantly. You held up fine, at first. For a couple of weeks after your return, you carried on as if nothing had happened. You went to classes, you studied for N.E.W.T.'s, you joked around with your friends. You were as strong and resilient as ever. You put yourself on auto-pilot and made it through, because if your façade so much as chipped, the whole thing would come crumbling down. Which was exactly what happened, when the flashbacks began.

They crept up on you gradually, but increased in frequency as your stress became unbearable. You would be doing something mundane, like walking to class, or sitting in the library, or worst of all, trying to sleep. And for absolutely no reason other than the fact that the human mind is want to latch on to suffering, you'd be back there. You'd be back in that little booth, with Lockhart's tongue down your throat, his hands on your body, reeking of cheap cologne. You'd be back on the elevator, feeling cramped and claustrophobic as you shoved and shouted at your professor. You'd be wallowing on the bathroom floor, begging for another invasion of your mind, because anything was better than him hating you. You would agonize over how things might have been, had you acted differently. Done this, said that, gone there. But you were powerless to change any of it.

You'd inevitably end up riding out your panic attack in a bathroom cubicle. Even if it started while you were in bed, you'd always end up in the loo. Your bed was too cozy for these types of feelings; it was too safe and warm to be tarnished with this sorrow. You were drawn to the tight quarters, the privacy of a latched door and a silencing charm. There was something inexplicably calming about the cold discomfort of sitting on a tile floor in the dark, letting your dark thoughts spill out of you like an overflowing sink.

You weren't coping well. You weren't coping at all. And it started to affect your waking life. You would be distracted during classes, anxious during free hours, and you truly couldn't remember the last time you'd gotten a good night's sleep (Yes you could. His hand had still be on your arm when you woke up). Under normal circumstances, the dramatic shift in your usual easygoing demeanor would have been cause for alarm, would surely have conjured up your friends concern. But the truth was, everybody was stressed. Every seventh year looked just as haggard and exhausted as you did. All of your girlfriends were pulling their hair out over projects and exams and the beginning of the rest of their lives. Even Lawrence Hollingsworth had backed off of his pursuit of you, because he didn't have the time to spare for romantic endeavors. Nobody had taken notice of your profound suffering.

Well, of course, no one except…

All it had taken was for you to cancel one private lesson, and you'd been called down to Snape's office during Herbology and asked to explain yourself. You'd gotten defensive, reminding him that he himself had told you to alert him if you ever needed a night off, but he countered that he wasn't concerned that you wanted to cancel a brewing session. In fact, he was well aware that you'd been flaking out on him for weeks. You'd skipped many of the free periods you were supposed to spend in his classroom fulfilling the requirements of your apprenticeship, making the excuse that you needed the extra time to study for your other classes. And Snape had tolerated this, understanding of the plight of the seventh year. He knew you had other exams besides Potions. But this time had been different. Because this time, you had sent him an owl in order to cancel your lesson, instead of simply telling him in person. And he thought that was an awful lot of trouble to go through, just to avoid having to speak to him.

That's all it had taken for you to completely fall apart. Snape seemed to have been expecting it, perching himself on the arm of your chair (your chair? when had you started thinking of it as yours?) and rubbing your back in soothing circles as you wept into your hands. When your tears subsided enough for you to be coherent, he'd offered you a Calming Draught, and you'd accepted it readily. He seemed to have a stash of them on hand, and you had a feeling that he did this sort of thing on the reg. Indeed, you'd gotten that impression back at the hotel too, when he'd held back your hair and pressed a cool cloth to your face as you threw up your guts. He was responsible for a house full of Slytherin's, after all; he probably got more practice taking care of children than he cared to admit.

After downing the potion and pulling yourself together, you reluctantly explained what was troubling you, admitting that you were, in fact, avoiding him, because every time you saw him, you'd be knocked over by the wave of memory. The flashbacks, the endless loop of 'what if's', the isolation you were experiencing, because you felt like you couldn't confide in anyone. Besides him. Because he already knew. And even if you had confessed to someone else… what if they doubted you? Your story? What if they blamed you instead? Lockhart was famous; what if they took his side?

It had been his suggestion that you finally talk to your mother about it. You felt guilty that he could so easily surmise that you hadn't told her yet; you'd been lying to her in your letters for weeks. At first you'd thought that everything was fine, that you were okay, so it wasn't worth talking about. But as it became a bigger problem, you felt like it was too late to admit that you'd been keeping something this monumental from her all this time. Writing to her about it now would feel cold, impersonal, like you didn't trust her, just like you didn't trust your friends. Snape had told you that this wasn't something that could be dealt with through notes.

