Chapter Text
WHEN MULCIBER WOKE up the next morning, Severus was gone.
Mulciber stirred slowly, surfacing from sleep like something dragged reluctantly from deep water. His back ached from the awkward angle he’d slept in—half-slumped against the cold tile, one arm still stretched stiffly across the side of the bathtub where Severus’s hand had been. For a long, heavy second, he didn’t open his eyes, only exhaled through his nose, the air thick with the faint ghost of soap and blood.
When he did finally blink his eyes open, the quiet struck him first. The dripping had stopped. The floor, which had been a mess of water and towels and dark stains, was spotless. Even the tub—where Severus had sat slumped the night before—was bone dry.
Mulciber frowned, his mind still cotton-heavy from sleep. He grunted, trying to shift and roll his shoulder, the stiffness biting sharp. The motion made him glance back toward the tub—and the sight hit him like a jolt of cold water.
Empty.
He snapped upright so fast the movement sent a twinge up his spine. His breath caught as his gaze swept the bathroom, disbelief and a slow, crawling unease twisting in his gut. The place looked untouched, sterile, as though nothing had happened here at all. The only proof was the faint red mark across his palm where he’d held Severus’s hand too tightly through the night.
“Sev?” His voice came out rough, breaking the stillness.
Silence.
And in that silence, Mulciber realized he was alone.
Mulciber pushed through the bathroom door so hard it slammed against the stone wall. The echo carried through the quiet dormitory.
Wilkes and Avery were tangled together in sleep, Wilkes’s arms wrapped securely around the other. Aurora and Charity lay in the opposite bed—having spent the night, the green velvet curtains drawn halfway shut. Mulciber’s own bed was empty, sheets twisted and cold.
He went straight to Severus’s. The dark green drapes fell heavy over it like a veil, but he yanked them open without hesitation.
Empty.
“Bruce?” Wilkes’s voice was groggy, thick with sleep. He sat up, hair cascading over his shoulders like he’d just walked out of a portrait, absurdly perfect. He rubbed his eyes, blinking blearily.
Mulciber’s pulse was hammering, too fast, too loud.
“He’s gone,” he said, voice low and sharp.
Wilkes frowned, squinting. “Who—?”
“Severus,” Mulciber bit out, already striding toward the door. “He’s gone.”
He didn’t wait for a response. The moment the door swung shut behind him, he was already moving—fast. Too fast. His boots hit the stone floor hard, echoing in the narrow corridor. He told himself not to run. He tried, truly. Shoulders straight, steps measured. But the fear burned too close to the surface, and within seconds, the restraint snapped.
He broke into a sprint.
Down the hallway, cloak snapping behind him, down the stairs two at a time. The dungeon air bit at his throat, damp and cold. He barely slowed as the greenish light of the Slytherin common room came into view.
He nearly missed him.
There—by the fire.
Severus sat before the fire, cross-legged on the stone floor, his back perfectly straight. The flames roared, brighter than they should have, throwing sharp gold and sickly green light over everything. His entire forearm was inside the fire. Not above it—inside it.
Mulciber stopped dead.
For one, bewildered second, his mind refused to make sense of it. Even when this was exactly their own doing, his eyes refused the sight. The flames should have been eating him alive. There should have been the smell of burning flesh, a scream, anything—but there was only that steady crackling, and Severus’s eerie stillness.
He looked… wrong.
Sick.
He looked sick.
His skin, already pale, had gone almost translucent in the firelight, as though the veins beneath had turned to smoke. His hair hung in damp, ink-dark strands that clung to his neck and jaw, each strand catching the light like black glass. His body was all sharp lines—hollow cheeks, slender shoulders drawn inward, bones like delicate architecture holding him up through sheer will.
The fire painted him in shifting hues: red across one cheek, green from the reflection of the lake, and the deep, shadowed blue of the dungeon behind him. It was impossible to tell where the light ended and he began.
