A pair of arms seized her, wrenching her backward with such force that the breath was ripped from her lungs. One moment, she had been weightless, surrendering to the fall, and the next, she was yanked violently into a solid chest, her body colliding hard against muscle and bone. Panic surged like fire in her veins.
No!
No!
He had her!
Dumbledore had her!
Raw, inhuman sounds tore from her throat as she twisted, thrashing with every ounce of strength she had left. Her elbow drove backward, meeting flesh with a sickening crack. The arms around her faltered for a split second, but they did not loosen. She clawed blindly, nails raking across fabric, desperate to get away.
"Jane!" The voice was guttural, almost in pain, but she wasn't listening.
She threw her head back, aiming for their face. A groan of pain followed, but still, they didn't let go. She swung her fists wildly, landing a hit somewhere along a jawline, another to a shoulder. They grunted but absorbed the blows, one arm still locked around her waist like iron.
"Bloody—hell—stop!" The voice snapped again, more forceful this time.
But she couldn't stop. Her body was still in survival mode, running on pure, unfiltered terror. She had seen the corpse rise. She had felt its fingers on her throat. She had heard his voice. And now he had her again.
Her vision blurred. Blood roared in her ears. The wind howled through the broken window, and she wrenched her body in another desperate bid to free herself. She would not let him take her back. She would not—
Her fingernails found skin. She latched on, digging in, tearing. The grip on her waist shifted, trying to keep hold of her without hurting her, but she was past reason. She twisted, aiming a knee for their ribs.
"Jane, stop!"
She didn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. The grip around her loosened just slightly, just enough for her to rip herself free. She staggered back, her feet unsteady against the glass-strewn floor. Adrenaline surged through her veins like she was a broken nuclear power plant, unstable and ready to explode at any second. She wasn't thinking. There was no strategy, no control—only animalistic, desperate instinct.
Her hands shot out, searching, grasping for anything. A decorative clock sat on the nearby dresser. She seized it and hurled it with everything she had. It hit his shoulder with a dull thud, knocking him back a step, but not enough—not nearly enough.
"Jane, it's me—"
Liar.
Her hands found the heavy brass candle holder next. She swung it wildly, nearly toppling over from the force. He dodged, just barely, the metal whistling through the air where his head had been moments before.
She backed toward the window, her bare feet crunching over the broken shards. She barely felt the sting of fresh cuts, barely registered the warm trickle of blood pooling between her toes. Every nerve in her body screamed for escape.
Snape took a step toward her, his hands raised, empty, a calculated slowness to his movements. "You need to calm down," he said, his voice lower, almost measured now.
Calm down?
Her breath came in short, ragged bursts, her chest rising and falling too fast. The room blurred at the edges, her vision tunneling in on the only escape route she had left.
She turned sharply, launching herself toward the window again. If she could just get over the ledge, if she could just—
Strong arms wrapped around her again, yanking her back before she could make it over.
"No!" she shrieked, twisting, kicking, clawing. She thrashed violently, but his grip was unyielding this time, his hold locking her against him in a way that left no room to slip free.
"Stop it!" Snape snarled. "You're going to kill yourself, you stupid—"
She thrashed harder. "Let me go!" Her words were hoarse, broken, half a sob, half a snarl.
"Not happening," he growled , his hold tightening. She was fighting like a trapped animal, her strength driven by nothing but sheer terror, but he was stronger. "You are not jumping out of that bloody window."
Her vision blurred with a hot, stinging haze. "He's coming. He's coming—"
"No one is coming for you." His words sliced through the storm that had taken over her mind. "You're not there anymore. Do you understand me? You. Are. Not. There."
But she couldn't hear him, not over the ringing in her ears, not over the phantom echoes of Dumbledore whispering her name.
Snape wrestled her back, dragging her away from the window with a force that knocked the breath from her lungs. She fought him every inch of the way, kicking wildly, twisting in his grasp, but he was relentless. With one final surge of strength, he half-lifted, half-threw them both onto the massive bed on the far side of the room. The impact sent a fresh jolt of pain through her battered body, and she barely had a moment to react before he shifted, pinning her down beneath his weight.
