Half a Life Without You

by RenJo78

Everly never expected to wake up in the Harry Potter universe, let alone time-travel through it, but here she is, navigating spells, wands, and her own mysterious past. As she unravels her connection to this magical world, she finds that love is just as unpredictable and powerful as the magic around her.

7. Truce

I'm utterly drained. Every step up the winding stairs to the Slytherin dormitory feels like dragging dead weight, each movement heavier than the last. My limbs ache, and a dull throbbing presses against my temples. I need sleep, but I'm not sure I have the strength left to even reach my bed.

When I finally push open the door to my room, I collapse onto the four-poster bed, sinking into the mattress as if it might swallow me whole. My eyes snap shut, but instead of finding peace, my mind churns with images from the past two days—flashes of Everly, Dumbledore's cryptic words, and the searing connection of magic that still lingers faintly in my bones.

I let out a long, frustrated sigh and stare blankly at the velvet curtains draped around the bed. The silver and jade fabric, intricately embroidered, twists elegantly around the posts like serpents, but tonight it only feels stifling, trapping me. The room is too quiet, the air too still, the weight of it pressing down on me.

A soft breeze flutters through the cracked window, stirring the curtains like dark storm clouds, but it offers no comfort. I try closing my eyes again, hoping for oblivion.

"Oi, Snape!"

My eyes snap open, irritation boiling beneath my exhaustion. I turn my head just in time to see Regulus Black striding confidently into the room. His precise, almost regal posture grates on me. Everything about him—the way he moves, the air of superiority that clings to him—screams pureblood arrogance.

"What?" I growl, my voice rougher than intended.

His eyes widen slightly, but he quickly schools his features, his clipped upper-class accent cutting through the still air. "Professor Slughorn wishes to see you immediately in his office."

I watch him move, his every step measured, a product of his upbringing. Born into the most powerful pureblood family, everything about Regulus is meticulously controlled, like a puppet bound to old wizarding traditions. He glides across the room, his robes barely making a sound as he sits at the desk with the poise of someone who's been groomed to be perfect his entire life.

"Thank you," I mutter, though it's more out of habit than gratitude.

He shrugs, indifferent, and pulls a book from his bag. "Do you know why he wants to see you?" His tone is calculating, his curiosity that of a true Slytherin. There's always an angle, always something to gain.

I'm too tired to engage in his games. "No." The word comes out flat, dismissive. I turn away, closing my eyes again, silently begging him to leave.

The chair scrapes against the floor as he stands, the sound grating on my already frazzled nerves. I hear his footsteps, louder than necessary, as he stomps out of the room. The heavy thud of the door and the echo of his steps down the spiral staircase are like hammer blows, reverberating through the stone walls.

Great. Simply great.

I roll onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My body feels like lead, but my mind refuses to settle. I can still feel the ghost of that strange, burning connection with Everly, the surge of magic that had coursed between us like an electric current. How could someone live without magic, only to suddenly have it flare to life in them? Dumbledore's words circle in my head, offering no answers.

A week ago, she had no magic, and today, it burns within her like the sun.

How is that possible? I've studied magic my whole life, immersed myself in potions, spells, and ancient lore. But this—this—makes no sense. And worse, the thought of her suffering, of not knowing why or how to help her, gnaws at me. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to force the thoughts away, but they persist like an itch I can't scratch.

For a moment, I consider simply not going to see Slughorn. I don't have the energy for whatever pointless task he might assign, but I know better. Slughorn's favor isn't something I can afford to lose, no matter how much I'd rather be anywhere else.

With a groan, I drag myself off the bed and run a hand through my tangled hair. My reflection in the small, tarnished mirror near my desk shows a face more haggard than usual—dark shadows under my eyes, skin pale from stress and lack of sleep. Perfect.

I grab my wand from the nightstand, pocket it, and with one last sigh, head out the door.