Then there were his eyes—those onyx, cataclysmic eyes. The flames reflected in them, making them look bottomless, ancient. A faint tremor passed through his jaw, a flicker beneath the skin, and when his eyes finally lifted—slowly, unnervingly—and locked right onto him, Mulciber couldn’t move.
And then, Severus smiled.
It was the smallest thing—a barely-there curve of his lips—but it was enough. The expression was fragile and alien all at once, a smile that didn’t belong on his face, not one like that. It was soft, almost tender, but beneath it there was something sick and dying, like the calm of something that had already crossed over, and all that was left was undiscovered rot.
For a long, terrible moment, Mulciber couldn’t move. He just watched the flames lick higher, swallowing Severus’s arm, and wondered whether any of them actually understood the gravity of what they’d done.
“And now onto the games of fire!”
Geralt Hickpick’s voice exploded across the Quidditch Pitch like a spell gone wrong. The crowd roared back—students from every House, professors perched along the top row, even ghosts hovering for a better view.
Tonight, Hogwarts shimmered under the torchlight, banners waving in gold, green, blue, and black. And for the first time since the tournament began, the Slytherin stands were completely full.
Maybe that was why Severus felt the air press heavier against his chest. Maybe that was why it sounded louder this time—the jeers, the cheers, the anticipation. The Games of Fire were not for the faint-hearted.
“Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, creatures of magic, and you lot sneaking butterbeer under your cloaks—don’t think I don’t see you!” Hickpick’s grin glimmered in the firelight.
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Even McGonagall was seen biting her lip to hide a smirk.
“Now! As you all know, the Games of Fire are designed to test courage, wit, resilience, and of course, your ability not to burst into flames!—though accidents have happened!”
Another round of laughter, and a few nervous glances from the younger students.
“Don’t you worry, they’ve all signed waivers!”
Laughter scattered the arena.
Potter cracked his knuckles, Xenophilius stared dreamily at the maze entrance, Kingsley crouched in quiet readiness, and Snape’s fingers twitched near his wand.
“This evening’s event will be our most explosive yet—each champion must retrieve scale from their assigned dragon!”
Gasps, cheers, and a few horrified squeals echoed across the stands.
“Ah, yes, the humble dragon scale,” Hickpick continued, pacing theatrically along the edge of the arena, his voice ringing over the crowd. “Don’t be fooled by its modest appearance! Each scale is a masterpiece of natural armor—thicker than the strongest steel, yet light as a phoenix feather. Touch it wrong, and you’ll find its edges sharper than a basilisk fang. Try to strike it with a blade, and you’ll merely scratch the surface… if you’re lucky!”
He leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “But there’s more. These scales hum with magic, a residual pulse of the dragon’s life force itself. Fire resistance, spell deflection, a whisper of foresight in the right hands… yes, indeed, some say a single scale could be forged into armor that no curse can pierce—or a wand core capable of feats most wizards wouldn’t dare attempt!”
Hickpick spun to face the crowd, arms wide, eyes glittering. “And here’s a thought—could the very presence of these enchanted scales, their impenetrable yet alluring nature, be a clue to the next game in this tournament? Hmmm…” He tapped his chin theatrically. “Perhaps our champions will need not just courage and strength, but tactic, patience… and a touch of magical intuition.”
He paused, letting the tension build, then chuckled. “Oh, yes, tonight is going to be spectacular. Keep your wands ready and your eyes open, my friends—because in a tournament like this, even the smallest detail can be the difference between victory… and a very, very singed derrière!”
“Representing Gryffindor—the boy who’s never met a dare he didn’t like—James Potter!”
The crowd erupted. James swaggered onto the field, broom slung across his shoulder like a knight’s lance, flashing a grin that could’ve melted chocolate frogs.
“Facing off against the Common Welsh Green! A crowd favorite—mildly temperamental, and only mostly on fire!”
The Welsh Green snorted, smoke curling from its nostrils. James winked at it like they were old friends.