The sharp sting of glass embedding deeper into her skin tore a strangled cry from her throat. Her limbs burned where the shards dug in, tiny daggers of agony blooming across her body. Snape cursed above her, his breath ragged from exertion.
"Shit, Lewis," he hissed, shifting his hold just enough to scan the damage. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"
She struggled against him, but it was useless. The plush mattress beneath her absorbed most of her frantic movements, turning her fight into little more than awkward, futile wiggling. She bucked, tried to throw him off, but he only pressed down harder, his grip firm and unyielding.
"Let me go," she gasped with panic.
"Not happening," he shot back. His eyes flickered over her face, searching for something—reason, maybe, but she had none left to give. "I'm calling a house-elf. You need a healer before you bleed yourself dry."
"No!" The word ripped from her. "No one can know I did this!"
Snape's expression twisted with incredulity. "You blew out a window, Lewis," he barked. "You think no one's going to notice that?"
Jane's breath hitched, her pulse pounding against her ribs. "Please," she whispered, the fight draining from her limbs, leaving only a trembling exhaustion in its wake. "Please, don't."
His jaw clenched, frustration flashing across his features, but he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Fine," he muttered. "Can I at least give you a calming draught before you make yourself pass out from hysteria?"
Her mind was still spinning, but the crushing weight of panic hadn't fully receded. She wasn't sure it ever would.
"Fine," she whispered, barely audible.
Snape gave a shallow nod and turned his head slightly. "Tippy!"
A loud pop echoed through the room, and a tiny, wide-eyed house-elf appeared by the bed. "Master Snape is needing something?"
"Bring me a calming draught," he ordered. "Now."
Tippy vanished as quickly as she had come, leaving the room thick with silence. Snape's weight remained firm against her, unmoving. She could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the steady thud of his heartbeat as it pressed against her arm.
Trapped. Helpless.
But for the first time since waking, she wasn't running.
Tippy returned with a high pitched pop, holding out the vial with both hands. Snape snatched it from her without ceremony, his grip still firm on Jane's wrist. She barely had time to register the movement before he maneuvered her upright, dragging her into a sitting position. His arms locked around her, pulling her back against his chest, his legs bracketing her sides, pinning her in place.
She thrashed instinctively, but he barely reacted, shifting only to tighten his hold. "Stop fighting me, Lewis. Unless you want me to spill this down your front and make an even bigger mess."
Clenching her teeth, her breath coming in short, erratic bursts, her limbs aching with exhaustion. She was trapped—not by an enemy, not by Dumbledore, but by Snape. Rationally, she knew he wasn't dangerous, but her mind wasn't rational. It was screaming at her to run, to fight, to do something other than be restrained.
Snape didn't give her the chance. He pressed the vial to her lips, his tone dipping into something almost coaxing. "Drink."
She hesitated, but when she felt his other hand tighten around her waist, she swallowed. The moment the thick, bitter liquid slid down her throat, warmth began to spread through her limbs. The tension in her muscles ebbed, her body sinking deeper into his. The worry didn't vanish entirely, but it softened, dulled at the edges like a blade worn smooth.
Jane let out a slow breath, her head lolling slightly against his shoulder. "You're terrible at this whole rescuing thing," she sighed with lingering adrenaline and exhaustion.
He gave a low, unimpressed huff. "Yes, well, forgive me for not sweeping in on a white horse."
She didn't have a reply to that. Didn't know what to say at all, really. Silence settled between them, stilted but not entirely uncomfortable. The pressure of his arms around her no longer felt suffocating—just solid. Real.
After a moment, his voice came again, quieter this time. "Can I help clean you up? Get the glass out?"
Swallowing, Jane blinked sluggishly, as though just now realizing the state she was in. Blood streaked her arms, her legs, soaking into the tattered remains of her nightgown. Tiny slivers of glass glinted in her skin, catching the dim light like fractured stars.
She exhaled shakily, the fight well and truly gone from her. "...Yeah," she murmured. "Okay."
Snape shifted slightly, adjusting his grip, but he didn't let go. He just sat there with her for a moment longer, his breath steady against the back of her neck, as if waiting to make sure she wouldn't bolt the second he loosened his hold.