I move briskly along the cold, narrow passages, my footsteps echoing off the stone walls. The flickering torches lining the corridors do little to cut through the chill that seeps into my bones, and my exhaustion weighs heavier with every step. My mind, still buzzing with everything that happened in the infirmary, leaves me on edge.

I navigate the winding halls and tight spiral staircases almost automatically, the familiar route to Slughorn's office etched into my memory. Finally, I reach the massive white oak door, the Slytherin insignia scorched intricately into its center. I rap sharply against it.

"Enter," comes the muffled voice from within.

I step inside, greeted immediately by Professor Slughorn's head popping out from a small alcove in the corner. "Mr. Snape, come in, come in! I'll be with you in just a moment."

His head disappears as quickly as it had appeared, leaving me standing awkwardly in the center of the room. I glance around, noticing the updates since my last visit. The dark green walls have been replaced by lime green wallpaper, patterned with cobra lilies, their tendrils twisting in hypnotic spirals. Tapestries hang from the walls, embroidered witches and wizards re-enacting ancient magical battles. Flashes of green and white light up the room as their tiny, stitched wands cast spells at one another in a constant, chaotic loop.

Books clutter nearly every surface, including the enormous mahogany desk in the center of the room. Piles of tomes threaten to topple over, with tiny cauldrons perched precariously on top, overflowing with quills and stirring sticks. The clutter feels suffocating, almost as if the room itself is closing in, but perhaps that's just the weight of everything on my mind.

Before I can reflect further, Slughorn bustles into the room, a cheerful smile plastered on his face. "So sorry to keep you waiting, my boy! Please, have a seat," he gestures toward a small seating area near an enormous fireplace.

I follow his lead, sinking into a dark burgundy wingback chair that flanks the fireplace. My hands absentmindedly run along the smooth gold buttons sewn into the leather trim, a habit of restlessness. My feet sink into the deep green shag carpet below—shag carpet?

I can't help but raise an eyebrow. Slughorn, noticing my expression, chuckles. "Ah, yes! It's a muggle decoration. A former student gifted it to me last Christmas."

"My parents have one in brown," I admit, a hint of bemusement in my voice. "Just… surprising to see it here."

"Ah, yes. Your muggle father, if I recall correctly?" Slughorn says, his eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something like sympathy.

"Yes, sir." The words come out stiffly, as they always do when someone mentions my parentage.

"Tea?" he offers, just as a loud pop sounds in the room. A small house-elf, carrying a silver tray far too large for her, appears by his side.

She sets the tray down carefully between us, her eyes wide with expectation. "Thank you, Zillah," Slughorn says, taking a steaming cup from the tray. "Right on time."

Zillah blushes, dipping her head shyly. "Zillah is pleased to be of service. Does Master Slughorn require anything else?"

"No, no, that will be all," he waves her away with a casual hand, and with another soft pop, she's gone.

I can't help but feel a twinge of impatience. There's a tight knot in my stomach, and the moment Slughorn's attention returns to me, the words tumble out before I can stop them. "Is everything alright with Everly? Do they need me back in the infirmary?"

I grip the armrest, half-rising from my chair, the anxiety flaring despite myself. The events of the past few days rush back in a blur—her collapse, the strange connection, the uncertainty that's gnawed at me since.

Slughorn blinks at me in confusion, his cup paused halfway to his lips. "Who?"

"Everly," I say, my voice sharper than intended. "The girl who helped last night." But as I speak, realization dawns. Of course, he isn't here to discuss that. He wants to talk about the damned incident with Potter and his friends.

Slughorn's face lights up in recognition. "Ah, yes, yes. I remember now. Lovely girl, I heard about her episode this morning. Terrible business, to be sure, but nothing to worry over, young man. She'll be fine." He smiles reassuringly and takes another sip of tea, as if that settles it. "But no, Mr. Snape, that's not why I've called you here. I'm afraid the matter I wish to discuss concerns the events prior to your need for her assistance."