“Next, from Ravenclaw, our resident dreamer, thinker, and possible danger enthusiast—Xenophilius Lovegood!”
A few Ravenclaws waved homemade banners reading ‘Logic > Luck!’
“Xeno will be dancing with the Chinese Fireball! Beautiful, elegant, and known to be slightly less murderous than the others. So that’s a win!”
Polite laughter rippled through the crowd as the Fireball arched its crimson neck, gleaming like molten glass.
“From Hufflepuff, the rock of reason, the fortress of calm—Kingsley Shacklebolt!”
The crowd thundered again. Kingsley gave a measured bow.
“And his partner for this fiery waltz? The Swedish Short-Snout! Known for its silvery scales and lightning-fast breath. Shiny and deadly—bit of both worlds!”
The silver dragon gave a rumbling hiss that vibrated through the ground.
“And now…” Hickpick paused dramatically, his voice dropping into a hush that made the crowd lean forward. “For our Slytherin champion—our enigma, our dark strategist, our man who has probably already calculated all your weaknesses—Severus Snape!”
A rush of green filled the air. The Slytherins watched in silence, looking down at the pitch as Severus came into view. There were a few scattered cheers, ones from Charity and Aurora seated at the Ravenclaw side. Severus stepped onto the pitch, face pale, jaw tight, dark eyebags and tired eyes cold as steel.
Hickpick pressed a hand to his heart. “Oh, I feel threatened already. Someone hold me.”
The laughter was instant. It felt more mocking than humored.
“And in the grand tradition of dramatic irony—our dear Snape will face none other than the Hungarian Horntail!”
The words hung in the air like a curse.
Even the laughter died.
The creature that stalked forward could have stepped straight from a nightmare—massive wings black as burnt parchment, horns like spears, eyes burning with reptilian fury. Its tail lashed once, gouging a trench into the dirt.
“Now that’s bad luck,” Hickpick murmured, almost reverently. Then, louder: “But if anyone’s going to survive the wrath of that scaly nightmare, it’s the boy who gave us last month’s little spectacle.”
A collective murmur of memory ran through the crowd.
“Yes, yes, you remember!” Hickpick said, gesturing grandly. “Our dear Severus, in the Cockatrice Challenge! What a show that was—bloody, brilliant, and entirely unsanctioned by the Ministry of Magic! I still have stains on my shoes.”
A few students laughed nervously.
Hickpick’s tone softened just slightly—curiosity mixing with something like admiration. “After a performance like that, I daresay we’re all rather… eager to see what he does this time.”
The Horntail’s roar split the air, and Hickpick straightened, grin flashing again.
Down on the field, Severus didn’t move. He stared at the dragon, wand in hand, black hair curtaining his face. The firelight shimmered in his eyes like liquid amber.
“Champions—prepare yourselves!” Hickpick called, wand raised. “Four dragons, four golden eggs, one unforgettable evening! Let’s hope our champions make it out with all their limbs intact.”
Hickpick waved his hands theatrically over the field. “All right, all right, witches and wizards—before we begin, we’ll draw lots to see who shall go first! Boys, to the center of the arena!”
The four champions stepped forward, brooms slung carelessly or gripped tightly. Potter winked at the crowd, Kingsley kept his calm composure, Xenophilius looked somewhere between terrified and delighted… and Severus simply raised a hand before they even reached the center.
“I’ll go first.”
The crowd froze. Even the Horntail’s tail paused mid-lash, as if acknowledging the declaration.
Hickpick chuckled nervously into his mic. “My, how… daring! How brave! Blast my eyes, for a moment I thought I saw our snake transform to red and gold!”
The words landed like sparks in a powder keg.
The Slytherin stands—filled to the brim for the first time all year—didn’t cheer. They didn’t even murmur. The green banners fluttered softly in the breeze, but the air beneath them was cold, razor-edged.
They weren’t there to celebrate him.
They were there to watch him—judge him.
A half-blood boy with no lineage, no gold, no proper name to polish—wearing their colors, standing where a pureblood heir should have stood.