She didn't.
Carefully maneuvering Jane away from his chest, he shifted her to lay completely on the bed. It should have been simple, but between the tangle of limbs, the jagged glass embedded in her skin, and her feeble, half-hearted resistance, it was anything but.
She let out a weak cry as he moved her, her body arching involuntarily when the motion pressed shards deeper into her already shredded skin. Her nightgown, torn and bloodstained, clung to her like damp parchment. When he accidentally pressed against an open wound, she let out a pathetic, broken sob.
"Stop squirming," he grumbled, though his words lacked its usual bite.
"You're hurting me," she whispered hoarsely, as if admitting that would only make it worse.
Clenching his jaw, Snape said nothing.
He braced a hand against her waist to guide her down—only to realize, with immediate mortification, that his fingers had brushed against the bare skin of her hip where her nightgown had torn. He flinched and adjusted his grip, only to then accidentally press against one of her wounds.
He finally managed to get her settled, though she flinched and whimpered when her back met the mattress. Her fingers curled weakly into the sheets, knuckles paling with how tightly she gripped them.
"Tippy," he called, and the elf appeared with a soft pop. He let out a breath, then straightened. "My wand. Now."
The elf paused, her large eyes darting to Jane, who was shaking. Jane's eyes were glassy with unshed tears, blood still seeping sluggishly from where glass jutted from her arms and legs.
"Now," Severus repeated, louder, and Tippy vanished again, returning a moment later with his wand. He snatched it from her grasp and turned back to Jane, his free hand bracing against her shoulder.
"This will sting," he warned, already lifting his wand.
Jane let out a small, miserable laugh, barely more than a breath. "Everything already hurts," she mumbled, blinking hard as if trying to clear her vision. "What's a little more?"
He didn't answer. Instead, Snape muttered the incantation, watching as the excess blood lifted from her skin, the deep red liquid vanishing into nothingness.
Jane screamed.
It wasn't loud, but it was awful—a cracked, pathetic thing that barely made it past her lips, like she didn't even have the strength to let out a proper sound of pain. Her whole body spasmed, her nails dragging down the sheets as though trying to find something—anything—to hold onto.
Snape froze for half a second before gritting his teeth and forcing himself to continue, though he tried to be gentler. "It's just a cleaning spell," he assured.
"It burns," she gasped, her lips trembling. Her face was wet now—whether from sweat or tears, he couldn't tell—but she was barely keeping herself together. "I can't—I can't—"
"You can," Snape assured, this time quieter, though still rough around the edges. "It'll be over soon."
"I don't believe you," she admitted, a tear slipping down her cheek.
"Try not to move," he said instead.
Jane let out a shuddering sigh, nodding weakly, though her body was still trembling. She bit down on her lip, hard enough that he thought she might split the skin, but she stayed still this time.
He stalled for only a moment before he shifted closer, gripping his wand a little tighter as he focused on the first shard of glass.
"Evanesco," he whispered, carefully directing the spell at the sliver of glass. It vanished instantly, leaving behind a fresh bead of blood in its place.
Immediately, Jane let out a strangled cry, her body jerking on instinct. He barely managed to keep her still, pressing a firm hand against her arm to stop her from moving too much.
"Stay still," he instructed, his words softer than usual, but she barely seemed to register his words. Her head lolled slightly to the side, unable to look at him while he did this to her.
"There's so much," he said with disbelief, more to himself than to her. He hadn't expected this—hadn't realized just how much glass had embedded itself into her skin. Tiny fragments shimmered under the dim light, catching in the torn fabric of her nightgown, speckling her legs, her arms, her collarbone.
He forced himself to keep going, working quickly but as carefully as he could manage. The larger shards came out first, slick with blood, but the smaller ones were worse. They were buried deep, nearly invisible at first glance, and every time he removed one, another took its place. It was painstaking work.
Jane was crying now. Not outright sobbing, but soft, choked sounds kept slipping past her lips, a steady stream of tears flowing down her cheeks. Her head twitched from side to side as if trying to shake away the pain, and he could see fresh sweat gathering at her temples.