So you had a vague idea of what was awaiting you when you were summoned to the Headmaster's office two days later. What you hadn't expected was to hear yelling from above as you made your way up the spiral staircase. And you were even less prepared to enter the office just in time to witness your mother popping Professor Snape across the cheek with an open handed slap, leaving an angry red welt on his otherwise ashen face. Vivian had been shouting, that it had been his job to protect you, to keep you safe. Snape, meanwhile, looked resigned to the lashing he was receiving; he'd barely even reacted to being hit, and stood stoically as your mother continued her verbal attack. Behind all of this commotion, Dumbledore was seated behind his desk, stroking his pet phoenix absently and making absolutely no effort to intervene. That was, until you started crying in the doorway, and the room went quiet before you suddenly found yourself wrapped up in your mother arms.

Through hiccups and tears, you told your mother everything. Snape had already explained the details of what had occurred at The Atticus, but you insisted that there was more to it than just a sequence of events. Like how Lockhart was famous in the wizarding world, so your hands were tied in terms of seeking justice. How you had felt okay when you'd first returned to Hogwarts, and you didn't want to burden her with something you thought wasn't going to be an issue. And most importantly, you insisted that Snape had protected you. That he had kept you safe. Because you had entered that booth on your own, but Snape had been the one to lead you out of it.

Your mother had… reluctantly apologized to your professor, but Snape declined to accept it, because he believed he'd deserved it. Your mother sure didn't argue, but you tried to protest that, before Dumbledore had finally spoken up, insisting on giving you and your mother some time alone, before leading Snape out of the office with a promise to return shortly. In the soft silence of Dumbledore's office, your mother had many questions, and you answered them dutifully. You had been right, that she was going to want you to do something about this, to try and press charges or talk to the press, but to you, that wasn't the solution. To you, that just might mean having to see Lockhart again, having to tell your story over and over again, having to suffer through people doubting you and calling you a liar… and your mother eventually conceded. She turned focus to the more pressing matter instead.

She'd pulled you down onto the stone floor with her, making you sit cross-legged as she held your hands tightly in the space between you. You were familiar with this set up, and you closed your eyes obediently as you started counting your breaths. Vivian did the same, and soon your head felt tingly and empty, your focus trained on your breath, and the pressure of your mothers hands wrapped around yours. She reminded you that the thing that was haunting you was in the past now. You were fretting over something that you literally couldn't do anything to change. And acknowledging that it was something completely out of your control might help you actually let go of it. It was time to start living in the present moment again, and emptying your mind like this, when you felt overwhelmed with emotions and memories, was going to help you focus on that.

It had seemed overly simple at the time. But the thought lingered in your mind long after Dumbledore had returned, after the tearful goodbye with your mother, after the exhausted trudge back to your dormitory. But as you shed your clothing and slipped into your four-poster, despite it being the middle of the day, you felt like for the first time in a long time, you might actually be able to sleep. It was as though a great burden had been lifted from you, and now that you were no longer required to keep it aloft, you were finally allowed to rest.

Things slowly got easier from that point forward. The flashbacks still came, but now when they did, you were more prepared for them, your mother's words repeating over and over in your head as you fought against them. You still hid in the bathroom, and you still cried, but it was no longer the uncontrollable wailing of a broken woman, but the hot, silent tears of someone who was frustrated with their own reactions. You would breathe. You would count the tiles on the floor. Sometimes you'd cast small spells, the childish ones that conjured birds or created meaningless sparks, but were pretty to look at. You would eventually remember that you were here, now. And not back there anymore.

Snape had never mentioned anything about it again, much to your relief. You still couldn't believe that his first time meeting your mother, whom you'd always spoken of so admiringly, had resulted in her smacking him in the face. Though, it might have made it clear where you'd gotten it from, and if he thought anything about it, he sure didn't let on. He never asked how you were holding up, and honestly, you appreciated it, because that made you think that he could see exactly how much better you were doing already. He'd put you right back to work when you finally started showing up for your apprenticeship duties again, and he didn't miss a beat when you arrived for your first private lesson in two weeks, putting you right back into the thick of it like you'd never even been gone. He treated you the same as always, and it helped you to start feeling normal again.

And just as you were getting used to that quiet normalcy again, your academic career at Hogwarts had come to a close. Exams were over. Your apprenticeship had ended. You'd taken your N.E.W.T.'s, and with any luck, you would be able to start calling yourself Gwendolyn Goode, Potions Master any day now. Your scores hadn't been released yet, but it was only a matter of time. And to top it off… you'd been offered a job. You'd asked Snape to confirm if that letter had been real and not a prank as well. What were you going to do without him there to validate all of your correspondence for you?

