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Chapter Text

The reminder of Severus’ treachery burns lightly on his left forearm, as it has periodically been doing since the events at the Quidditch World Cup, six days ago.  

A reminder. A summons. Or perhaps a warning.   

Could the rumours be true? Could  he  be returning?   

Ever since Dumbledores grave recount of the Death Eaters attack, of the signs, the implications, Severus has found it nearly impossible to focus on anything else. His thoughts have been fraying, his sleep comes in fragments, and his focus slips too easily. He knows he needs some kind of answer – anything at all. And with the start of the new term at Hogwarts looming, he needs them soon.   

His boots press into the damp grass as he nears the iron gates of his destination. Dumbledore’s words from earlier that day still rattle around in his mind, maddeningly cryptic. If it were up to him, he’d have no business in this. He has no wish to play servant to the Dark Lord again – no craving for the poison he once drank so willingly.   

But what he wants no longer matters, does it? He’s needed. And if the whispers are true, if the Dark Lord is rising again, his role will be the most vital.  

He forces the rising emotions behind the cool walls of his mind as he makes his way up the narrow lane to the [Last Name] residence. They had been among the Dark Lord's most trusted, their allegiance worn openly, unlike others who cloaked their loyalties in politics and fear. Their presence at the World Cup had made them obvious culprits, but what Severus doesn’t understand is  why . Why would they expose themselves so willingly?  

His own connections to the Dark Lord were no secret, either. Etched into his very skin, whispered behind his back wherever he goes, no matter how fiercely Dumbledore defends him. To some, he’s nothing more than a traitor. To others, he’s still loyal. In truth, however, he belongs to none, walking the edge between them like a ghost.   

His visit to the manor today is of utmost importance. Delicate and powerful information lay in the hands of the [Last Name]’s, and he must get his own hands on it before anyone else becomes aware of its existence.  

A secret, Dumbledore calls it. A secret weapon meant for the Dark Lord.    

Annoyingly, as is Dumbledore's habit, he offered no explanation on how he came by this knowledge. Only his usual insistence – it must be retrieved, and quickly. So, here he stands beneath the dark sky, eyes fixed on the broken silhouette of the manor.   

Once, the [Last Name]’s been the most respected, wealthy, precise, and almost theatrical in their devotion. Though Severus had never met them formally, he’d heard enough to imagine their lifestyle – nothing short of an extravagant show of wealth, much like the Malfoys.   

But the house before him is no monument to wealth. It’s a ruin.   

The brickwork is damaged, like it was torn apart from inside. Glass litters the wilted flowerbeds. Scraps of curtains flutter in the cold breeze, shredded and limp. Gripping his wand, he casts a wordless  Lumos  to guide him through the gloom, making sure to keep it dim so he remains unseen.    

He wonders if he’s too late. Has someone else come and gone, scavenging what they can before Dumbledore’s suspicions led him here? Or has the house been ravaged by enraged wizards and witches, fearing the return of the Dark Lord? Or perhaps thieves, looking to make a quick Galleon? Merlin knows how many valuables are confined inside.   

Or maybe the house is some kind of bait for him.   

He breathes out deeply, stepping onto the path leading to the front door, which oddly enough, is the only thing untouched by whatever ravaged the rest of the estate. No marks, no splinters, not even a scratch.   

Hm.  

Pushing the large wooden door open, Severus doesn’t know what to expect. The familiarity of it all brings him back to the night everything changed, the night he lost his love, unsure of what awaits him as he makes his way through the foyer.     

The place is in a severe state of disarray. The scent of an old fire lingers, portraits lie face down on the floor, and the furniture is torn and scattered across the floor. What once had clearly been a home of pride has been reduced to nothing.   

As he moves deeper into the wreckage, his wand casts long shadows over the peeling wallpaper and burnt tapestries. Then, as he’s looking down at a trinket he’s just stepped on, he hears a faint creak coming from above him.   

Someone else is here.   

He freezes. He knows he should take this as his way out and claim the place was already stripped bare. But pride, and something colder, rooted deep inside him, refuses to yield.  

Cursing quietly to himself, he creeps up the staircase, and luckily, the howling of the wind through the blownout windows helps to smother the odd creaks of his weight on the old wooden floorboards.  The upper floor is no better, up here the walls are ripped, and the ceilings are scorched. Chaos has clearly made its home here, and Severus wonders, not for the first time, why the place is such a mess if the [Last Name]’s are dead.  

It’s not like there’s any threat here... or is there?    

He shakes off the thought as he approaches a door which is slightly open, and a soft squeak comes from the other side. There’s definitely something,  someone, behind it, and he’s not waiting around to find out who.   

With a swish of his wand, he tears the door to shreds. The wood shatters, sending tiny splinters to rain down on whoever’s inside. He tries to squint into the debris, barely seeing a thing from the falling shards and dust created by the impact of his spell.   

But he sees all too late the flash of light hurtling towards him, and the force of it hits him in the chest, sending him backwards into the wall.    

Pain flares in his chest, but he forces himself upright as a figure darts from the room. Their footsteps are clumsy, and their breathing is panicked as they rush past him. He hurries after the small, cloaked figure, and he has no problem catching up to them - his longer legs are no match for them. Just as they approach the staircase, he grabs onto their hood hard.   

A high-pitched yelp breaks the silence as he yanks the cloak towards him, trying to capture whoever is hidden beneath it. They quickly fiddle with the clasp, tearing it free before racing down the stairs. Without hesitating, Severus quickly fires the first stunning spell that comes to mind.    

He simply can't afford the risk – if he’s been seen, everything is compromised.   

But the spell hits them with more force than he intended, and it sends them flying down the stairs. For a moment, he can only hear the sound of his racing heart as he stares down at the unconscious girl beneath him.   

Making his way down, his features soften into concern as he notices the witches youthful face. She’s young – far too young to bear a Dark Mark, but he quickly checks anyway. Once he’s ruled it out, he checks the other hand, still clamped stubbornly around her wand despite the blistered burns on her fingers.    

What happened to her?     

Kneeling beside her, he looks over her more, noticing her robes are torn, her body bruised - all clear evidence of a battle she fought not long ago. Her pale face peeks out from under her knotted and wild hair, revealing tiny cuts and smears of ash on her cheeks, nose, and neck.    

Why is she here?    

He doesn’t recognise her as any of his current or past students at Hogwarts, but something in her stillness makes him feel uneasy as he takes in her fragile form and the blood pooling beneath her head.   

He’s trying to figure out what to do next when something dark lands next to her, letting out the familiar squeak he heard behind the door earlier. A tiny, black owl perches on the shoulder of the young witch, completely ignoring him as it nudges at her cheek desperately.    

A feeling of guilt and unease twists inside him. He has no idea what to do.    

He could leave her. Walk out into the night and let time take over whatever this is. It’s not his problem. But the crunching of leaves outside steals his right of a choice. He hears voices, low and cautious approaching, and through a shattered window he can see the faint glow of wand light.    

Wizards, four, maybe five, are closing in fast. Whoever they are, they’re almost here. And  damn it  , he knows he has no choice now. He can’t leave her here unconscious on the ground because of him, her fate left uncertain at the hands of the wizards who are almost here. Who knows what their intentions are.    

Even his cold heart can't let that happen.    

With a frustrated sigh, he quickly picks up the witch with the tiny owl still clutching onto her, and apparates them from the manor with a loud  crack.  The annoyance of his failure to obtain any information about this ‘secret weapon’ weighs on him as the world begins to shift around them.  

Chapter Text

“What do you see, Severus?” asks Dumbledore as he paces around the Hospital Wing. “Anything?” 

Severus slowly withdraws his wand from the unconscious girl's temple with a pained expression on his face. “Her mind is incredibly fragile, Albus. It seems that she was Occluding when the fall happened – an unfortunate oversight that has shattered her mental barriers. I cannot pry too much without causing irreparable harm... but there is no mistaking it. She's their daughter.” 

A gasp escapes Professor McGonagall as covers her mouth with a trembling hand, her wide eyes fixed on the girl before them. The revelation is not what any of them had expected. 

“Daughter?” asks Dumbledore, locking eyes with Severus. “Did you know?” 

“No,” Severus replies, his gaze shifting back to the girl. “It seems no one knows of her existence.  I could not find a single memory that doesn’t include her parents or that house.” 

“Fascinating,” mutters Dumbledore. “Although extremely rare, this is not impossible – considering the power and status of the [Last Name]’s. They must have used powerful concealment charms to keep her off any official records... but why?” 

Professor McGonagall's brow furrows in concern. “What are your plans for her, Albus? Will she remain at Hogwarts?”  

“Yes,” he answers thoughtfully. “I see no reason why the Ministry will allow her to be on her own. We will need to assess how much of her magical abilities she has uncovered. I will speak with Cornelius tomorrow when he arrives - but first, we must speak with her.” 

The crushing weight of the world presses down on your skull as you wake up, and for a moment, you’re convinced the pain will split your head in two. Every corner of your mind feels sharp, as if thorns are embedded in your brain, sinking deeper into the sensitive nerves with each attempted thought. Slowly, you try to prise your eyes open, wincing light that tries to penetrate your skull.  

You can barely see a thing, but something is undeniably wrong - the air feels different. You aren’t at home anymore.  

Panic surges inside you as you struggle to push yourself up, groaning against the blinding lights as you force your eyes open, but your vision is already swimming.

“Oh! Dear, are you alright?” You turn your head to the side to find a short woman in red and white robes rushing to your side. “Easy now. Let me help you,” she says kindly, propping her hand behind your back to help you up.   

The daylight from the long, arched windows floods the room, making you squint as it threatens to burn into your delicate mind. But as soon as your eyesight adjusts, you tear your gaze away from the witch at your side to try and make sense of where you are. 

“I’ll be back in a moment, okay dear?” she says, squeezing your hand before rushing off into a little room in the corner. “Don’t move too much!” she shouts back before disappearing inside.  

You reach for the back of your head and immediately regret it. It hurts, and it’s only making you worry even more. 

Damn it. Where are you? 

Judging by the rows of neatly made beds stretching along the walls and the cabinets stacked high with glass vials and labeled potion bottles, you guess you’re in an infirmary.

But why? And then, a horrifying thought - are you injured? 

Quickly throwing aside the blankets covering you, you can’t help but gasp at the mangled state of your wand hand. It’s covered in bandages, with black and scarlet skin peeking out from underneath them.

But it gets worse. The entirety of your arm is smothered in some kind of salve, gently coating some deep lacerations that lay beneath. 

Shit. What the hell happened? 

Peeling away the blankets more, you check over your lower body for any more injuries, but thankfully it’s nowhere near as bad as your arms. A few cuts and scrapes on your legs and knees, and the odd minor burn covered in some more salve, but otherwise you look pretty okay. You're mostly worried about the throbbing in the back of your head and the stabbing pain that only radiates every time you move your head even a fraction.

Raking your fingers through your hair, you try to untangle the untamed mess from the chunks of dry and sticky blood while you wait for the witch to return, but the sound of hushed chattering and rapid footsteps approaching steals your attention.  

You look with wide eyes towards the door of the infirmary.

Where's your wand?

You frantically scan your surroundings for it, but it’s nowhere in sight. A knot forms in your stomach, and you really hope you haven’t lost it, or worse, that someone has taken it. 

Seconds later, the doors burst open and two wizards enter the room. 