Without thinking, he reached up and brushed a few strands of damp hair from her face. She flinched at the touch but didn't pull away, too lost in the overwhelming, stinging pain to do anything but endure it.
"Almost done," he cooed.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the last fragment of glass vanished. Snape pulled back, exhaling. She was a mess—sweat-dampened hair clinging to her forehead, skin pale, her nightgown torn and stained with blood. And the cuts—hundreds of them, criss crossing over her body like fine paper slices.
He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Tippy," he called out, and a second later, the elf reappeared, looking between him and Jane with wide, worried eyes.
"Essence of dittany," he ordered. "A large amount."
With a quick nod, the elf vanished again. Snape turned back to Jane, hesitating before speaking. "I'll have to rub it into your skin to heal you. Are you alright with that?"
Jane blinked at him sluggishly, as if the words were taking longer to process. Then, after a pause, she gave the smallest nod, a weak, pitiful whimper escaping her lips.
She swallowed hard, willing himself to focus as Tippy reappeared, arms full of small bottles filled with the dark, potent liquid. Jane watched as he plucked one from the elf's grasp, twisting the cap off with steady hands,
He reached out, dabbing a few drops onto her arm first, watching as the deep red of her cuts sizzled and sealed over, leaving only the faintest pink lines in their place. Encouraged, he moved to her other arm, working in slow, careful circles. Jane made a soft noise in the back of her throat, somewhere between relief and pain, but she didn't flinch this time.
Then his hands hovered over her legs.
The glass had torn through her nightgown in several places, but many of the worst cuts trailed beneath the fabric, disappearing up her thighs. His mouth went dry.
He set the bottle down, flexing his fingers once before reaching for the hem of her nightgown. He hesitated. His hands hovered just above the fabric, unwilling to move further.
Jane's tired, unfocused gaze shifted to him, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as though caught in an internal war. Then, in a voice that was barely more than a rasp, she said, "I will let you do what is needed."
Snape felt something in his chest tighten. He nodded stiffly and pushed the nightgown up, carefully exposing more of her battered legs. His fingers brushed against her skin—warm, trembling, too delicate beneath his touch. He worked quickly, rubbing the dittany into each cut, but his face burned, the intimacy of the moment obviously getting to him.
He swallowed hard and shifted his attention to her ribs, where jagged red lines criss crossed her side just beneath the torn fabric. He needed to push the nightgown up further.
His hands hesitated again.
"Lewis," he started, voice low, strained. "I need—"
She let out a slow, shuddering breath. "Just do it, Snape."
His ears burned. He lifted the fabric, revealing more of the damage, his fingers brushing along her waist, her hip.
He worked as quickly as he could, rubbing in the dittany, watching as the cuts sealed, leaving behind only smooth, unmarked skin.
When he finally tugged her nightgown back down, he exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
"It's done," he said rougher than he intended.
Still trembling, Jane gave the barest nod. "Terrible bedside manner," she chastised weakly.
Snape huffed, rolling his eyes as he turned to clean the remaining mess. "And you're a terrible patient," he shot back, but there was no real bite to it.
She let out a small, airy laugh, and for the first time since he pulled her from that ledge, she thought she might actually be okay.
They lay there in silence for a while, Jane's ragged breathing the only sound in the dimly lit room. Her body still ached, but the sharp pain had dulled into a manageable throb, leaving behind a deep, consuming exhaustion. She wanted to sleep—to close her eyes and disappear into nothing for a while—but she knew she couldn't. Not yet.
Snape shifted beside her, breaking the silence. "Do you think you can walk back to your room?"
Jane swallowed, pushing herself up onto trembling elbows. Her muscles protested, weak and sore, but she nodded. "Yeah… yeah, I think so."
"Good," he said as he then looked at the rest of the room. "What are we going to do about the window?"
Turning her head slightly, Jane peered toward the shattered mess on the floor. "I don't know… can't exactly leave it like that."
Snape sighed. "I'll have a house elf fix it. If they can't, we'll just blame it on one of the drunken idiots stumbling around this house."
"That's… actually not a bad plan."