And now someone had dared to call him a Gryffindor.
He could feel it—the shift, the tightening in the stands, the quiet disgust hidden behind polite smirks. Hickpick’s offhanded joke had only confirmed what they already whispered: that he didn’t belong to them.
Even the Gryffindors, usually so noisy, seemed unsettled by the comparison. A ripple of discontent moved through their ranks.
From the stands, Sirius Black’s voice cut through with all the sharp venom it could muster. “That slimy cunt could never be one of us.”
Heads turned. Laughter broke out in scattered pockets. Sirius looked around with a grin, and feeling empowered, he opened his mouth. Before Sirius could continue, a flaring voice rang out, cutting him off like a whip.
“Are Gryffindors the only bloody people on Earth allowed to have courage?!” Lily Evans snapped, standing up on the bench, her eyes blazing. Her words struck like lightning. “How dare you—how dare you—assume he’s any less brave just because you don’t like the look of him!”
Sirius’ jaw dropped. “Oi—”
“Do you hear yourself?” she continued, turning her fury on him fully. “You sit there, sneering, judging a man you barely know, because it suits your ego. You call him slimy? You call him cowardly? You—”
“Lily—” Remus’ voice broke through, soft but insistent.
“I’m not done!” she shouted, spinning back to Sirius.
“You think bravery’s your trademark?” she shot back, standing to face him. “You think you invented it? You strut about like it’s your birthright—like no one outside your House could possibly have a spine!”
“Lily—” Remus started, low and warning.
But she wasn’t finished. Her voice rose, cutting through the buzz of the crowd. “You’re so obsessed with being noble, you can’t see the difference between pride and cruelty. You think you could have survived the first task the way he did?”
“No,” Sirius shot back, “because I’m not bloody suicidal.”
Lily fumed. “I wouldn’t have bet a single sickle on you winning you conceited toerag. You don’t have to like him, but sneering at someone facing a dragon doesn’t make you brave—it makes you a coward with better hair!”
A few Gryffindors snorted, then fell silent when Sirius’ glare swept over them.
Remus caught her elbow just as she swung for the final strike of words.
“Merlin, fuck,” Sirius muttered under his breath, leaning back and crossing his arms, trying to look unimpressed. “I don’t know what’s got your knickers in a twist defending that bloody wanker.”
She glared, breathing heavily, as Remus kept her steady. Sirius’ lips curled into a sneer. “You must have the backbone of a slug, defending him after he called you a—”
“Sirius,” Remus warned sharply.
Sirius rolled his eyes, leaning back further, the corners of his mouth twitching. He folded his arms, feigning indifference, though the fire in Lily’s eyes lingered longer than he liked.
From the Slytherin stands, a sigh slipped out like air from a punctured flask.
“This is bad,” Wilkes murmured.
Mulciber and Avery said nothing. Both stared down at the field where Severus still stood, hand raised, his shadow stretched long under the torchlight.
Avery’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look pleased. Mulciber’s golden eyes narrowed, lips pursed—not angry, not surprised, just calculating. Watching. Like trying to peace together a puzzle.
But Alecto Carrow was livid. Her voice carried, high and sharp, cutting through the murmurs around her.
“That filth should never have been chosen to be up there,” she hissed. “Look at us now. Made into a laughingstock. A half-blood parading around under our banner, and now—now he’s being called a Gryffindor?”
Her voice curled with disgust, but there was a raw note underneath—humiliation disguised as rage.
“As if we could ever host a Gryffindor in our midst.”
The Slytherins around her murmured in agreement, the sound low and poisonous. Some nodded, others folded their arms. It wasn’t outrage—they weren’t defending Severus or attacking him. They were aligning. Testing which way the current was flowing.
Then, from the end of the row, a new voice glided in—soft, smooth, and rich as melted velvet.
“Come now, Alecto,” said Belladonna Zabini, her smile almost kind, though her eyes glittered with quiet amusement. “Use your head.”