An old, wise looking man takes the lead, his long wirey beard tucked neatly into his deep lavendar robes. But it’s not him who gets your attention. A mysterious looking man dressed in all black follows closely behind him, his pale face and dark hair seem familiar to you, but you can’t put a name to the face. 

You watch as they walk towards you with urgency in their steps, the worry about your wands whereabouts now a distant thought.  

Balling up the blankets in your fist, you attempt to settle the oncoming wave of nerves as they approach your bedside. You desperately try to control your emotions, but the pain in your head won’t allow you bury them fully. It feels as though all the familiar pieces in your mind are shattered and now all of the overwhelming emotions have nowhere to go. 

You feel so vulnerable, like an open book for them both to read. 

“Ah,” the older man shuffles closer, his blue eyes shining through the half moon spectacles sitting on his nose. “I am glad you’re finally back with us, Miss. How are you feeling?”  

“Uh-,” you try to reply, but the words die in your throat. Swallowing down the nerves, you simply reply, “I’m okay.”  

Your head twinges at the lie, but you try to ignore it.   

“I am relieved to hear that, I understand you took quite a fall back there,” he says, eyeing up a few pieces of parchment laying at your beside and reading over them before handing them to the darker wizard now looming silently beside him. 

The darker wizards eyes linger on you for a moment, and it feels like his dark eyes are trying to force their way into your own. Luckily, he breaks the eye contact and snatches the papers off him, and you watch him closely as he scans the pages, unable to read his expression. 

Why does he look so familiar?  

“Now,” the first wizards voice forces you out of your thoughts, startling you and bringing your attention back to him. “I’m sure you have many questions. But firstly, I wish to let you know that you are safe here.” 

His words don’t quite register at first because your mind is still spinning, and now your heart's racing in time with the throbbing in your head. Dark spots dance at the edges of your vision, but you try to blink them away.  

“What happened-,” you try to ask, wincing as your head pulses at the vibrations from your voice. “Where are we?”   

“Ah. Well, we are at Hogwarts, of course,” he smiles widely as he looks proudly around the room. “The hospital wing, to be exact.”  

You scowl. The name sounds familiar... you've read about it in one of your father's books. “Hogwarts... as in, the school?”  

“Precisely, Miss. I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster here. You were brought here late last night by Professor Snape,” he says, gesturing to the dark man beside him.   

So that’s how you know him. Had he saved you?  

You try to rack your brain on what happened, but the memory slips beyond your reach.  

Professor Snape’s eyes are back on you, seemingly scrutinising every inch you, making you feel even more exposed. You desperately try to rebuild the walls in your mind, but the sheer pain is making it difficult.  

“Wh- Why was I brought here, exactly? That place was – is – my home. I shouldn’t be here,” you manage to get out. 

You feel so confused. Yes, you know your parents had been killed – that much you remember. How can you forget the group of wizards who had come to your home that evening, chanting the death of your parents as they tore through the house?  

But what happened after? Why is everything else missing? 

Dumbledore shifts in place at the thought in your eyes. “Yes, we assumed as much,” his voice taking a softer tone as his gaze drifts away from yours. “Your parents -the [Last Name]’s - you are aware of the circumstances surrounding them?”  

“Yes... I think so. I know they were at the World Cup... and that they were killed.” Saying the words out loud feels like a wound reopening, and a piece of you shatters. 

It hits you harder than you were expecting, and you didn’t think it was possible, but the weight of your grief makes your head throb even more.   

“I am truly sorry for your loss, Miss...?” Dumbledore hesitates, his eyes softening.  

“[First Name].”  

“I'm sorry, [First Name].” Your name sounds strange coming from him since you’ve only ever heard your parents call you that. “I wish I could provide you with more answers,” he continues. “But I suspect that, in time, you may uncover them yourself.”   

You nod slowly, trying to make sense of his words and take a hold of the emotions running through you, but it’s a futile effort.  

“So... what now? What am I supposed to do? Can I go back home?” The question feels heavy, but it's been burning inside you.  

You’ve never been away from home before - your parents were always so strict about you being anywhere but that house, so being away from it all now feels... weird, to say the least.  

“I’m afraid not, Miss [Last Name],” he says as he paces around the side of your bed, seemingly in deep thought. “The Minister of Magic will be arriving at Hogwarts shortly, and although his visit is not related to you, I must inform him of what has happened this evening.” 

The Minister? Why would he need to tell him about you? 

“In the meantime,” he continues, “I believe it best that you remain here, where we can all ensure your safety.” 

“Here?” You echo, taken aback. “What, like… as a student?”   

“Precisely. You are, after all, a young witch of schooling age. Say, Fourteen? Fifteen?” He asks, arching his eyebrows as his eyes meet yours again.  

“I just turned Seventeen, actually,” you say with a scowl.  

“Ah. A young woman, then. My apologies,” he says, looking slightly amused. And it only makes you more annoyed. 

“I don’t need to be here,” you spit back, frustrated. “My parents taught me everything I need to know, and I’ve studied on my own for years. I'm perfectly fine being on my own.” 

“I have no doubt that you are a very capable witch, Miss [Last Name],” he says. “But more of that later.”  

If your head wasn’t throbbing so damn much, you’d push your argument more, but you just don’t have it in you right now. 

“We will reconvene tomorrow and go from there,” he finishes, turning for the door. “For now, I urge you to get some rest. Your mind will thank you for it.”  

And with that, the conversation is over, and you watch in disbelief as he strides towards the entrance. You throw an exasperated look to Professor Snape, who just observed the entire interaction with no input at all, but he just meets your eyes with a scornful look before he marches off to join the headmaster.   

What’s his problem?  

As they both disappear out of sight, your eyes linger on the empty doorway. The encounter replays in your mind over and over, leaving you even more clueless than before they arrived.  

And now, your mind feels as though it's on the verge of exploding, so you do the only thing you don’t want to do, and close your eyes in hope to soothe it. Merlin knows you'll need a clear head when you speak with them again.  

The unsettling feeling that they know more about you than they're letting on burns inside you as you slowly drift off into another deep sleep. 

Later that afternoon, the Matron – whose name you have learnt to be Madame Pomfrey - returns to your bedside and thoroughly checks over you using a diagnosis charm. 

After confirming all is well and good, apart from the wound on your head taking a little longer to heal than usual due to you having such a harsh fall, she lets you know that Professor Dumbledore has requested your presence in his office.  

Luckily, by this point the pain in your head has improved drastically with the help of a pain relief potion and a long, undisturbed sleep.  

She takes you silently through the long corridors of the castle until she stops in front of an archway guarded by a gargoyle figure, whispering something under her breath until it disappears, revealing a long winding staircase leading upwards. 

“Off you go, Dear,” she says, giving your uninjured hand another reassuring squeeze. “Professor Dumbledore and the others are waiting for you.”  

The others?  

Great, now you feel anxious all over again. 

You’d fully prepared yourself to thank Dumbledore for his time and help and let him know you were leaving. But now, if there’s others there... what if they tried to stop you? 

Pushing it aside for now, you manage a quick 'thank you' and force a smile at her as you watch her walk away, leaving you alone in the unfamiliar space. 

Taking a second to compose yourself, you manage a quick ‘thank you’ to Madame Pomfrey and let out a deep breath before you start making your way up the stairs... ready to face whatever fate awaits you there.  

Chapter Text

While you make your way up the short winding staircase to the headmaster's office, you try to rebuild the fortress in your mind you had carefully constructed over the years.  

It's a strategy you had learnt the hard way to hide your true thoughts from your father since you became aware of his ability to somehow pry into your mind. He had punished you countless times when he discovered your objections to their beliefs, or whenever he caught you sneaking into their private collections.   

Since then, you’d searched the contents of your father's personal library and learnt about the art of Legilimancy - a person who can read minds, though, some wizards and witches are apparently far more gifted than others in the ability.  

But it was the counter to Legilimency that intrigued you more – Occlumency. Unlike Legilimency, it wasn’t something gifted at birth; it could be learnt. The idea of being able to shut out your mind to everyone but yourself was tantalising. And so, you poured over every single piece of information on it you could find, scouring your father's library while carefully avoiding being caught. 

It had been your saviour for years now. Your shield. 

Unfortunately, the injury to your head seems to have shattered that comforting fortress. It has caused some of your memories to become fragmented and unclear - most importantly the events that had happened that evening with Professor Snape. Whenever you try to remember, it slips away from you like water through your fingers.  

You'll ask Professor Snape about it eventually, but you’d rather not confront the uncertainty just yet.  

When you arrive in Dumbledore's spacious office, the professors are standing with their backs to you, engaged in a deep conversation with another wizard who you assume to be the Minister of Magic since you've never actually met him before.

“Ah, Miss [Last Name]," Dumbledore says, rising from his chair as the door closes behind you. You look around the room, taking in all of the many eyes watching you - not only living ones, but the painted stares from the portraits on the walls. “I hope you don’t mind," he conintues, gesturing to the other professors, "but I have asked some of the other professors to join us for this meeting. As well as the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge.” 

You nod stiffly, trying not to stare, but it's hard. Nerves take over as you realise just how many people are present while you're just standing here in your hospital robes and slippers looking ridiculous.

You try to ignore the rising self-consciousness, focusing on what you came here to say.               

“I, uhh.. thank you for helping me. I appreciate it, really I do, but...," you take a deep breath, pushing it all out. "I just don't think this is necessary. I mean, I'm Seventeen. Legally of age. I can take care of myself. I'd like to leave. Go home. Go... somewhere that isn't this."

Your voice doesn't shake, not even once. You're almost surprised at how confident it sounds, even though every part of you is screaming to crawl away and never come back.

The professors, share a confused look. One of them - a tall and stern looking witch - moves to sit down on a nearby chair, looking down into her lap, seemingly unsettled by your words. The others turn awkwardly to Dumbledore, but Snape just looks completely unimpressed, raising an eyebrow at you.

“Miss [Last Name], I understand this is hard for you," Dumbledore begins, moving closer to you. "But I’m afraid the circumstances are not as simple as you would like them to be.” He says, his eyes softening. 

Fudge keeps his attention fixed on Dumbledore for a few seconds, before turning to you with an unyielding expression.

“Miss [Last Name], we are no fools. You are undoubtedly aware of your parents' status – regrettable, of course, but unavoidable,” his voice cuts through the room as he paces around. “And as difficult as it is, we must face the fact that, in the eyes of the Ministry, your actions and very existence are now viewed with the same scrutiny.”  

A chill crawls up you at the implications of his words.  

“Are you saying I’m a threat?” your voice breaks slightly, the mixture of pure disbelief and rage catching in your throat. “I am not my parents. I do not agree with their absurd views. I never have, and I’m certainly no Death Eater , Minister.” 

He holds your fierce stare, while the other professors' glance at Dumbledore again – who's focus also remains on you. Your heart pounds in your chest as you wait for a response, not knowing where this is going anymore.

“We do not believe you are threat,” says Dumbledore gently. “However, you must understand that others may not be so trusting.” 

Your eyes snap over to him, the defiance in them burning into his. “That's unfair. I haven't done anything wrong, and I certainly can’t be blamed for the decisions my parents made.” 

“I'm sure we can all understand the complexity of family, Miss [Last Name],” Fudge interrupts again. “But let me be clear, the Ministry has a duty to keep our society safe. I do not doubt your intentions are pure, but the past cannot simply be ignored. The Ministry is not known for their compassion in matters such as this. Many witches and wizards in your predicament have either been hunted down mercilessly or sent to Azkaban, simply for the associations they hold.” 

