I have had this short Snape one-shot in my mind for a long time. This will be my first Harry Potter story, and what inspired me to write it was The Fat Lady and the way the pictures and paintings had thoughts and feelings, suggesting they might see more than they let on. I have a few ideas for the second chapter.

This is the first time I have written anything since early 2022.

I watched Severus sink into the worn wooden chair at the long, rustic kitchen table, his weary eyes fixed on a steaming bowl of rich chicken soup that Molly had set before him. The comforting scent of herbs lingered in the air. Outside, the wind howled ferociously, rattling the windowpanes of the cozy house and casting shadows across the room.

"The Dark Lord has dispatched the Death Eaters further north," Severus spoke softly. I suspect he intends to recruit more werewolves. There are unsettling whispers that Fenrir Greyback is going to join them." His deep-set eyes darkened as he added, "Since his plans unraveled during the Triwizard Tournament, he hasn't been in the best of moods."

Dumbledore entered the room, concern etched across his features. "I had my suspicions," he replied, allowing a weary sigh to escape his lips as he conjured a steaming mug of tea with a flick of his wand. The inviting aroma of lavender infused the air. Laughter erupted from the den, where the others were immersed in a lively game of Wizard Chess; the crackle of the fire echoed softly. "Good work, Severus. You should take a moment to eat and rest," he advised kindly before rising and drifting into the den to join the others.

As soon as Dumbledore left the room, I noticed Severus's façade begin to slip. He slumped against the back of his chair, the cold, indifferent mask he wore for the world falling away. His hand trembled violently as he reached for his wand, which lay on the table. Upon closer inspection, bloodstains marred the deep black fabric of his robes; exhaustion clung to him like a second skin etched into the lines of his face.

My heart ached at the sight. This wasn't the first time I had witnessed him return from the biting cold, delivering worrisome reports to Dumbledore. Once sure the others were engrossed in their game, he leaned forward, whispering healing charms under his breath, each incantation barely breaking the room's silence. The dark, hideous bruises and gaping gashes on his arms, the evidence of battles no one knew about, began to fade.

I noticed a faint grey mark encircling the base of his pale throat; with a visible effort, he slowly rose from the table, the faint creak of the chair echoing in the stillness as he limped toward the door, leaving the untouched bowl of soup behind.

My heart ached for him; how many nights had I longed to scream at the others, urging them to open their eyes and truly see the agony he endured for their sakes? Yet, he remained an outsider, forever haunted by the missteps of his past, cherished by none, and forever seeking forgiveness that may never come. But what could I do? I am merely a picture on the wall, bound to observe but powerless to intervene.