"Of course it isn't," he smirked, pushing himself to his feet. "Come on, Lewis. Let's get you back before someone sees you like this."
She nodded again and forced herself upright. The moment her feet touched the cold floor, her legs nearly buckled beneath her. The exhaustion, the blood loss, the overwhelming pressure of everything—it all crashed down on her at once. She took a step forward and immediately stumbled, barely catching herself before she collapsed.
Snape reacted fast, arms steadying her before she could hit the ground. Jane groaned, gripping onto his sleeve for balance. "Sorry—"
"Don't be an idiot," he interrupted, and before she could argue, he bent down and scooped her into his arms as if she weighed nothing.
Utterly caught off guard, Jane stiffened. "What the—Snape, put me down!"
"No." His tone was final, his grip secure.
"I'm too heavy—"
"You are as malnourished as I am," he shot back, adjusting his hold as he carried her effortlessly toward the door. "You are not too heavy."
Jane frowned, curling her fingers into the front of his robes for balance. "How the hell do you have the strength to carry me?"
Snape scoffed. "I brew all the potions for the infirmary. Slughorn doesn't want to do it, so I take over for decent pay. Do you think I can do that without handling heavy cauldrons?"
That… actually made a lot of sense. She had never really considered how much physical effort went into brewing, but Snape had been doing it for at least a year—stirring thick potions, lifting ingredients, dealing with massive cauldrons.
"Huh," she mused, resting her head against his shoulder, too tired to fight him anymore. "Guess that explains it."
"It does."
As they moved through the quiet halls, Jane shifted slightly in his arms, the warmth of his robes seeping into her aching body. She hesitated before speaking, her voice quiet but steady. "Now that you're being nice to me… do I have to call you Severus?"
Snape's grip didn't falter, but she felt the slight shift in his posture, as if her question had caught him off guard. "You can if you want," he said as measured as ever.
"I think I'd like to." Jane hummed softly.
A pause, then she added, "And you don't have to call me Lewis anymore."
He said nothing to that, but she thought she felt the faintest incline of his head, a silent acknowledgment.
When they reached her room, Severus pushed the door open with his foot and carried her inside. The bed was still a mess, the sheets tangled and rumpled from her restless tossing. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, letting her settle into the blankets before straightening.
Jane immediately reached for the sheets, smoothing them out, as if making order of the chaos could somehow settle the storm still lingering in her mind.
She watched as Severus turned toward the door, clearly intending to leave. Panic flared in her chest. "Don't."
He paused, glancing back at her.
"I'm afraid the nightmares will return," she admitted, hanging her head in shame. "And I'll repeat what just happened."
Something unreadable passed over his face, but he exhaled slowly, his posture shifting from rigid to something just a little less tense. "I can help you," he said at last. "But you need to sleep first."
"Okay." For some reason she was struggling to meet his eye.
Running a hand through his lanky hair in exasperation, Severus asked for further classification. "Help or sleep?"
She bit her lip, "Both."
"Should I call for some Dreamless Sleep?"
She bit her lip in concentration before nodding.
"I'll get it."
She watched anxiously as Severus stepped out of her room, her palms beginning to sweat the brief moment of solitude. But he returned just as quickly, a small glass vial filled with deep purple liquid in his hand.
Without a word, he handed it to her. She hesitated, glancing up at him, but he only gave her a look that said drink it. She tipped it back, the potion coating her throat with its thick, slightly bitter taste. A warmth spread through her limbs almost immediately, making her sink further into the mattress as the tension in her body began to melt away.
She barely had the energy to react when Severus straightened and turned toward the empty space near the door.
"Tippy," he called. A soft pop followed, and the house elf appeared, looking between them with wide, blinking eyes.
"Master Snape is needing something?"
"Go and fetch Narcissa," he ordered, crossing his arms. "Tell her it's urgent but do not wake the entire house."
Tippy nodded quickly, vanishing with another pop.
Jane's eyelids grew heavier, the room around her fading into a distant blur. The last thing she heard was Severus shifting beside her, the faint rustle of his robes as he settled into place to wait. Then, finally, sleep took her.