The mention of Azkaban sends panic through you and the room seems to blur as you force yourself to steady your breathing.

Is he threatening you?   

Dumbledore steps a bit closer to you, a hint of sadness in his eyes as he looks into yours. “No one believes you are one of them,” he says quietly. “Please, let us help you. Hogwarts can be your home. We can keep you safe and offer you a chance at a normal life. Will you reconsider?” 

You stay silent for a moment, running through the options in your head. They look pretty bleak. You’ve spent your entire life caged, and you have a feeling Hogwarts will be the same.

But you know the chance of survival if the Dark Lord returns will not be in your favour, seeing how ruthless those wizards had reacted just to the rumours of his return. Unfortunately, you also know that the threat of Azkaban is very real and undeniable. The Minister himself wouldn’t be here threatening it if it wasn’t. 

The choice is petty much made for you, and something tells you they already knew that.

“Fine,” you say through gritted teeth, before turning away from them all. The anger still festers inside you as you make your way to one of the windows to try and calm yourself down. Leaning against the cold stone wall, you watch the storm lash against the grounds of Hogwarts, envying it. How freely it rages without consequence. 

“Keep me updated, Albus,” you hear Fudge say, followed by the sound of his harsh footsteps growing quieter as he descends the spiral staircase out of the office.

You don’t care to be pleasant with him – he'd threatened you, and you won't be so forgiving. 

After a few minutes of trying to soothe your thoughts, Professor Dumbledore breaks the uncomfortable silence. 

“Miss [Last Name], I know you are feeling overwhelmed, but we must move forward. The new term continues tomorrow, and our professors have many things to attend to.” 

Sighing, you reluctantly turn away from the storm and back to your reality. The professors - each one now watching you with varying degrees of interest - are now stood behind Dumbledore, who holds a strange, old looking hat in his hands. 

“It is tradition here that all students be sorted into one of four houses,” he explains. “And you, Miss [Last Name] will be no exception.” He gestures for you to come closer. 

“Each professor I have asked to join us this evening is one of four head of houses. To begin with, we have Professor McGonagall, head of Gryffindor” he gestures to the tall, stern witch who in return gives you a small smile, but her gaze remains sharp. You can tell she is hesitant to trust you.

“Next, we have Professor Sprout, head of Hufflepuff,” a small, plump woman with soil-stained robes and bushy hair gives you kind, welcoming wave.

“This is Professor Flitwick, head of Ravenclaw,” a small man stands forward and gives you a polite bow, his face giving you a slightly nervous smile.

“And lastly, you've already met Professor Snape, Head of Slytherin.” You turn to him, and he simply stares down at you through his hooked nose, void of any welcoming gesture. 

"Right! Now that you have met our head of houses, let's proceed with the sorting ceremony,” Dumbledore's tone grows more serious. “This is typically done when students join us in their first year, but given your unique situation, I felt it best to do it privately. I hope you do not mind." 

You nod, not really knowing what to say or what to expect.

He gestures you to take a seat on the stool beside him, and as you do, he approaches you, gently placing the hat on your head. The heaviness of it weighs down the messy curls of your hair.

You jump as it starts to talk. 

“Ahhh...” its deep, raspy voice calls out, resonating in your chest. “I sense a very powerful witch indeed... yes, I sense a great ambition here... and a clear house calling to me. It will have to be... Slytherin!” 

Of course. 

The room floods with an unnerving silence. That is, until Professor Flitwick lets out a small chuckle, clearly trying to break the tension in the room. “Not really surprising, is it?” he says with a weak grin, but it quickly fades when Professor McGonagall shoots him a deathly look.

“Yes, congratulations Miss [Last Name] on your placement in Slytherin. I’m sure we can expect great things from you.” Dumbledore says warmly, lifting the hat from your head and placing it back on the shelf.  

He turns to Professor Snape with a nod. “I trust you don’t mind showing our new student the dormitories, after filling her in with some things, professor?”  

Snape gazes over towards you before returning a curt nod. “Of course, Headmaster.” 

As you watch the professors quickly leave the room, having to get back to their preparations before the new term tomorrow, a sudden thought races through your mind. 

“Wait - professor, what about my owl?" you blurt out. "I- I can’t believe I forgot about him! I don’t know what happened after I fell-"

“There is no need for concern,” he interrupts gently, raising a calming hand. “Your owl arrived here safely with you. He's been taken to the owlery and is resting. You may see him whenever you wish.” 

“Oh... right. Okay,” you say, relieved. “Thank you.” 

He gives you a soft smile. “Now, Professor Snape will inform you of everything you need to know going forward. And should you have any further questions, about anything at all, please do not hesitate to come to me at any time.”  

You turn to leave, still not happy with the situation. But knowing Crow is safe and here with you too makes you feel a little bit better at least.

“Oh, and Miss [Last Name]-,” Dumbledore adds, and you turn back to look at him, his eyes the most serious you’ve seen them today. “I think we can both agree it best to keep your past between us, yes? Try to blend in with the other students as best you can. It will make your time here a lot easier.” 

You nod silently. The thought of being able to have friends, or at least people of your age to talk to, tempts you more than you want to admit. If the professors reaction to finding out about you is anything to go by, you can only imagine how bad it'll be if the other students finds out you're a child of not only Death Eaters, but ones that may have helped the Dark Lord to return.

It would be a nightmare.

Turning to Professor Snape, you notice he’s standing silently at the archway looking very impatient. Not wanting to waste any more time, you push the thoughts aside for now and quickly make your way over to join him.

The last thing you need is to make a bad impression and get on his bad side - if you weren’t already there. Which something tells you you are.

He leads the way back down the staircase, and the only sound in the awkward silence is each of your footsteps echoing on the stone floor. When you reach the corridor, his dark robes swirl around him as he faces you.  

“Follow me. And do try to keep up,” he sneers, turning sharply and striding down the long corridor.  

Stunned by his rude tone, you watch as he marches ahead, his robes billowing behind him with each long step. You jog after him to try and catch up, wondering how on earth he's managing to walk so fast while you're just barely keeping up. 

A thought crosses your mind - should say something? Maybe thank him for helping you?  

You’re not really paying attention to the path he takes you. Your legs hurt already by just trying to keep up with him, and you're only now just noticing how much the injuries have drained you. 

Distracted by the growing ache in your legs, you crash into something hard, realising only then that he's stopped walking.

“Are you entirely incapable of paying attention to your surroundings, Miss [Last Name]?” he says sharply, looking down on you with disdain in his eyes. 

“Sorry, Professor,” you almost whisper, backing away from him.  

Brilliant. You’ve barely been here five minutes and he already wants to hex you. 

He sighs. “This will be your common room. The password is ‘Serpent’ . I won’t tell you again, so do try to remember it.” 

The stone door looms in front of you, set into the stone like some long lost crypt. The soft, cold air makes you shiver as you take it in, and you pull your robes a little tighter. Is it always so bloody cold down here?

“As much as I’d like this to be the end of our interaction,” Snape continues, his voice flat with boredom, “the headmaster has asked me to go over a few things with you. This way.” 

Without even waiting for a reply, he turns and leads the way down a dark, twisting stairway. The torchlight is barely enough to show the stone steps as you carefully follow him, not wanting to crash into him again.

Eventually, you arrive in an even colder room, filled with shelves of vials containing all sorts of liquids and and potion ingredients.

“Wow... is this your office?” you ask before you can stop yourself, excitedly admiring his collection of potion supplies. Potion making was your favourite thing growing up, and it still is - it was your mothers speciality, and she spent a lot of her time teaching you about the art. Something about being here feels almost comforting. 

"Brilliant observation, Miss [Last name]” he replies, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

You roll your eyes, not even bothering to hide it, as he shuffles through the clutter on his desk and pulling out a piece of parchment before making his way over to you.   

“Here,” he almost throws the paper at you. “As you are only just joining us in the Sixth year, you'll need to select the subjects you wish to study. These are your options. Choose wisely - if that's within your capabilities."

You take the parchment and skim over it. The list is long and very overwhelming. You hadn't really thought much about your future, and now you're being forced to.

“Do you want me to pick now?” you ask, glancing up at him. 

“That is the idea,” he says, gesturing to a desk nearby. 

“Right... okay.” 

You sit down and scan over the options more carefully, fully aware of Snape's eyes glued to you. You try to ignore him and go with instinct, picking the subjects you know the best. The ones you feel are the safest options.

You circle the few that stand out: Potions, Herbology, Defense Against the Dark Arts and Astronomy. When you’re sure of your choices, you get up and offer the paper back to Snape, who almost snatches it from your hand as he reads over it. 

“Interesting,” he mutters. “And what, may I ask, are your career ambitions?” 

“To be honest, Sir, I haven’t really thought about it," you shrug. "My parents always insisted I didn’t need to worry about it. I just chose the subjects I think I have the most chance of not failing.” 

"A charming strategy," he says, almost mockingly. "However, if you expect to participate in my Potions class, you'll need to have achieved an Outstanding on your OWL. Given your... lack of education, I hardly think it's worth your time."

His words sting a little, but you know you’re more than capable of passing the subjects you chose. 

“With respect, Professor," you reply coolly. "I know my capabilities. Especially when it comes to potions."

"We shall see," he says curtly, turning away and placing the paper on his desk. "You'll receive your timetable at breakfast." He turns back to face you, his dark eyes locking with yours again for a moment before he pulls something out of his robes. “You will also be needing this, I presume?” 

Your wand.  

Amid the chaos of accepting your new life, you’d completely forgotten about it. Taking it from his hands, it feels strange to know that others have handled it, especially him. The silvery veins embedded in the dark wood glow into life at your touch, and you smile knowing that it hasn’t forgotten you in your time apart.

You don’t see the brief unease in Snape’s eyes as he watches the interaction. Don't see the moment of hesitation before he looks away.

“That will be all, Miss [Last Name]," he says coldly. “Your robes and supplies have already been delivered to your dormitory. The Sorting Ceremony will begin at Seven sharp. I will collect you shortly. Be. Ready.”   

You nod, glancing to the clock that sits above his desk, noting the time is already a few minutes past Six.

You don’t have long. 

He gets back to his work, and you stand there for a moment, wondering if you should say anything more. But, sensing his disinterest, you take it as your queue to leave, feeling more comfortable now you're back with your wand.

Chapter Text

You hurry back up the staircase, relieved when you finally make it back to the common room. Thank Merlin, the thought of having to go back and ask Snape where it is again almost makes you shudder. 

‘Serpent,’ you murmur, watching the door swing open and reveal its secrets. The room is huge, embraced in an emerald glow that seems to reflect off every surface. You give yourself a moment to take it in before stepping inside, aweing over the green furniture, the shelves stacked with books, and the little tables organised with games waiting to be played. There's an overall stillness about it all – it's peaceful. 

But you're mostly drawn to the huge pane of glass at the edge of the room, framing a view of deep water. The depths ripple against the glass in a calming motion, and you can’t help but put your hand to it. The glass is cool, but it’s oddly comforting after everything that’s happened today. You wonder where the lake is, how close it is to the castle, and make a mental note to check it out whenever you can. 

You hate to admit it, but you already love the feeling you get being here. The smile that pulls at your lips is the first one you’ve allowed yourself properly since everything changed. this time, it isn’t a fake show of appreciation. It feels real.   

Unfortunately, you don’t have much time for sentimentalism – Professor Snape is expecting you to be ready soon. So, you rush off to the stairs, eager to finally have a shower and ditch these hospital robes for something nicer. 