His words hang in the air, and I sink back into the chair, the tension shifting from worry to frustration. Of course. It always comes back to Potter and his idiotic friends.

A calculating gleam flickers in Slughorn's eyes, and instantly, I'm on edge. "Mr. Snape," he begins, his tone smug, "before we delve into the details of what transpired that night, I want to make you aware of an interesting conversation Professor Dumbledore and I had today. We believe this entire messy affair can be resolved in a way that everyone will find… shall we say… mutually beneficial." His words drip with self-satisfaction, and it's clear he's exceptionally pleased with himself.

I feel my muscles tighten with suspicion. Mutually beneficial for whom? I remain silent, though my skepticism is palpable. Slughorn continues, his voice smooth as silk.

"A contract will be drawn up outlining a truce between you, Mr. Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew."

The word truce instantly makes me bristle. "What exactly are the details of this… truce?" I ask, my eyes narrowing as I lean forward slightly, my distrust laid bare.

Slughorn crosses his legs, unbothered by my clear unease. "Not to worry, not to worry," he reassures me with an infuriatingly casual wave of his hand. "I promise you'll be pleased with the outcome. However, you'll have to wait until tomorrow, as the details are still being finalized. What I can tell you is that each of you will be required to sign the contract, and if any of the terms are violated, the consequences will be… severe. We're talking the possibility of immediate expulsion."

The word expulsion sinks into me like a cold blade, though I don't let it show. Instead, I slouch back into the chair, my tone resigned. "So I don't have a choice, do I?"

Slughorn shakes his head, his expression sympathetic but firm. "No, Mr. Snape, you do not—if you wish to remain at Hogwarts, that is."

A surge of bitterness wells up inside me. I want nothing more than to walk out, to leave and never look back. But where would I go? My parents? That option is no better. And now, the thought of leaving without her—without Everly—is impossible. I can't imagine walking away, not when she's still here.

"When do we get to actually review the terms?" I ask, trying to keep the bitterness from spilling over.

"Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock sharp in Headmaster Dippet's office."

I frown in confusion. "Wait, I thought Professor Dumbledore was taking over as headmaster?"

Slughorn reaches for his cup again, taking his time before answering. "Yes, he will be. However, until the end of this school year, Headmaster Dippet is officially still the headmaster. It's only proper to continue referring to it as his office… for now." There's a formality to his tone that makes me want to roll my eyes. It's absurd, this adherence to titles and traditions when everyone knows Dumbledore is already in control.

But I hold my tongue, my irritation growing.

Then, without warning, Slughorn hands me a piece of parchment and a quill. "I will… ah… need your written testimony of the events."

I stare at the parchment for a moment before looking up. "May I ask why? If you and Professor Dumbledore already have a mutually beneficial solution planned?" The bitterness in my voice is unmistakable now, but I don't care.

Slughorn fidgets with his teacup, twisting it on its saucer nervously. "It's just a formality I insisted on." Here we go again with his obsession over formalities. But before I can voice my frustration, he adds more. "Also, it will be used to determine the level of… guilt."

I feel my face darken, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Guilt?"

Slughorn shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his composure slipping for a moment. "In addition to the truce, each student involved will face a separate punishment for their individual… crimes."

He raises a hand as if to ward off my immediate protest. "Now, before you say anything, let me assure you—the punishment will be determined by each student's head of house. And between us… you have nothing to worry about." His tone shifts back to smug confidence. "After all, I am your head of house, am I not?"

His reassurances fall flat. A pit of dread settles in my stomach, gnawing at me. I can't shake the feeling that, despite his confident words, things could go terribly wrong. Dumbledore may not be headmaster yet, but when it comes to deciding my fate, I don't trust him. Not for a second.

Slughorn stands up, stretching as though this entire conversation were nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "Right then, I'll leave you to it. You can bring your written testimony to my office when you're finished."