…What were you going to do without him?

"Miss Goode?"

You stumbled slightly as you abruptly halted your pacing, turning your head to see Snape standing in the doorway to his classroom, already looking entirely fed up with your clumsiness this early in the morning. Glinting black eyes, an artfully arched brow, mouth curved into an unimpressed sneer. You were going to miss this. You smiled awkwardly as you set yourself to rights, taking a tentative step toward him, trying to regain some poise. "Professor Snape."

He rolled his eyes and pressed his back against the door frame, and you knew an invitation to enter when you saw one. Slipping past him through the door, you stepped into the entirely empty Potions classroom, startled to find all of the tables pressed against one wall, the stools stacked up on top of them, the cauldrons slotted below. It made the room feel empty and hollow, and you felt your heart clench strangely. It reminded you of a funeral, one with an open casket, like something you didn't wish to be seeing. So you didn't linger. Walking quickly through the unfamiliar space, you entered his office well before he did, and you were pleased to find all of the specimens and jars right where they should be. That was more like it. Your ran your fingertips over the back of the worn, brown leather chair you had come to start thinking of as your own, before sitting down and waiting for him to join you.

Taking a seat behind his desk, there was a moment where you simply stared at each other, sitting in this position you'd both been in countless times before, in a place you may never see again. The air felt dense and thick, like cold honey, but not nearly as sweet. You were wondering how you were supposed to breathe like this, when he finally broke the suffocating silence. "So," he began, sounding casual as he leaned back in his chair, his hands in his lap as he crossed his legs at the knee. "When do you leave for Albania?"

You relaxed, settling back into your own chair with relieved sigh at his conversational tone. You weren't sure if this had been the purpose of asking you down here, but you were more than happy to talk academics and careers. It was familiar territory. "As soon as my N.E.W.T. scores are released," you explained, remembering the copious amount of letters you'd been exchanging with Damocles Belby over the last month. Those poor, poor owls. "It's just a formality, I've been told. I've already been guaranteed the position." You glanced back up to him with an arched brow of your own. "Apparently I received some outstanding references."

Snape looked entirely nonplussed by your accusation. He merely shrugged a sharp shoulder as he droned, "Pomona Sprout is rather influential." You didn't even try to hide your grin, though Snape did a fairly good job at suppressing his. While Professor Sprout had indeed been one of the references you'd listed, along with Professors Kettleburn and Sinistra, you had a feeling their recommendations hadn't been the ones that had set you apart. Though, you couldn't rule out that Slughorn might have had a say in it, too. Snape looked satisfied with your explanation though. "Very good," he acknowledged, nodding his head once, his tone dipping down to one of genuine approval. "You've worked hard to get here. You deserve it."

You weren't going to cry this time. That had already happened when he'd first congratulated you on being recruited to Belby's research team. But you couldn't fight the way your throat clenched. "Thank you, sir," you muttered, letting your gaze fall to the stone floor, because you didn't think your heart could bare it if he looked at you any more earnestly.

And perhaps he sensed your tenuous emotions. His baritone slid right back up to casual as he remarked, "It'll be a shame to see you go, really." That was… a rather bold thing to say, and you felt composed enough to lift your eyes from the ground. Snape's head was tipped back against his chair, staring up at the ceiling in contemplation with his fingers steepled against his chest. "I don't think I'll live long enough to see another student as brilliant as you grace these halls."

You smiled, despite yourself; while that sure sounded like a compliment wrapped up in a self-depreciating bow, there also seemed to be a genuine lack of faith in the next generation of students that was entering Hogwarts. You felt a pang of sympathy for the man, but on the other hand, it wasn't like he was helping the situation by being a ray of sunshine or anything. "Don't sell yourself short, Professor," you teased back. "They can't all be complete dunderheads. And besides, you aren't that old."

Both of his eyebrows shot up his forehead then, and you really had to fight not to giggle as he leveled you with a disbelieving leer. "Cheeky," he accused simply, though he too seemed to struggle with his a smirk as you fought against your own. "You're lucky it's too late to take away any more house points," he warned you. And that seemed to sober up the both of you. An unintentionally grim reminder that time was running out.

You still weren't sure why he'd called you down here. Easy banter and friendly ribbing was all well and good. You were going to miss matching wits with him dearly. But whatever true agenda he had for requesting this meeting, you had a motive of your own. Scraping your teeth over your bottom lip, you didn't wait for the chance to convince yourself this was a dumb question before blurting out, "Can I write to you?"