After a scalding shower, you feel refreshed, even if it probably wasn’t the best idea for your still healing injuries. Oh well – you needed it. After you’ve dried off, you pull on your new uniform. You've never had a uniform before, so it feels weird at first.

Before heading back down, you catch yourself in the mirror. You hardly recognise the girl looking back at you – the change in your appearance is so different. To be honest - you look kind of awful. You can't quite catch it, but something is definitely different now, like you’re not quite the same. 

Still, you don't really have the time to dwell on it. Tucking your wand safely into the sleeve of your robes, you leave the dorms and make your way back to the common room. Professor Snape will be here any minute, and you can't leave him waiting.

You pace the room a little, messing with your hair so it conceals the thick scab already formed there. You don’t need people asking more questions than necessary. After a few minutes, the door creaks open revealing the  darkened silhouette of Professor Snape standing in the doorway. He glances over you, before turning his back to you with a quiet nod, as if silently approving of your improved appearance. 

That's something, at least. 

“Follow me,” he instructs, before he disappears out into the corridor. 

A sigh escapes you, and you can’t help but wonder if he’s like this with everyone. You hurry to catch up to him, having to slightly jog beside him again to keep up. 

“Professor, can you please slow down? I'm still not exactly back to full strength...” you huff, catching your breath.

You immediately regret ever opening your mouth. Snape stops dead in his tracks and you almost crash into him again. He turns, slowly, and pierces you with a gaze that you're pretty sure could freeze fire.

“Injuries,” he begins, his voice low as ever, “are no excuse for weakness.” He takes a step closer, and you feel glued to the spot. “If you cannot keep up, you will find yourself left behind. Am I clear, Miss [Last Name]?”   

The ice in his tone runs through you, and you nod as you understand the deeper meaning to his words. Does he think you’re not good enough for Hogwarts? That you won’t be able to keep up with his other students?   

“Yes, Professor,” you quietly reply, looking down at the floor.  

His words hurt more than you’re willing to admit, but you won’t let it show. He resumes his brisk pace down the corridor, and you force yourself to keep up behind him. 

The Great Hall is bursting with life as you step inside, the atmosphere alive with the chatter of students. You follow Professor Snape through the hall, noticing the long tables stretched out before you. Each one is adorned with the house banners overhead, diving the students into their respective houses.   

“Sit,” Snape instructs, gesturing to the farthest left table.   

You slide onto the bench at the end of the Slytherin table, your eyes briefly following him as he walks off to the front of the hall where all the other Professors sit. Some you recognise from your meeting with Dumbledore, but a few you don’t.    

Looking around, you notice people staring - housemates and students from other tables whispering behind their hands. Their curious eyes stick to you, and they're clearly puzzled by the new face that isn’t a first year. It makes you anxious. You still have to think of a lie to explain why you’re only just joining Hogwarts.   

You rack your brain, trying to think of the easiest lie to stick with. Only just discovered you're a witch? No, that wouldn’t work. An exchange student, maybe?   

“Hey,” a voice interrupts your scheming, “You're the new girl, right? Professor Snape told me to look out for you."

You turn to find a dark-haired girl smiling sweetly at you, and judging by her matching green robes, she’s also in your house. 

“Hi,” you smile back. “Yeah, I’m [First Name]."   

“I’m Jade, Head Girl” she replies, her voice smooth but playful. “We don't get new older students in Slytherin often, so we're all dying to meet you. Come on, sit with us!”   

Before you can even get a word out, she grabs your arm, tugging you along with her to join the others further down the table. You’re nervous, but there’s also a spark of excitement in the chance of getting to know the others. 

As you settle into your new spot on the table, you're welcomed straight away. Almost like you already belong here. After quickly  introducing yourself, the conversation shifts and takes a serious tone.  

“Just so you know,” a boy with dark hair warns, “there’s always a bit of rivalry between Slytherin and the other houses.”   

“Yeah," Jade adds, “just don’t get caught on the wrong side of it.”   

They all laugh. You don't really get it, but you laugh along too, seeing it as the right thing to do. 

“So, why’re you only just joining now, [First Name]?” a boy across the table asks, and the others nod in agreement, all eyes now focused on you.    

“Yeah!” the first boy with dark hair chimes in. “Any family connections we should know about?” he asks with a wink.   

You hesitate, feeling the pressure, but answer as smoothly as you can. “Oh, well... my parents homeschooled me for a while, but had a change of heart I suppose” you begin, completely making it up as you go, but it isn’t entirely a lie. “They're very much into their quiet, secluded life, so you probably haven’t heard of them. They don't venture out into the wizarding world often.”    

“You’re a half blood though, right?” one of them asks you, cutting through the chatter.    

“Yeah, a half blood. My mother is a witch, but my father... well, he isn’t magical. I learnt most of my magic from her,” you lie.    

The table falls quiet for a second, then a blonde girl sitting beside the boy leans forward.   

“Interesting,” she says, narrowing her eyes at you. “Not everyone in Slytherin can say they’re a half-blood and have a mother who’s a witch.”   

“Right?” Another one agrees. “And it’s kinda rare for someone to come out of the blue and not have, like, some famous bloodline or something."  

"It's not that any of it matters, anyway," Jade cuts in as she gives you a playful nudge. “We Slytherins look out for our own.”   

You smile faintly, but you know your lie isn't convincing enough. “Yeah, sadly no famous history here,” you chuckle. “My mother shared her books with me, and that’s how I learnt most of my magic.”     

The blonde girl nods slowly, but something in her eyes tell you she’s not entirely sold on your story. Luckily, the topic fades as another student shows up and the others start teasing him for being late. You take it as a moment to breathe, grateful for the distraction.    

But she isn’t done with you yet. “That doesn’t make you a typical Slytherin though, does it?” she says, carefully studying you.    

You stare back, not letting her get to you. “Why not?” you shoot back. “I’ll bet half the people here have a similar family background.”   

The others slowly stop their own conversations and stare at you both, clearly aware of the tension already brewing. But before you can say anything, Dumbledore’s voice booms across the Great Hall, signalling the start of the Ceremony. 

“Don’t worry about her,” Jade whispers in your ear as the first student is called up to be sorted, “she’s like that with everyone.”    

You force a smile, but you can’t help the unease after that encounter with her. You just pray she isn’t going to be an issue for you this year. You already have way too much to deal with. 

As the Sorting Ceremony continues you watch the first years line up, preparing to put the same dusty hat on their heads that you had earlier. Thank Merlin Dumbledore chose to do yours in private. You can’t imagine how embarrassing it would've been to stand up there with them.   

When it comes to an end, Dumbledore continues with his announcements, informing everyone that the forest is strictly off limits to all years. This piques your interest - you bet there's loads of potion ingredients you’ve never been able to get your hands on in the forest. You’ll have to check it out sometime.   

The most exciting thing, though, is when he announces the Triwizard Tournament. You’ve read about it before but never thought you’d ever have the chance to experience it. The thought of watching the Champions compete, maybe even putting your name forward yourself, excites you beyond words.   

“Now, let me be clear. If chosen, you stand alone,” Dumbledore warns, his voice the most serious you’ve heard it. “Trust me when I say, these contests are not for the faint hearted.”   

The weight of his warning lingers on you for a while, feeling a thrill stir inside you. You crave something to make you feel seen as something more than just the new girl with a dodgy background, and this could be it. After all, why not? You're old enough to compete, having just turned Seventeen. It almost feels like a sign.    

Suddenly, a deafening rumble breaks out from the night sky above the Great Hall, drawing everyone’s attention to the impending storm above. In an instant, a sharp light pierces the darkness, calming the storm back to its clear, starry night. Everyone turns as a figure appears at the end of the Professor’s table, his wild hair framing a scowl as he strides towards Dumbledore with the help of a long cane.  

Dumbledore’s voice echos through the hall, introducing him as Professor Moody , the new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher. You don’t listen to what comes next, too focused his magical eye that’s scanning the students. You haven’t seen or heard of anything like it before, and from the way the others around you watch him too, it’s clear they haven’t either.    

At the end of the feast, Dumbledore dismisses everyone to bed. The presence of the Ministry at Hogwarts due to the Tournament has left you tense, and not to mention the annoying girl who seems to have it out for you already. You're worried about your first year at Hogwarts, and the thought of trying to conceal who you really are feels more daunting than ever.  

However, it’s also made your decision to enter the Triwizard Tournament clearer. If you’re chosen as a Champion, people will surely focus more on that than your past, won’t they? Maybe they’ll see you as a true Slytherin.   

Then again, would it only lead to more questions?  

Joining the others, you make your way to the common room, the weight of the night's events still heavy on your mind. You decide it's best to think more about it in the coming weeks, after all, you still have a month to wait until the other schools competing in the tournament join you at Hogwarts.  

Before you head up to to your dorm, Jade pulls you aside. “Hey, [First Name]. I didn’t get a chance to mention it earlier, but Snape has asked me to show you around the castle” she checks her timetable. “When would work for you?”  

You shrug. “I won’t get my timetable until breakfast tomorrow, but we can talk about it then, if that works for you?” Having someone familiar at breakfast sounds better than going in alone.   

“Sure, no problem. I’ll see you in the morning then,” she grins. “I’ll meet you in the common room and we can walk together.” With a quick wave, she adds, “Goodnight.”  

“Goodnight,” you reply, returning her wave. 

A few of your housemates linger in the common room showing the first years around, but you’re too tired to join them. You’re exhausted, physically and mentally now the excitement of the Ceremony has worn off, and the thought of pretending to be engaged feels like too much.   

Dragging yourself up the stairs, you head back to your dorm, wondering who your roommates will be. You’ve never shared a space like this before, so you’re not really sure what to expect. You just hope the other girls get along with you okay.  

You’re the first here, so you sit on your bed, looking around the room as you wait for them to arrive. The room is pretty bare, it’s nothing like the feeling of home. The other girls beds are cluttered with their cases and bags, while yours remains empty. You only have what you’re wearing and some pyjamas that have been left for you. 

It’d be nice to have your own stuff, too. Maybe some of your own clothes, and some things to make your space a little more personal. More you.  

Just as you're about to lay back, the door creaks open. It’s her. The blonde girl from the Sorting Ceremony. The one who seems to see right through your story.  

Great.   

“Well, look who it is,” she says, walking in and barely giving you a glance before she slumps on her bed across from yours. “Fancy us being roomies?” 

You force a smile, trying to keep the loathing out of your voice. “I know right? It’s great.” You look up at her, pretending to think. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name during the Ceremony?” 

“Ivy Selwyn,” she says casually, as if you should know it already. “I’m sure you’ve heard the name before.” 

“Hm, doesn’t ring a bell.” 

She scowls at you, and you return a sweet smile before getting off the bed and turning to pretend like you’re doing something. You’re laying out the pyjamas on your bed when you feel her presence behind you. 

“Where’s all your stuff?” she asks, clearly aware of the fact you came here with nothing. 

“Oh...,” you start, trying to keep casual. “It got lost on the way here. Dumbledore’s sorting it out for me.” 

She circles your bed, tracing her fingers along the wooden posts, staring at you with an intensity that feels like she’s looking right through you. 

“What’s up with you?” she asks, lowering her voice. “You can tell me, I won’t tell anyone.” 

“There’s nothing up with me,” you say, rolling your eyes. “I’ve told you everything already. If you think I’m not worthy of being in Slytherin, maybe you should take it up with that old hat.” 