I watch him walk toward his desk before turning my gaze back to the fireplace. The flames coil around the blackened logs, flickering shadows casting an eerie glow across the room. The snake statues above the mantle seem to come alive, their yellow glass eyes glowing menacingly as they stare down at me. Despite the warmth radiating from the fire, a chill runs through me, as if the room itself is warning me of what's to come.

I tear my eyes away from their hypnotic gaze, forcing myself to look down at the blank parchment in my hands. My grip tightens on the quill as I reluctantly begin to write out my testimony—my version of what occurred that night.

The night I met her. My Everly.

The smallest of smiles tugs at the corner of my lips as I write. For a moment, the weight of everything seems to lift, and my thoughts drift to her. But the pit of dread remains, a reminder of the uncertainty waiting for me tomorrow.

The next morning, I approach the gargoyle guarding the headmaster's office, hesitating for only a moment. The imposing stone griffin watches me with a stony gaze, its wings spread wide as if preparing to strike. I can almost imagine it assessing my intentions, its judgmental eyes following my every step.

"Cherry Crunch Bars," I mutter, my voice betraying a hint of irritation.

The gargoyle begins to shift, revealing the spiraling staircase behind it. As I ascend, I can hear raised voices filtering down from the office above.

"How could you, Albus!? I have every right to be part of this decision, just as much as you and Horace!"

McGonagall's voice is sharp, shrill even—more emotion than I'm used to hearing from her. My footsteps pause on the stairs, the temptation to listen overriding any sense of decorum.

Dumbledore's response is firm, though quieter. "Minerva, I understand your frustration, but it has been decided. There will be a truce signed between them today. Additional punishments will be decided by the current head of house as necessary."

The finality in his tone silences her protests, and I decide it's time to stop lurking and make my presence known. I quicken my pace and knock briefly on the half-open door before stepping inside.

Dumbledore greets me with a twinkle in his eye and a knowing smile. "Good morning, Mr. Snape. Good of you to join us."

Did he know I was listening? Of course he did. That glint in his eyes says everything.

McGonagall, still visibly agitated, shoots me a glare before turning away, her lips pressed into a thin, furious line. The tension rolling off her is almost palpable.

Slughorn enters behind me, panting slightly from his trek up from the dungeons. He claps me on the shoulder, far too enthusiastic for such a grim meeting. "Ah, Severus, ready for this, my boy?"

I shrug, trying to dislodge his hand. "Yes, sir," I reply, my voice clipped.

Oblivious to the tension, Slughorn walks over to where Dumbledore and McGonagall are standing, rocking back and forth on his heels like an excited child. His sheer ignorance of McGonagall's barely contained fury is almost impressive. I imagine her strangling him with that ridiculous silk cravat of his—now that would be a sight worth watching.

"Where are the other boys, Minerva?" Slughorn asks, still grinning, clearly ignorant of the waves of anger radiating from her.

She sighs, glancing at Dumbledore before responding. "They'll be here shortly. I wanted to have a word with our acting headmaster before the meeting began." Her voice is curt, but she's clearly resigned to whatever has already been decided.

Slughorn claps his hands together. "Wonderful! I'm exceptionally pleased we'll be working this out!" His voice is giddy, as if this truce is a game to be won.

McGonagall's narrowed eyes could cut through steel, her lips so tightly pressed they're nearly invisible. I'm half-expecting her to unleash a hex on him, but instead, she walks over to the window, her hands clenching and unclenching in silent fury.

Before long, the sound of familiar, obnoxious voices fills the hallway outside.

""He could have bloody killed us with that Confringo spell! How can we be expected to agree to this truce after what he did!?" Sirius's voice is loud, indignant, as if the very idea of being forced into this agreement is an insult.

I smirk slightly. Of course, Black would protest. To him, being held accountable is as unbearable as the thought of signing some piece of parchment that would put us on equal footing. He always wants to come out on top, and the idea of a truce must sting, especially after I got the upper hand with the spell.