The silence that followed was… disconcerting, but he seemed to be considering the question. At the very least, he was considering you quite intensely, as if trying to discern your motivations. However you didn't feel him digging around in your head, which was alright, but your heart sank as a frown tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Do you really think you'll want to spend your precious free time writing to your old Potions professor?" he asked, and you were tempted to remind him again that he wasn't that old.

But he'd already called you out for your cheek once. So you simply smiled and shook your head. "I'll find the time" you assured him. In fact, even if he'd told you for some reason that you couldn't write to him, you probably would have done it anyway. You were on the cusp of adulthood. You were mere months away from packing your bags and portkeying your entire life to another country. You were stepping into the darkness, and the light you had been following all of these years… was going to be left behind. But maybe, if you could maintain this one connection, with the one thing that kept you feeling safe and grounded more than anything else… perhaps you'd be able to navigate this new wilderness.

Snape still looked puzzled by your request. You couldn't just tell him that you were afraid of facing the rest of the world without him there to protect you. And he seemed reluctant to peer into your mind to parse the truth, your skull remaining decidedly beetle free. But he finally relented, deciding not to outright question your motivations as he nodded his head. "As you wish," he conceded, and you smiled with a small sigh of relief.

Your personal mission accomplished, all that was left was to wait for him to finally reveal his reason for wanting to see you, and you didn't have to wait long. He pulled open one of the drawers of his desk before announcing, "I have a gift for you." You sat up a little straighter in response, your attention thoroughly garnered and your curiosity piqued as he retrieved a small, black velvet pouch from the drawer. "Consider it a graduation present."

You stared at the small bag, reminded simultaneously of the pouch of crystals your mother had given you in your first year, as well as the black velvet ribbons you always used to tie up the pens you'd been giving him for years. The thought made your smile wobble slightly, but you kept it together long enough to press your luck one last time. "After all these years…" whispered dramatically, adding a pained little choke to your voice as you held your hand over your heart. "You're finally going to give me something in return?"

Snape's mouth fell open, his brows pressing together with incredulity. He scoffed, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his desk, pointing an accusatory finger in your direction. "You know, I'm definitely not going to be missing that sassy attitude of yours," he pronounced, and you actually laughed at that. Like he was one to talk! Who did he think you learned it from?

"Yes you will," you assured him, your cheeks actually starting to ache from how widely you were smiling. Snape was doing his damnedest to appear thoroughly unamused, but you saw his own scowl tremble dangerously. Maybe he was going to miss this too.

"Do you want it or not?" he deadpanned, dangling the black pouch from one of his fingers, and you managed to subdue your amusement, though you couldn't to completely quell your smile. On the one hand, you knew he was teasing you again, but on the other, the threat was a real possibility. Best not to risk it.

"Yes, of course. My apologies," you replied quickly, doing your best to appear prim and contrite as you straightened up in your chair, trying to convey the picture of innocence. He rolled his eyes at you, but you didn't miss his own smirk as he held out the bag for you to take. Standing from your chair, you stepped the short distance to his desk, and took the small pouch from his hands. Your mirth fell away quickly as your fingers brushed together. He'd gotten you a gift. The gesture itself was uncharacteristically thoughtful of him. You couldn't imagine what it might be. Staring down at the small black bag, you ran your thumb over its velvety softness. "Should I open it now?"

"I insist upon it," he replied, leaning back in his chair to watch as he folded his hands in his lap once again. Glancing from him to the bag, you gently pulled at the cinched opening before reaching inside, where your fingers come into contact with something cold and smooth. Tipping the bag over, a small, glass phial fell into your palm. You knew what it was almost immediately, but your brain was struggling to cope with its reality.

"Holy shit," you gasped uncouthly, and paid absolutely no mind to the snort from across the desk as you stared down at the bottle disbelievingly. It was no more than an inch in length, straight edged and rounded at the bottom, its cork stopper sealed with a dripping of black wax. Inside, its pearly contents glistened with an opalescent brilliance in the lamplight. It was captivatingly beautiful to look at, but you still couldn't believe… "Are these… are these really-?"

"Phoenix Tears," Snape provided for you, and you couldn't pull your eyes away from them as you rolled the phial between your fingers. So they were real. "You're familiar with their properties?" he asked a bit louder, as if trying to catch your attention and bring you back down to earth.

"Of course I am," you stammered, borderline insulted that he would even insinuate that you somehow didn't know what Phoenix Tears did. It was knowing exactly what they did that made their existence in this little bottle seem so unfathomable. "How did…? Where did you…?" You realized you couldn't form a proper enquiry without sounding ungrateful or distrustful. You had no doubt that these were the genuine article, Snape would never provide you with a fake, but the sheer magnitude of this gift… Jesus Christ how much did these cost? Was it even possible to buy them? "These are extremely rare," you muttered, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. And you winced, because he almost looked angry with you.