She holds your gaze, but you refuse to back down to her. She looks like she’s about to say something else when the door swings open again and the rest of your roommates walk in, laughing at something they’ve said. She glances over at them and then back to you, ultimately deciding to drop it. 

You hear her mutter something under her breath as she walks back to her own bed. You don’t catch it, but you don’t need to. It’s clear that whatever this is with her isn’t over – not by a long shot. 

The moment you finally settle in your bed, it takes forever to fall asleep. Your thoughts of your parents, this new life you've been suddenly forced to live, and the burden of the secrets you now have to keep from everyone keep you tossing and turning throughout the night. 

Chapter Text

The next morning, you're woken up early by the sound of the other girls getting ready and talking loudly. You pull yourself up with a groan, and there's no denying it. You're tired. The restless sleep did you no favours, and now you have to get through a full day of classes while trying to make a good impression. 

With a sigh, you force yourself out of bed, knowing there's now way around this.

Pulling on your uniform and smoothing down the robes, you say a quick good morning to the other girls, relieved that Ivy has already left. You can't deal with her so early, especially after what happened yesterday. You just pray she's not in any of your classes.

You use your wand to style your hair into something less crazy and make your way down to the common room to find Jade. She's already waiting for you when you arrive, talking to some of the first years who look just as anxious as you about their first day. 

“Morning, [First Name]!” She says cheerily, waving you over. 

“Morning,” you reply with a yawn, not even half matching the energy she has. 

She heads towards the door, and you follow along behind her as she leads the way out into the corridor, the first years following closely behind you both. Their hushed voices are full of nerves, but Jade tries to keep them distracted by chattering about the history of Hogwarts.  

“So, how was your first night?” she asks, walking ahead of the first years as they gather around a ghost who introduces himself as Nearly Headless Nick. You don’t really understand how a ghost can be nearly headless, but that’s the least of your worries today. 

“To be honest, it was terrible,” you admit, giving her a sad smile. “I couldn’t sleep." You keep back the bit about Ivy, not wanting to cause trouble already.

“Don’t worry," she says, placing a hand on your shoulder and pulling you into a side hug. “Everyone feels like that at first, it's totally normal. You’ll be fine in a few days. I promise.” 

You lean into her hug, but just as you do, a memory of your mother hugging you the same way flashes into your head. A wave of loss fills your chest with an overwhelming pressure, and you quickly pull away from her and the hugs bittersweet comfort.

“I hope you’re right,” you say, trying to shake off whatever that was.

“It’s just the castle getting to you, some of the first years were the same last night,” she says with a reassuring smile.  “You’ll settle in soon enough.” 

As you both walk into the Great Hall, the warmth and quiet chatter of the other students fill the air. You sit together at the end of the Slytherin table while the first year’s rush to sit at the front near the Professors table. You gaze up to it, wondering if Snape had arrived yet with your timetable, but don’t see him. 

“Where’s Professor Snape?” you ask, picking at the fruit on your plate. 

“Not sure,” she says with a full mouth of toast. “He always misses Breakfast.” 

You listen in to the conversation around you as the others discuss the start of the new term and the classes they’re taking, noticing barely any mention of potions class. Is the class really that hard to get into? Will Snape ask you to brew an impossible potion or something?

Just as you finish the thought, the doors to the Great Hall swing open and Snape walks in, his black robes sweeping dramatically behind him. His eyes scan over the Slytherin table and lock on you as he moves down the hall.

“Miss [Last Name]. With me,” he orders in a low voice. 

Your stomach tightens at his words, but you don’t hesitate. Standing quickly, you follow him towards the doors. 

“I’ll catch up with you at Lunch, [First Name]!” Jade's voice calls behind you. 

You don’t have time to respond, feeling the glares of Snape watching you as he waits outside the doors, but you turn back and give her a nod. You’re grateful for her. She’s your first friend here, and it gives you something to look forward to later. 

When the doors close quietly behind you, you find yourself standing alone with Snape. 

“Here,” he extends your timetable to you. “You will meet with each of your professors today, when they are available. If you wish to fit them all in, I suggest heading to the first one now.” 

“Thank you, Sir.” You reply, glancing down at the timetable and seeing your first meeting is with Professor Sprout.  

You look back up, meeting his eyes. “Where’s the Herbology classroom?”  

“The other side of the castle,” he replies coldly, turning away from you slightly. 

What a great help he is.  

"I trust you can manage without further assistance, yes? Don’t be late,” and with that, he walks off. 

“Yeah, thanks” you quietly mutter under your breath and begin your long walk to the other side of the castle. 

With the help of a few ghosts and a quick search of each greenhouse, you finally find Professor Sprout tending to a rather strange looking plant. 

“Oh, Miss [Last Name], you made it! I was getting worried. Sorry I couldn’t show you the way here myself, I’ve been stuck here all morning,” she says, carefully handing the large plant with thick gloves. “Poor thing's teething,” she adds, nodding to the plant. 

“It’s fine, Professor, it wasn't too difficult,” you say, taking off your satchel and setting it on a nearby workbench. “What plant is this? I don’t think I’ve read about this one before.” 

“A Venemous Tentacula, my dear,” she says, pulling off her gloves and standing beside you to observe the plant. A very valuable plant, but viscous. Its bite is certainly not pleasant.” 

You stare at the plant for a moment, watching as it sways with its fangs bared, before she takes a deep breath and gestures for you to follow her over to a little desk station in the corner of the greenhouse.  

“Now, Miss [Last Name], I understand you wish to take Herbology class in your sixth-year. Do you have any experience with magical plants?” 

You nod. “Yes, some. My parents had a greenhouse at the back of the manor, and my mother and I would harvest them for potion ingredients. We also kept some in the house, but not many.” 

The familiar pressure in your chest threatens to creep up as the memories of your mother flow through your mind, but you’re quick to shut them down.  

“Excellent,” she says, “but as you may expect, I will need to test you to ensure you’re well prepared for the sixth-year curriculum.” 

“Of course, Professor. I understand.” 

She sets up a workbench for you, providing you with parchment and a quill. You sit at the bench, taking a deep breath before looking at the questions. They’re pretty straightforward, consisting of everything from identifying magical plants by their properties and dangers to their uses in potion making. 

You work quickly, answering each one with as much detail as you can, your mind flicking through memories like photos to help you. 

Once you finish, you glance up to find Professor Sprout waiting patiently by her desk, her hands folded over her apron. She nods approvingly when she sees you’re done and looks over what you’ve written. 

“This is looking good, I’m impressed,” she says after a few moments. “Now let’s get to the practical, follow me.” 

She leads you to another corner of the greenhouse, where a set of plants are arranged on a long workbench. The air smells rich with earth as you put on a nearby apron. 

“Your first task is to re-pot this,” she gestures to a large, spiky plant with dark green leaves that curl inward like claws. “It’s a Fanged Geranium. Easy to handle if you’re careful, but don’t get too close to the teeth.” She raises an eyebrow, testing you. “How would you approach it?” 

You step closer, eyeing the plant carefully. The way the petals twitch and snap at you makes you cautious but you’re familiar with this plant, having often harvested the fangs for their use in various potions. “I’d use tongs to hold it steady, then gently loosen the roots from the old pot without touching the leaves." 

“Good. And why not just use your hands?” 

“Because the leaves are sensitive. If they feel threatened, they’ll snap at anything they can reach.” You glance at her, your confidence building. “The best way to handle it is from a distance, using tools that will keep your hands safe.” 

Professor Sprout’s smile widens. “Exactly. You may proceed.” 

You work carefully, using the tongs to gently lift the plant and repot it into the new soil as she watches you closely. It’s a slow process, but it needs to be to make sure you aren’t disturbing the plant too much. When you finally finish, you step back, wiping your hands on your apron. 

“Well done,” she says, inspecting your work. “Now, for the final task—planting a Mandrake seedling. It’s important to be gentle with them. If you’re too rough, the roots could be damaged, and we don’t want that.” 

She hands you a pair of ear protectors and gestures to a set of small pots filled with fresh soil and Mandrake seedlings, their tiny leaves peeking out of the soil. You don’t have any experience with mandrakes, so this one is making you nervous. 

Putting on the ear protectors, you kneel down, taking the first seedling with the utmost care. Your hands move quickly but carefully as you create a small hole in the soil and place the screeching seedling in, covering it gently with soil until it stops.  

When you stand, Professor Sprout gives a satisfied nod. “Very well done, Miss [Last Name]. You've handled both the written and practical sections of the test with excellent care. I think you’re ready for the sixth-year curriculum.” 

You exhale a breath, a sense of accomplishment washing over you. “Thank you, Professor,” you beam. “I’m looking forward to it." 

The next Professor to see before lunch is Professor Sinistra for your Astronomy class. It doesn’t take you long to get to the astronomy tower, though you’re completely knackered when you arrive. You enter Sinistras office breathing heavily, the cold air feeling refreshing against your skin. 

“Ah, Miss [Last Name], welcome,” her voice is calm, “I was thrilled to hear you have chosen Astronomy, we don’t have many students in the sixth-year. I trust you’ve already made yourself familiar with the stars, yes?” 

“Yes, Professor. Well, sort of,” you say as you approach her desk. “I’ve spent a lot of time staring at the stars, trying to make sense of them - getting to know their patterns and reading about the planets” you add, remembering the late nights in your back garden. 

Professor Sinistra looks at you thoughtfully. “That’s a good start. The stars have a way of making you think, don’t they? They are much more than just their beauty.” 

She rises from her desk and begins shuffling through some parchments, before pulling one out and handing it to you. 

“Before you can study Astronomy in the sixth-year, you’ll need to pass a small exam to make sure you’re ready for the material and make sure you’re on the same page as the other students,” she says, and you take the partchment from her. “Don’t worry, it’s just a few basic questions.” 

You scan the questions, most of which you are familiar with. A few are about the Solar System, the phases of the moon and some of star patterns – topics which you have read enough about to answer pretty confidently. The questions about telescopes, though, leave you struggling. You’ve never used one, so your answers are a bit of a guess.  

When you feel like you’ve answered the best you can, you return the parchment back to Professor Sinistra. 

“Sorry, Professor,” you say as she takes the parchment from you. “I don’t know much about telescopes and their lenses. I've never used one before,” you shrug. “Will I still be able to take the class?” 

She reads over your answers, carefully reading your answers before she gives a light nod of approval, a smile tugging at her lips. “You have done remarkably well for someone who lacks the proper resources. It will be a delight to welcome you to our Astronomy class.” 

You smile, grateful that you’ve managed to pass through to another class. “Thank you, Professor."” 

Finally, it's time for lunch. The first two meetings of the day had gone better than expected, leaving you in a good mood. You're terrified for the afternoon though, meeting with Professor Moody and Snape isn't something you're particularly excited for.  

You arrive at the great hall and look over the Slytherin table for Jade. Spotting her talking with the other students, you slip onto the bench beside her, eager to get something to eat after your small breakfast. 

“Oh, hey, [First Name],” she grins. “We were just talking about you.” 

You raise an eyebrow at her. “Oh? How come?” 

“You were the talk of potions this morning, apparently,” one of the boys says, laughing and looking towards Snape at the professor’s table. “Snape was not happy.”  

You stomach drops. You barely know anyone yet, why would they be talking about you? 

“Why were they talking about me?” you ask, trying to laugh it off. Had someone said something bad about you? Had Snape?

