THE SOUL'S EXCHANGE

Two War Veterans, and a Hell of a Plot

Without a moment’s hesitation, Alicent’s eyes blazed with a fierce determination that Severus would recognize, though perhaps no one else would. She turned to her brother and her maid, her voice cold, commanding, and unwavering. “Get out.”

The edge in her voice was unmistakable, a sheer need for solitude that even her brother could not ignore. They both bowed, retreating quickly and leaving her alone in the room with Severus.

The second the door clicked shut, a weight settled on her chest, crushing her with an intensity she hadn’t felt since she’d first arrived in Westeros. Her breath hitched, then quickened as if trying to keep up with her racing pulse. A vice-like pressure seemed to close around her ribs, pressing tighter and tighter, and her vision blurred. She felt as though the very walls of the room were pulling closer, suffocating her, every shadow elongating and bearing down, reminding her of memories and faces she couldn’t escape.

Her heart pounded, each beat drumming in her ears louder than the last. A desperate gasp escaped her as she staggered back, reaching out to the table, trying to steady herself. Her fingers shook as she gripped the edge, yet it wasn’t enough to ground her. The room spun faster as memories assaulted her, one after another, hammering into her like waves crashing over a sinking ship.

She saw his face, her potions professor’s stern yet familiar face, the last traces of life flickering in his dark eyes. The smell of the damp, blood-stained floor of the Shrieking Shack. His voice, struggling to say the words—“Look at me”—as the light left him, leaving her truly alone in a way she hadn’t been able to bear. The loss, the guilt, her own helplessness... each one flashed before her, tightening around her like a coil.

The walls felt like they were closing in faster. Her vision blackened at the edges, and her breaths grew short, faster and shallower until it felt as though she was barely breathing at all. She sank down to her knees, pressing her forehead against the cool wood, willing herself to stay present, to hold on—but her mind kept slipping. Somewhere distant, she thought she heard her name, but the grief was too thick, too raw. She clutched at her chest, gasping as if the very air was poison.

Then she heard him, clear as day: “Potter, you brat, don’t you dare collapse on me.” The voice was sharp, cutting through the dark cloud in her mind like a blade.

It couldn’t be real. And yet, she turned and felt herself falling, expecting nothing but the cold floor—until strong arms caught her. She gasped, instinctively grabbing onto him, her fingers twisting in the fabric of his robes. She knew Severus hated being touched, but he didn’t pull away. In that moment, he held her as tightly as if he’d been waiting to catch her all along.

And as if the sheer weight of her grief had finally found an outlet, she began to sob, broken and uncontrollable, into his shoulder. He didn’t shush her or offer soft reassurances. Instead, he released a guttural, agonizing sound of his own, a private mourning wail so raw it felt as though the room itself trembled from it. His voice, his presence—they anchored her, a steady pillar amidst her grief-stricken storm.

“Look at me, Potter,” he commanded, his voice sharper now, with a hint of the familiar exasperation she’d known from school, tempered only by the warmth he kept well hidden from the world. “You need to breathe, unless of course, you want to make a habit of collapsing in the middle of a nervous breakdown. Which, I might add, would be your most ridiculous decision yet.”

Her laughter mingled with sobs, broken but real, and she met his gaze through her tears, feeling as if she were back in his classroom, an unruly student, being pulled out of the depths of her own chaos by his no-nonsense guidance. His expression softened, just slightly, the hard lines of his face easing as he held her.