Alecto froze, turning slowly.
Belladonna descended a few steps, Selwyn at her side—quiet, polished, his arm linked through hers with practiced grace. Behind them, Lucius Malfoy and Narcissa Black followed, every inch of them composed and immaculate. The crowd shifted immediately, the air sharpening with attention.
Alecto blinked, suddenly aware that she’d been overheard. “What?” she said, more brittle than defiant.
Belladonna’s smile widened. “I know you can do it,” she said gently, almost indulgently. The insult was wrapped in silk, but it landed all the same.
Alecto’s face flushed. Her mouth opened, ready to bite back—but before she could, Lucius’ voice cut through, smooth and cold.
“You’re embarrassing yourself, Alecto,” he said lightly, as though stating a fact. “And worse—you’re disheartening your own side.”
He looked down at the field, his expression unreadable. “Snape isn’t being reckless. He’s setting a stage.”
Belladonna inclined her head, eyes glinting.
Lucius continued. “The first impression is everything. He’s making certain that no matter what the others do, they’ll only look smaller in the shadow he’s already cast.”
Mulciber’s brow furrowed slightly. Avery glanced between them, lips thinning.
“Think,” Lucius continued, tone patient, patronizing. “When the Gryffindor boy faces his dragon, when the Hufflepuff tries to play hero, when the Ravenclaw tries strategy—everyone will already have the taste of fire and fear fresh in their mouths. Nothing they do will measure up to the memory of the first.”
“Clever,” Selwyn murmured. “Terrifyingly so.”
Narcissa smiled faintly, chin lifting as she gazed toward the arena. “Just wait and watch.” Her voice was soft but certain. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
Alecto scoffed, still simmering, but even she didn’t quite meet Narcissa’s eye.
Lucius folded his hands behind his back, the perfect picture of composure.
“Honestly,” he said, with quiet and cruel disdain, “it’s disheartening to see how many of our House can’t see past the surface of a thing. Has it fallen so far from grace since I graduated?”
Narcissa turned, her tone cool and cutting as ice as she smiled up at her fiancée. “I thought Slytherins were supposed to be cunning.”
The stands fell utterly silent.
For a moment, the only sound was the hiss of torches and the distant growl of the dragon waiting below. Then the murmuring resumed—quieter now, edged with unease.
Down on the field, Severus stood unmoving, wand at his side, the shadows of the Horntail’s wings shuddering across the dirt.
The murmuring swelled across the stands like restless wind, rising and falling until Hickpick’s magically amplified voice broke through it all once more.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his tone brighter than it had any right to be, “after deliberation with our esteemed Game Masters—who, I assure you, have double-checked every line of the tournament charter—we’ve found… quite interestingly… that there is no rule stating who must go first!”
He paused, letting the suspense stretch, grinning into the crowd as though this were a revelation of cosmic magnitude.
“And,” he added, the grin turning sharp, “no rule denying one the privilege of volunteering for the honor!”
A collective stir moved through the audience—some surprised, some impressed, most uncertain.
“So!” Hickpick spread his arms wide, his voice booming over the stadium. “By right of initiative, cunning, and possibly an alarming disregard for self-preservation… Severus Snape shall begin the Games of Fire!”
The crowd broke out in shouts and applause—some genuine, others shocked, others purely eager for blood.
The Slytherin stands stayed mostly silent, a forest of green banners waving above tight, calculating faces. Gryffindors leaned forward with morbid fascination, and a few Hufflepuffs whispered prayers under their breath.
Down on the field, Severus didn’t move. His expression was cool, his wand loose at his side. But his heartbeat thundered once—twice—and then steadied, like a drum finding its rhythm before war.
“Champion Snape,” Hickpick called, with his best attempt at gravitas. “When you are ready… your dragon awaits.”
A hush fell.
The gates creaked. The air shifted.
And somewhere, deep within the smoke and fire of the enclosure, the Hungarian Horntail stirred.