You glance over to the professors table where Snape is stabbing at his lunch while talking with Professor McGonagall, seemingly uninterested in whatever the conversation is about. 

Jade must notice your shift in expression as she gives you a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, [First Name],” she says, “It’s just Ivy spreading gossip. She’s the only Slytherin in the class, and I bet she’s just worried you’ll become Snape’s new favourite if you get in.” 

Of course it’s her.  

“Ugh,” you groan, putting your head in your hands. “She totally has it out for me already. Do you know what she’s been saying?” 

“Nope, sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. “But seriously, don’t worry about it. Snape doesn’t let anything slide in his class. If you get into potions, you’ll be fine.” 

“Thanks,” you say, offering a small smile, though you can’t help but wonder if choosing potions had been a mistake now. “It’s not like I’ll be a threat anyway. I’m pretty sure Snape hates me.” 

“I’m pretty sure Snape hates all of us,” the same boy laughs, making the others around the table snicker in agreement. 

“Anyway,” Jade says, taking a sip of her pumpkin juice and turning to you, “about it the tour, when do you get your timetable? I’m dying to show you around!” 

“Oh yeah,” you chuckle, “a tour would’ve been super helpful today. I ended up having to ask the ghosts for directions.” 

She almost chokes on her juice as she laughs at you. “You’re lucky you made it anywhere at all asking them lot!” 

“They weren’t so bad, I guess they felt sorry for me,” you shrug. “I should get it tomorrow, though. I doubt the professors will let me get away with another day of missed classes.” 

As lunch wraps up, you say bye to Jade and head to your third meeting of the day – Defence Against the Dark Arts with Professor Moody. 

You can’t lie, you might actually be more nervous for this one than the meeting with Snape. Thanks to your father, you've picked up a lot about the Dark Arts and are apparently pretty gifted in it. But you have to stay discreet – it's a touchy subject even at Hogwarts.

When you arrive at his classroom, he's sitting on a stool at the front of the room already waiting for you. He notices you immediately, and you feel the magical eye scanning over you. It makes you feel weird, but you're determined to be polite and hopefully stay on the right side of him. 

“Good afternoon, Professor,” you say confidently, setting your bag on the nearest desk.

“You must be the new one” he says in a rough voice, his magic eye still fixed on you. “Get over here and take a seat. We’ve got work to do.” 

“Yes Sir,” you reply, heading over to sit at the desk on the front row, just in front of him.

“Now then,” he says, rising to his feet with the help of his cane. “Professor Snape told me you want to join sixth-year Defence Against the Dark Arts. It’s my job to make sure you’re capable of the subject.” 

“I understand, Professor.” 

He eyes you for a moment, and you notice his magical eye swivelling in all directions. “Right. Let’s see what you’re made of then.” 

He taps the end of his cane on the floor, causing a dark mist to swirl into life in the air. You quickly get to your feet, pulling your wand from the sleeve of your robes. You weren't expecting things to start so quickly. 

“Defence Against the Dark Arts isn’t just about theory,” he growls. “It’s about knowing how to handle the situation when things get dangerous. Do you think you’re up for it?” 

You don’t answer, focusing instead on steadying your breathing and watching the swirling dark mist that wraps around you - it feels almost suffocating. You hear Professor Moody's loud steps as he moves towards you, but you can’t see him anymore. The thick mist starts to contort into the the twisted images of dark creatures, taunting you and reminding you that fear is very real. As they circle you more fiercely, your heart quickens and you clutch your wand tight in your fist. 

“So. How would you defend yourself against something like this?” he asks, his voice almost mocking. “Are you sure you have what it takes?” 

Your eyes are hard, focusing on not letting the shadows overwhelm you.

What spell? Your mind is racing as you try to think of one, not wanting to choose one that will make him suspicious.   

As the cold grip of the shadows move closer, their whispers brushing over your skin like invisible fingers, you raise your wand and feel the unused magic inside you ready to burst. “ Lumos Solem!” you shout , hoping the light is enough to make them crawl back.  

You watch in horror as the spell floods the room with an intense light, shielding your eyes as it almost blinds you. The power of your spell is enough to completely disintegrate the shadows, and you watch as they drop into a thick layer of ash on the floor. The classroom is silent as you lower your wand, breathing heavily as the rush of adrenaline wears off. 

“Not bad at all, Miss [Last Name]. But I can tell you’re holding back, you’re capable of more.” His voice startles you as he studies you with an unnerving gaze.  For a second, you forgot he was in the room with you. “I’ve seen students cower with fear when faced with dark magic... but you didn’t even flinch. You knew what you were doing, didn’t you?” 

His words hang in the air, your hearts racing but you try to play it cool. “Fear is our biggest enemy, we can’t feed into it, Professor. Everyone knows that.” 

He scoffs as he sits back down on his stool, his magical eye never leaving you.  

“Welcome to Defence Against the Dark Arts” he says, leaning towards you. “But the moment you mess up, I won’t hesitate to show you how quickly things can go wrong. Understood?” 

“I understand, Professor," you reply shakily. "Thank you.” 

You leave Professor Moody’s classroom with a heaviness inside you. You can tell Dumbledore hasn’t told him about your connection to your parents, and it leaves you wondering why. 

Breathing deeply, you walk down the corridor and into the nearest girl's bathroom to collect yourself, looking in the mirror at your reflection. You look better than you did this morning, at least – more yourself. After splashing your face with some cold water, you tidy up your hair and neaten your robes before heading down to your final test of the day, the one you’ve anticipated most. Potions with Snape. 

You wonder what he has in store for you, and you bet it’s something hard. Potions is the class you want to join the most, and you’ll be devastated if you fail. 

Leaving the girls bathroom, you throw your satchel over your shoulder and begin your walk to Snape’s classroom. The corridor is full of other students making their way to their final class of the day, chatting among themselves. 

Turning onto the corridor that leads to the dungeons, a loud laughter echos through the hall and you come face to face with two identical red heads, casually leaning against the wall. 

“Well, well, well, what do we have here George?” the one closest to you says, his eyebrows raised in an exaggerated manner. “A new Slytherin?” 

George grins, playing along. “Yeah, we never thought we’d see a new sixth-year face in the dungeons. What’s it like down there in the Snake pit?” 

Fred nudges George with his elbow. “Careful, George. She might bite.” 

You roll your eyes, letting out a soft chuckle. “Well, it’s not as bad as you make it sound actually.” You reply, smiling at them. “There’s a certain charm to the dungeons. Very atmospheric.” 

They smirk at eachother, clearly pleased that you’re playing along. “So,” Fred continues, leaning closer to you, “what brings a fine specimen like yourself to our charming school?”  

You shrug. “Homeschooling gone wrong, I suppose.” 

Their eyes light up. “Ah, a fellow troublemaker?” George says, his voice lowering. “If you need any help causing mischief here, Fred and I will be happy to give you a few pointers,” he winks. 

You laugh. The twins feel like a breath of fresh air and it’s just what you need before your daunting meeting in the dungeons. And on that thought, you realise you’re about to be late. 

“Thanks guys, I’ll take you up on that sometime,” you say with a wave, backing away down the corridor. “I’ve gotta go. Can’t be late for Snape or I think he might just kill me.” 

“Good luck!” you hear them shout in unison, and you walk with a smile on your face the rest of the way. You’ll have to look out for the twins later. 

The door to the potions classroom is closed when you arrive, so you take a moment to compose yourself. 

It’s fine. You can do this.  

Swallowing down the nerves, you knock on the door.  

“Enter,” you hear Snape call, and you push the door open with a creak.  

“Good afternoon, Professor,” you say as you step into the room, closing the door before making your way to the middle of the classroom. 

He rises slowly from his desk, staring at you with his all familiar dark eyes. “So, Miss [Last Name], how did your meetings go today?” 

“Good, Professor,” you reply, hoping it makes him see you’re capable. “They all accepted me to their classes, so long as I keep up with the workload.” 

“Good,” he says, though his voice holds a faint scepticism. “You may take a seat, we will begin shortly.” 

You nod and walk towards the front of the classroom to sit at the bench closest to his desk, wondering what potion he’ll ask you to make. Or will he ask you to make more than one? You worry at the thought. 

You watch as Snape moves around the classroom, collecting various jars of ingredients before setting them up in front on you. He turns to face you suddenly, his dark eyes narrowing as sharp as ever as you meet his gaze. 

“Today, we will see if you’re truly capable of handling sixth-year, Miss [Last Name],” he says with a challenging tone, as though he expects you to fail.  

A chill runs down you as swallow hard and focus on the ingredients he’s set out before you - powdered moonstone, syrup of hellebore, and unicorn horn. The names swirl in your mind, but you desperately try to control them as the pressure mounts. 

“Which potion requires these ingredients?” he asks, crossing his arms as he looks down at you. 

You force yourself to focus, shutting out his gaze and narrowing your thoughts to the question. You work through your mind, carefully opening the memories of your potion making sessions with your mother. 

“Draught of Peace, Sir,” you answer confidently, though the irony doesn’t escape you - you could really use a vial of it right now. 

“Very good,” he says, but there’s no praise in his tone. He sweeps the ingredients away, replacing them with new ones.  

“And these? What potion will they yield when combined correctly?”  

You look over the new ingredients – Lacewing flies, powdered bicorn, shredded boomslang skin. This one comes to you pretty easily. 

“Polyjuice potion, Sir,” you reply, not hesitating this time. 

“Correct,” he replies, his tone still cold as he leans in closer. “And how long is the brewing time for a Polyjuice potion?”  

“Uh... One month,” you say, though the uncertainty in your voice betrays you. 

Snape’s expression remains unreadable, his gaze still piercing into yours. It’s clear to you that he’s waiting for you to mess up, but you won't let yourself fail now you’ve got this far. 

"One month is correct,” he says, almost mockingly. “But tell me, Miss [Last Name], what would happen if you brewed the potion incorrectly?” 

“Well...”, you begin, trying to keep your voice steady. “If brewed incorrectly, the potion could turn you into the wrong person, or it may not work at all. It’s rare, but in some cases, it can also cause permanent transformations or mutations.” 

Snapes eyes flicker in a hint of what could be approval. “And yet, every year I see students who fail,” he sighs, pacing around your bench. “Why do you think that is?” 

His question stumps you, how are you supposed to know? Frowning, you look down at the ingredients as if they might magically rearrange themselves into the solution. You race through the memory of the one and only time you brewed this potion with your mother.  

The memory overtakes you – you're standing beside her reading out the instructions as she measures the ingredients carefully. She didn’t let you add the ingredients for a while because... you rushed them. 

“Because they rush, Professor,” you say, meeting his unreadable stare. “If you don’t respect the process, you fail. Magic doesn’t like being rushed.” 

For a second, there’s a flicker of – approval? - in his eyes, but it vanishes as quickly as it appeared. He takes a step back, his robes swaying sharply with the movement. 

 “Well done, Miss [Last Name],” he says, his voice not as cold as before. “You’ve managed to grasp the one thing most students never learn - patience.” 

You smile, but he doesn’t return it. In fact, he doesn’t even acknowledge it. 

“This does not mean you are ready for my class, however,” he continues, his voice growing darker. “You will be required to brew at least one potion, depending on how well you manage it.” 

“Okay,” you reply, watching his precise movements as he begins setting a cauldron up on your workbench.  

“You are to brew an Invigoration Draught,” he instructs as he lays out the ingredients in front of you. “If brewed correctly, it will take you Three hours.” 