"SILENCE!" Dumbledore's voice booms through the room, immediately cutting off Black and Potter mid-rant. For once, they're rendered speechless. I have to admit, seeing Black flustered brings me no small satisfaction.

Dumbledore continues, his tone measured but firm. "This is not up for discussion. I am fully aware of the events leading up to the spell being cast," he says, throwing a meaningful glance in their direction. Black and Potter at least have the decency to look chastised, though I can tell it's for show.

Lupin, always the guilty one, lowers his head, sneaking a quick glance in my direction. Good, I think, as I absently touch my still-bruised nose. He should feel bad. It still hurts like hell.

Pettigrew, predictably, slinks further back into the corner, hoping to avoid any attention. I catch his eye and purposely turn my glare on him. He squeaks like the rat he is, his beady eyes wide with fear. Coward, I think, wondering—as I often do—how someone as sniveling as Pettigrew ever ended up in Gryffindor.

My thoughts are interrupted by Dumbledore's voice, now commanding the room's attention once more. "I will now review the terms of the truce. If you do not agree to sign the contract, you will be asked to leave Hogwarts grounds immediately. Is that clear?"

The room falls silent, the weight of Dumbledore's words hanging in the air. I can feel the tension radiating from the other boys, but I remain still, my face impassive. Inside, though, I'm seething. The very idea of a truce with them is unbearable, but I know I have no choice. If it means staying at Hogwarts—staying near her—I will do what I must.

I'm eager to get on with it. The sooner we sign, the sooner I can go check on Everly. I can't shake the nagging sense that something's wrong, and sitting in this room with the rest of these idiots isn't helping.

"Why are you so calm about all this, Snape?" Black's obnoxious voice breaks through my thoughts, demanding an answer.

I sneer at him, offering him nothing more than a silent fuck you look. His face immediately flushes red, and I enjoy watching as his temper flares. It's almost too easy to get under his skin. I smirk, my sneer morphing into a condescending smile, which only causes Black's face to turn an even deeper shade of crimson. He opens his mouth, no doubt ready to fire back, but Potter grabs his shoulder, pulling him away and redirecting his attention toward Dumbledore.

Dumbledore, who has been silently observing our exchange with that infuriating glint of amusement, raises an eyebrow, as if asking if we're finished. Once he's sure he has our full attention, he begins reading the terms of the truce.

"The following are the terms of the contract," Dumbledore announces, his voice calm but carrying the weight of finality.

He reads through the clauses, each one designed to prevent us from tearing each other apart, and I note the seriousness of the penalties:

Any spell or hex cast with the intention to harm or maim will result in immediate expulsion. The only exception is during supervised Defense Against the Dark Arts or Dueling class.

Any magically charmed item or potion given to another with harmful intent will result in immediate expulsion. No exceptions.

Physical altercations, such as punching, pushing, or tripping, will result in punishment as determined by the perpetrator's head of house, based on the severity of the action and any injuries incurred.

Verbal insults, name-calling, or mocking will require a public apology and detention.

Dumbledore pauses, scanning the room, his sharp eyes locking on each of us in turn. "Are there any questions?" His voice is soft, but the threat beneath it is clear. No one dares to speak.

He continues. "This contract will remain valid only during your time at Hogwarts. It will expire the day after you graduate."

I glance at Black and Potter, whose faces now sport matching frowns. They don't like the idea of this truce extending until the very end of their schooling, but Dumbledore gives me a small smile, acknowledging that I understand the importance of the expiration date. A truce until the end, then it's fair game.

"Secondly," Dumbledore adds, "a protection spell is woven into this contract."

What? My brows furrow in confusion. What does a protection spell have to do with this truce? Before I can voice my question, Dumbledore continues, reading my thoughts.

"This spell helps you keep your word by protecting you from yourself. Should you find yourself tempted to break the agreement, the spell will provide a… gentle reminder."