"Indeed they are," he agreed, nodding his head toward the bottle you still held reverently in your hands. "Which is why I must insist that you keep them close, and preserve them for the sole purpose of saving your own life." He hooked his folded hands over his crossed knee as he leaned in towards you, gazing up at you with such a fierce intensity, you didn't dare look away. "They may not reverse the effects of a werewolf bite," he explained, his voice grave with warning. "But they will keep you from dying from one." Settling back into his chair, he let out a heavy sigh, the resentment etched into his features slowly smoothing out. That anger hadn't been meant for you, you realized, but you weren't sure what had caused it. Glancing from your face down to the bottle, he added in a softer tone, "I sincerely hope you'll never have to use them."

He was protecting you.

God.

You were leaving the country. You were going away. You had no idea when you'd come back. If you'd ever see him again when you did. And still he was protecting you. You felt your heart throb painfully in your chest at the implications of this. Suddenly, you didn't want to leave. This was a mistake. Leaving this man behind was a mistake.

But what could you do?

"Thank you, sir," you whispered, your voice thick as you dropped your gaze to the tiny phial. You didn't want to cry. Your own tears weren't nearly as valuable.

"Don't thank me," Snape drawled, and the return of his customary baritone forced you to glance up. He was waving a hand dismissively toward the little bottle, a harsh glint in his eyes. "You're the one who insists on working with some of the most dangerous creatures on the planet."

Your mouth fell open, and you weren't sure if he was being serious or facetious this time. You had the presence of mind to be defensive, and you straightened up to your full height as you protested, "I want to-"

"-help people," Snape finished for you, his tone taking on a more pacifying quality as he held his hand up in surrender. "I know. But please, don't get yourself killed in the process." It was such a genuine request, so earnest and sincere, that you felt that painful throb behind your ribcage again. Don't leave him. Don't go. He offered you a smirk then, and you readied yourself to absolutely hate whatever he was about to say next. "It would be a massive waste of all the hard work I put in to teaching you."

You were right. You hated it. He really had a lot of nerve calling you sassy. You smiled vexedly as you shook your head, slipping the bottle back into its velvet pouch and before sliding it securely into the pocket of your skirt. "I won't get myself killed," you promised. And you'd just opened your mouth to say something sassy in return, like how you'd certainly hate to squander all of his hard work, when the sound of the school bells clanged through dungeon, signaling the start of breakfast. Your heart shot up into your throat as you glanced up at the ceiling. Ask not for whom the bell tolls…

The silence that followed after the bells settled down was nothing short of oppressive. It was only broken by the creak of leather and wood as Snape rose from his chair, stepping out from behind his desk and hovering a few feet away. You quivered, your heart pounding loudly in your ears as you tried to will time to stand still.

"This is it then," you whispered, voice cracking as you fidgeted in place, unsure what to do, where to look, when to go. You couldn't just leave. You couldn't. There was only one option that felt right, and though it terrified you, you closed your eyes and took a steadying breath. "I'm… going to hug you," you announced feebly, unable to open your eyes in order to gauge his reaction, far too afraid of finding rejection there. "You're welcome to stop me but… I rather hope that you don't."

You cracked open one eye, and you had to snort as you found him peering down at you with that artfully arched brow, possibly judging you harshly, but not outright refusing you either. He wasn't going to stop you, so you didn't hesitate as you stepped forward, sliding your arms around his waist, under the draping of his cloak. You pressed your face into his chest (teakwood, coriander, clove), unable to look at him as you murmured against his heart, "Thank you… for everything."

It took a few moments, but you eventually felt his arms encircle you. You didn't hold back your tears now, and you felt him sigh under your cheek as your tears soaked into his coat. Don't go, don't go, don't go.

You weren't sure how long you stood like that, wrapped in the warm embrace of black wool and clove bud, but he was the one who eventually ended it, placing his hands on your shoulders and squeezing them lightly. You took the hint, letting your arms drop reluctantly to your sides as you gazed up at him, tears still streaming down your face. He reached a hand up automatically, but hesitated a moment before swiping his thumb across your cheek. "It's been an honor and a pleasure having you as a student, Miss Goode," he intoned softly, his own voice turning thick. "Be safe."

Despite your best efforts, the tears continued to fall, though they were with gratitude instead of regret. You raised your own hand, placing it gently against the back of his, keeping his fingers against your face as you whispered, "You too."