Without another word, Snape walks over to a shelf of books at the back of the classroom, picking one up and flipping through the pages before returning to your side.

“Page 204,” he says as he drops the textbook in front of you with a thud. “You may begin." 

You watch as he takes a seat back at his desk and begins rustling through the many piles of parchment that lay messily in front of him, not giving you another look. 

“If you wish to make it in time for dinner, Miss [Last Name], you had better start now,” he says, scribbling on the parchment with his quill. 

You can do this.

Tucking a few stray hairs behind your ear, you find the correct page in the textbook and get to work on preparing the cauldron. You set the heat low to begin with, adding the water and waiting a few minutes. Next, you add the peppermint, gently stirring the mixture while turning the heat up slightly to moderate. 

You continue stirring clockwise, using precise movements until the water begins to turn a pale green colour. Relief washes over you as you complete the first step, feeling more confident as you carry out the next steps. 

Wiping the sweat from your forehead with the sleeve of your robe, you’re almost done with step 5. You watch closely as the mixture starts to thicken and take extra care when adding the final ingredient. You watch as the finely chopped alihotsy leaves sink into the potion, stirring once gently counterclockwise. 

As you’re hunched over the potion, waiting for the final step to complete, you jump at Snapes sudden presence behind you.  

“Careful now, Miss [Last Name],” he almost whispers in your ear, the feel of his breath so close you makes you shudder.  

The intimacy of it all makes you blush, but you try to focus on the task at hand. You know he’s testing you, and the potion is almost done. You really don’t want to have to start all over again, so you steady your hand and continue stirring, watching the mixture turn from a vibrant green to a deep blue, a clear sign that you’ve made it successfully. 

“Well done, Miss [Last Name].” He says, stepping away from you to face you. “I must admit, you have exceeded my expectations of you.” 

“Thank you, Professor,” you smile proudly. “Does this mean I can join the class?” 

“Yes, so long as you keep up. Failure will not be tolerated in my class, I assure you of that,” he replies darkly.  

You nod, “Of course, Professor. I will do my best. I promise.” 

He narrows his eyes at you for a moment before sitting back at his desk, getting back to his work. “Very well. You are dismissed.” 

As you make your way to the back of the classroom to collect your satchel, you remember that you need to ask him something. 

“Oh, Professor,” you begin, making your way back to his desk. “Can I talk to you about something?” 

He puts his quill down, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on you. “That depends on the subject.” 

You hesitate a moment, playing with the hem of your skirt. “Well...,” you begin, nervously. “One of the girls in my dorm, she kinda has it out for me. She doesn’t really believe my story, and, well - I got caught up in a tiny lie.” 

He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This wouldn’t happen to involve Miss Selwyn, would it?” 

“Yes,” you admit. “She noticed my... lack of stuff, and I had to make something up. I said it all got lost on my way here... that Dumbledore is sorting it for me.” 

You can’t look him in the eye as he sighs and pulls himself up from his desk. “You've been here for one day, Miss [Last Name], and already you’ve made a mess of things. What exactly do you expect me to do?” 

“I’m sorry, Professor, really,” you sigh, meeting his icy stare. “She really has it out for me. I heard she’s been talking about me in your class already too.” 

He doesn’t reply, but his expression tells you he’s utterly fed up with the subject, so you quickly try and make your point before he tells you to get out. 

“But it made me wonder, Professor,” you continue, stepping a little closer to his desk. “Could I go back to the house and get some of my stuff? I know it's risky but... you must admit, it does make me look weird.” 

Snape studies you for a moment and you can tell he’s annoyed, though you can sense a flicker of reluctant curiosity too. He clearly doesn’t want to sort out your mess again, but it’s not your fault. You didn’t ask for this either. 

“I will speak with the headmaster about your request,” he says, approaching you as you turn to face him. Looking down at you through strands of his dark hair, his eyes burn into your own. “Now, stay. Out. Of. Trouble." 

You hold his gaze a moment, his eyes betraying nothing but disdain for you. “Yes, Professor.”  

Chapter Text

Severus is fed up with you already. Not even a day into the year and you’ve already made a mess of things. And if that isn’t bad enough, you’ve also somehow managed to become the topic of conversation in his class. A class you haven’t even officially joined yet.  

Had he had known of your feud with Selwyn beforehand, he would not have accepted you into potions. The situation is already giving him a headache. A part of him wishes he’d never gone to that wretched house. He should never have got involved in all this. 

Unfortunately, as much as he wants to deny it, you are here, and you aren’t making his life any easier. And now, Instead of catching up on his mountains of paperwork as planned, he’s on his way to the headmaster's office to sort out your mess. 

Dumbledore is peering through the pensive when he arrives, and Severus doesn’t even bother asking him about it. He knows better than to expect any real answers from him.  

“Good evening, Severus. What was it you wish to speak about?” Dumbledore asks, sending the pensive back into the cupboard. 

“Miss [Last Name] is causing a stir among the other students already,” he replies, his voice filled with frustration. “Turns out the girl is a terrible liar. As such, she has requested some of her personal items from the manor, if they are salvageable.” 

Dumbledore tears his gaze from him, pacing around the room in thought, as he always does when Severus approaches him with a request. 

“Hm, I should have expected that,” Dumbledore chuckles. “But of course, Miss [Last Name] has a right to her own belongings as much as anyone else.” His tone turns dark, “ What are things like over there, Severus?” 

Severus inwardly curses him for asking. Yes, of course Dumbledore had tasked him with keeping an eye on the manor. As well as the abundance of other tasks he wishes Severus to carry out this year.  

Every night for a few minutes, Severus arrives at the manor and briefly looks around for any signs of activity. 

“Since the night I arrived here with Miss [Last Name], there has been no activity, headmaster,” he replies, his steady voice laced with concern. “I would say it’s safe, but is it wise to risk it?”  

 He really doesn’t want to have to go back there, especially with you in tow.  

“If it helps Miss [Last Name] to settle in, I say it’s a risk worth taking. Wouldn’t you?” he smiles. 

Severus sighs, his frustration mounting. “And what of this ‘secret weapon’ , Albus? There’s still nothing.  Whatever it is, I am sure it cannot be in the manor any longer. Our only lead is gone." 

Dumbledore stops pacing, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully before his lips curl into a knowing smile. “Perhaps there is one more lead we can explore, Severus.” 

Severus freezes. He already knows where this is going, and he’s not eager to hear it.  

“The girls memories.” 

“Yes,” Dumbledore says. “She may be unaware of what she knows, but I think she may hold the key. Her memories could reveal the answers we need.” 

Severus clenches his fists at his side. Another task for him involving the infuriating girl. “She has no idea of the reality of her parent’s past. Her memories, from what I briefly saw in the hospital wing, show nothing of their true darkness. It seems they protected her from what they could.” 

“Or she’s protecting herself from it,” he interjects. “She is a skilled occlumens, correct? The power to fabricate memories - if done to such an extent - can lead one to believing them entirely.” 

His heart sinks. Of course he had considered that, but it’s advanced stuff. What would make a Seventeen-year-old need to hide something so much? 

“It’s about necessity, Severus.” Dumbledore continues, approaching him with an unreadable expression. “If Miss [Last Name] holds the answers we need, then we must find them. Whatever the cost.” 

“Fine,” Severus replies, knowing there’s no arguing with that logic. “I will try, but I cannot promise anything. It will take time – she needs to settle, and even then, I doubt she will allow me to look into her mind. If she does open up, it will be on her terms, not mine." 

“I have every faith in you, Severus.” 

...

I have every faith in you, Severus. The words echo in his mind as he makes his way back into the dim corridors of the dungeons.

Of course he does. Who else would be idiotic enough to run around after him, completing his impossible orders, wasting time on such tasks? The bitterness clouds his thoughts, but he forces it away. As he nears the Slytherin common room, he hesitates at the door. The low murmur of conversation quietens as Severus steps inside, his unexpected presence making the students hurry their way out to breakfast.  

He doesn’t have the patience today, so he stands idly, leaning against the wall and letting his eyes scan the room, waiting to see if you’re still here or if you’ve already gone to breakfast. He’s about to turn and leave when you appear on the stairs, making your way down – followed closely by Selwyn. The sight brings an immediate throb behind his eyes, the looming headache creeping closer. 

“Good morning, Professor,” Ivy greets him, shoving past you cheerfully. 

“Good morning,” he replies flatly, his gaze flicking to you. He catches the roll of your eyes directed at Ivy, confirming the tension is very much there between you two.  

He sighs, pulling himself from the wall and approaching you. “Miss [Last Name],” he says, peering down at you before pulling your timetable from his robes. “Your timetable.” 

He watches as you gently take it from him, your wide eyes looking up at him with a smile. “Thank you, Sir.” 

He nods stiffly, not returning your smile, before pulling a second piece of parchment from his robes and placing it carefully on top of your timetable. Without another word, he turns abruptly and leaves.  

You feel rushed as you make your way to breakfast, not having as much time as you liked since Ivy decided to get in your face again this morning. Thanks to her, you’re running late and have to quickly rush down the corridors to the Great Hall, hoping to meet Jade now you’ve got your timetable. You spot her sitting alone at the end of the Slytherin table, deep in focus reading her book. 

“Hey, Jade!” you call, grinning as she looks up at you. “I got my timetable today,” you say, sliding onto the bench next to her. “I’m free this afternoon, if you wanna do the tour?”  

She snaps her book shut with a smile, reaching for her own timetable tucked inside her robes. “Same here! Let's meet here after lunch?” 

“Sounds good,” you reply, grabbing some food as your stomach growls. Your first class starts soon, and you can’t afford be late on your first day. 

“Alright,” she says, stuffing her book and timetable into her satchel. “Gotta go, catch you later.”  

“See you later,” you wave. 

You eat quickly, trying to ignore the anxiety rising as the clock in the hall reminds you that Herbology starts in fifteen minutes and you still need to make it across the grounds. 

Leaving the rest of your breakfast, you grab your satchel and pull it onto your shoulder before slipping out of the Great Hall, hoping you can remember the way to the greenhouses. The corridors are busier than you’ve seen them, and it feels like a battle trying to weave your way through the crowds of students while remembering where to turn and when.  

When you finally arrive, the class is already starting. Professor Sprout stands at the front of the greenhouse, her smile greeting everyone as you move towards a spot in the back, not wanting to disturb the class.  

“You’re cutting it close, [Last Name]”, she warns. 

“Sorry, Professor,” you say, trying to catch your breath. “I lost track of time.”  

Taking your seat, you try to focus in on the class as you rummage through your bag for your textbooks. 

“Well, well, well,” someone whispers, nudging you with their elbow, “If it isn’t the latecomer.” 

You turn to the voice, seeing the familiar red headed twin you met up with yesterday, Fred. 

“Oh, hey,” you whisper back with a smile, “yeah, the corridors were hell this morning.” 

“Rookie mistake,” he tuts, shaking his head. “You’ve got to time it just right in the mornings, or you’ll be dodging people left and right.” 

You laugh quietly, nodding. “Yep, I think I must have tripped over two people at least.” 

He smirks, leaning closer. “I’ll have to teach you the ways of the Hogwarts hallways.” 

Professor Sprout clears her throat, interrupting your conversation. “Alright students, time to get started. Open your textbooks and turn to page 5. No more talking.”  

You both look down to your textbooks, not wanting to get into more trouble, noting today’s class is on the Venomous Tentacula you saw when you had your meeting with Professor Sprout yesterday. When she finishes her warnings to keep at a distance, you observe the plant with Fred. 