I remain silent, as do the others. We all know what protection spells are capable of—sometimes a warning shove, other times, something far more severe. Only Dumbledore knows the extent of this particular spell's consequences, and I doubt he'll share that information.

"Are there any questions?" Dumbledore asks again, holding out a golden quill.

None of us speak. He hands the quill to me, and without hesitation, I sign my name at the bottom of the contract. One by one, the others follow.

Once the contract is signed, Dumbledore's gaze sharpens, and I tense, knowing what's coming next.

"As you know, in addition to the truce, individual punishments will be assigned. I will begin with Gryffindor, and then Professor Slughorn will assign Slytherin's."

He calls Lupin forward first, the boy practically stumbling to stand in front of him. "Mr. Lupin, you will serve one month of detention at the start of the new year and will be required to return to Hogwarts four weeks before term begins to tutor a younger student, Miss Beatrice Humphrey, who will be entering her third year."

Potter snickers next to Black. "Isn't she the one who accidentally cast a glowing spell on herself?"

Black laughs. "Yeah, didn't need candles for a month."

Lupin glares at his friends, unamused.

Dumbledore calls Potter next. "You will serve one month of detention and tutor Mr. Xander McCullough, who will be entering his fourth year."

Black lets out a short cackle. "He's the bloke who miniaturized his wand in Charms, isn't he?"

Pettigrew pipes up from his corner, his voice squeaky. "Yeah, they never found it."

Dumbledore's mouth twitches with amusement. "Yes, Mr. Potter, rest assured, he will have a new wand before your lessons begin."

Potter slinks back with a grin, throwing a playful punch at Black, who's now called forward.

"Mr. Black, you will serve one month of detention and tutor Mr. Cornelius Holiday, entering his fifth year."

Potter claps Black on the back with a grin. "Isn't he the one who had that incident in flying class?"

The whole room erupts in laughter, even McGonagall cracks a smile. I find myself stifling a laugh as well, despite my irritation.

Then Dumbledore turns to me, his voice shifting to something more serious. "Mr. Snape, you will receive one month of detention at the start of the new year, unless you agree to remain at Hogwarts over the summer to tutor a new seventh-year student."

I barely listen to the rest. A new seventh-year student? My mind races.

"Miss Everly Quinn," Slughorn announces with a wide grin. "She'll need help catching up in all areas."

My heart leaps. The idea of being her tutor, having private lessons with her, sends a rush of excitement through me. "Yes," I agree quickly, almost too eagerly. "I'll stay over the summer."

Before I can fully savor the moment, Black steps forward, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "I'll stay too, to help tutor Everly."

Before I can fully savor the moment, Black steps forward, his voice brimming with enthusiasm. "I'll stay too, to help tutor Everly."

My excitement dampens immediately, and a wave of irritation surges through me. But Dumbledore, smiling with approval, adds, "Great. You can take over some of the classes I had planned to cover with her."

I frown, my earlier satisfaction crumbling. Take over some of the classes? The thought of Black getting any significant role in her tutoring gnaws at me. This is supposed to be my opportunity—to be the one who helps her. Yet now, he's involved.

Dumbledore, however, seems unfazed by my obvious displeasure, and I can already see Black's smug grin forming. My stomach tightens with frustration, but I force myself to remain composed. There's still more to this arrangement, and I won't let him get the better of me so easily.

As we're dismissed, Dumbledore calls Black and me for one final word. "I ask that you refrain from discussing the tutoring sessions with Miss Quinn until I've spoken with her. She's still recovering, and I will inform her of the plans when the time is right."

We both nod in agreement. But as soon as we leave, I rush down the corridor, eager to see her, my mind swirling with thoughts of what's to come. The excitement mixed with a lingering frustration over Black's involvement keeps my steps quick. In my rush, I don't even notice the footsteps following close behind me.