“Well, this is a fun way to start the year,” you say, watching as the plant's vines begin to sway and stretch outwards, following you as you try to move away. 

Fred grins at you. “I didn’t think a Slytherin would be scared of a plant,” he teases. 

You roll your eyes playfully at him. “It’s not the plant I’m scared of, it’s the way it looks at us as though we’re it’s next meal... though, I’m sure it would much prefer a brave little Gryffindor, so I think I'm good.” 

He chuckles, shaking his head. “If I'm its next target, I’ll make sure you’re in the front row to watch me become a hero when I take it down.” 

You can’t help the smile that plasters itself on your face. “Sure, the hero who emerges looking like a very leafy centrepiece.” 

The two of you laugh together, before Professor Sprouts voice cuts through the banter, snapping you back into focus. “Keep focused everyone! And we’ll have no fighting the plants today, Mr Weasley,” she says with an arched eyebrow, looking at the both of you. 

You keep your head down for the rest of the lesson, focusing on taking notes and exchanging brief comments with Fred when Professor Sprout isn’t looking. You can’t help but give in to the occasional smirk when he makes a sarcastic comment about the class. 

“You know,” Fred says at the end of class, leaning against your desk with his arms crossed. “You should sit with us at lunch sometime.” 

You glance up at him, eyebrow raised. “I’ll think about it,” you reply as you shove the rest of your stuff into your bag. “I’ve been told Gryffindors don’t exactly get along with Slytherins.” 

He grins, not seeming the least bit put off. “Come on, surely sitting over with those lot is getting boring. Me and George can show you how to have some real fun. We’ve got some cracking jokes to share.” 

You laugh, “Wow, you’re right. I wouldn’t want to miss that.” 

“Exactly,” he says, following as you head towards the door. “You’ll be getting top-tier entertainment for once. We Gryffindors know how to have a good time.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you laugh.  

“Alright, gotta go,” he says, walking ahead of you. “Catch you later” he winks. 

“See you later,” you say, before making your way to the library to get started on your first herbology assignment. 

After a quiet morning in the library, you join Jade for your long awaited tour of the castle after lunch. You’re excited to see the grounds of Hogwarts and, of course, go to the owlery to finally catch up with Crow, your owl. 

When she's finished giving you a quick overview of the classrooms and their locations, she leads you outside for a walk across the castle grounds.

“So, obviously you’ve seen most of inside the castle now,” she turns to you with a mischievous grin. “Now it’s time to see the real stuff.” 

She’s clearly excited to show you more, and you wonder where she’ll take you. The crisp air sweeps your hair as you walk across the grounds, and you wrap your robes around you a little tighter, wishing you had your own coat. 

“First stop, the Quidditch pitch.” 

The pitch comes into view, and the tall goalposts standing broadly on the horizon makes something inside you stir as the sight reminds you of the events surrounding your parents. You’ve never seen or watched a game of quidditch before, but you know of the sport.  

You start to wonder things you hadn’t for a while, how had they even died? Had there been a funeral? You’ve spent so much time getting used to your new life, you’ve barely had time to consider the thoughts. 

“So, what do you think?” she nudges you. “Think you’ll try out for a spot next year when quidditch is allowed again?” 

Her voice pulls you out of your sorrow. You’re not a fan of the pitch, but you guess it could be fun to fly a broomstick. “No, I don't think so,” you say shaking your head. “I don’t even know how to ride a broom.” 

“What?” she says, turning to face you with a shocked expression. “We’ll have to get you on one sometime!” 

When you finally tear your gaze from the pitch, you try to leave your thoughts behind as Jade continues the tour - you want to enjoy it.

She leads you down a dark, winding path towards a huge lake. The sound of the wind whistling in the trees is a welcome comfort.  

“This is the lake we see from our common room – the black lake. It’s very peaceful here,” she says, her voice soft. “A lot of people come here to think. Some say it’s haunted, but I don’t believe that.” 

The view is simply beautiful. Standing at the edge, you watch the water ripple against the soft breeze, the motion soothing you.

“Haunted? By who?” you ask. If you died, you wouldn’t mind spending eternity here. It's simply breathtaking. 

“Well, nobody knows. It’s just rumours,” she laughs. “That's why I don’t believe it.” 

As you stand on the edge watching the water, letting it soothe your raging mind, you spot the faintest movement. Something large shifts beneath its surface. 

“Oh, that’s the giant squid,” Jade adds, as if reading your mind. “He’s harmless. I guess he just wants to say hello.” 

“Hello,” you say quietly, crouching down to get closer as the big figure of the squid retreats to the depths.  

After a few minutes of soaking in the peace, Jade insists you get back to the tour before her class starts. 

“Anywhere in particular you wanna see?” she asks as you're walking around the lake back up to the castle. 

You hesitate, “Hmm, I know its technically forbidden, but I'd love to see the forest,” you grin, grabbing onto her arm. “Will you take me there?” 

“Sorry, [First Name],” she smiles at you apologetically. “You know I can’t risk it. Snape would kill me if he found out I took you there."

You're disappointed, but you get it. You’ll have to discover the hidden wonders of the forest yourself at some point. 

“It’s fine. What about the Owlery, then? I’ve been dying to catch up with my Owl. I feel like I haven’t seen him in forever.” 

“Sure, I can take you there. Let’s go!” 

As soon as you step foot in the Owlery, the familiar sound of soft wings flapping catches your attention. A tiny black owl swoops towards you, landing gently on your shoulder. “Crow!” you whisper, nudging him back softly with your cheek. “I missed you. Are you having fun here?” you ask, and he replies with a cheerful chirp, a sound that always lightens you. 

Jade watches you with an amused grin. “Aww, he’s so cute. I’ve never seen an owl so affectionate before – or so small.” 

You laugh, gently brushing the feathers on his head with your finger. “Yeah, he’s kinda strange, but I'm glad I'm the one he chose,” you say, remembering the day he swooped into your bedroom window and never left. 

“I should probably head to class soon” she says with a smile, but you can tell she's hesitant to leave by the way she lingers. 

“Hey, don’t be late just to stay with me. I’ll find my way back, don’t worry,” you throw her a reassuring smile.

She gently combs Crow with her own finger, chuckling when he gives her a playful chirp. “Alright, I’ll catch you later.” 

Since you have the rest of the day free, except for an Astronomy class late in the evening, you decide to hang out in the Owlery for a bit with Crow.  

Sitting on the ledge of the open stone window, you look out into the horizon with Crow nuzzled up against your neck. As the breeze brushes over your skin, you close your eyes and remember the times you’d spent sitting on your window and gazing out into the world with Crow by your side – just like this. It almost feels like you’re back home for a second. The annoying dull ache in your chest tightens as your memories begin to wander. The vivid pictures of your parents, the questions you wish you had answers to, the reason why they chose the side they did. You try to push it all away, but the grief has caught up to you. Its raw and relentless. 

Tears fill your eyes and it hits you like a tidal wave. You miss them more than you realised, their absence in your life making you ache for the love that's now forever out of reach. You sob for a while. It feels freeing to let it all out now you have some time to yourself. But the moment is short lived. The faint sound of footsteps approaching outside interrupts your solitude, and you scramble to wipe your eyes and quickly compose yourself.  

You just hope it’s just someone sending a letter and won’t even give you a second glance. 

“Miss [Last Name],” Snape’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp as ever. You turn to face him, but you can barely meet his eyes, especially when his tone softens as he sees you. “Is everything okay?” 

“Hello, Professor,” you say, trying to act cool as you pull yourself up off the window. “I’m fine, I was just taking a break since I have a free period this afternoon.” 

His eyes narrow, and you feel embarrassed knowing he sees right through you. 

“I think we’ve established that you’re a terrible liar,” he says in a low voice. “You cannot pretend with me.”  

You force a weak smile, wishing he would leave you alone. You hate that he’s seen you like this. That he feels sorry for you. 

“I’m just thinking about things. It’s been a lot to get used to, Professor.” 

His gaze softens, and for a moment, you almost think he cares. He doesn’t say anything for a while, but the heavy silence is filled with understanding. 

“Loss is... a complex thing,” he finally says, stepping closer to you. “It catches you when you least expect it.” 

You swallow hard, knowing if you try to reply you’ll probably burst into tears. Instead, you look back out onto the horizon, angry at yourself for being so weak. But Snape doesn’t push you. He goes about his business sending a letter he’d come to deliver and watches as his owl takes flight, disappearing into the sky. He turns to you and watches you for a moment, still faced away from him, before speaking.  

“Remember my note,” he says quietly as he leaves. 

His note?  You remember the scrap of parchment he gave to you earlier with your timetable, which you scrunched into your pocket this morning and completely forgot about. Pulling it out, you unfold it and read the slightly smudged ink. 

  Meet me in my office this evening after dinner.  

-Professor Snape

That’s it? You stare at the note, turning it over as if more answers might appear. But there’s nothing. You jog to the doors of the Owlery, hoping to catch him but he’s already gone. You sigh. Guess you’ll just wait until later to see what he wants. 

After saying bye to Crow, you decide to skip dinner. You can’t face anyone right now, not in such a fragile state. You don’t have an excuse for why you're feeling low, and honestly, you can't be bothered to come up with one. Instead, you head down to the Black Lake, staying until the sun sets as you cool off your emotions and try to work on rebuilding your walls properly for the first time since your injury. 

Sitting down at its edge, you curl your legs beneath you and focus on the stillness of the lake, closing your eyes and attuning to the rhythm of your breathing.  

You dive into your mind.  

It’s still pretty fragile from your outburst earlier, but you’re gentle as you reach towards the walls you’ve built so many times before. You see the barriers you’ve relied on, layers of steel each more impenetrable than the last. You try to make them sturdier, but you don’t know how to repair the shattered pieces.  

A flash of a memory appears suddenly, so quickly that you almost miss it. It’s one you haven’t seen before. But there it is, his face. Snape. His sharp eyes meeting yours for a second before it blurs and the memory fades.  

You feel your heart beat faster as the memory slips, opening your eyes and trying to make sense of it. It looks as though he was in your house, but why? What happened? Why can’t you remember anything before or after that? You can feel the frustration building up, and you hate the thought that you’ll probably have to rely on him for answers. Maybe you’ll get a chance to ask him about it this evening. 

Brushing the grass off your legs as you stand, your mind is still spinning. Instead of trying to calm yourself, it feels like you've done the complete opposite. The constant presence of Snape lingers in your mind as you walk back to the castle. 

Severus stands by the tall window in his office, watching the last of the daylight sweep into nightfall. His hands are clasped behind his back, quietly contemplating the events of the afternoon. 

When he’d found you sat on the edge of the window - you foolish girl, don’t you know how dangerous that is? - he was fully intent on telling you off, but as he saw the way you turned to him, barely able to meet his eyes, he knew you were struggling. And for some reason, a part of him shifted. He knows all too well the weight of grief. 

He checks the clock on the wall. You’re late. Of course you are. He’s irritated by the delay, but another part of him, a part he would rather ignore, is concerned. He’s asked you to his office this evening to take you back to the manor and retrieve some of your things, but now he’s uncertain. Your lack of understanding about the dangers of Occlumency worries him. 

Your mind is already fragile enough, he saw it himself when he brought you here. But now he knows you’re silently carrying your grief, he fears it may shatter entirely. 

Turning to his desk, he runs his fingers over the clutter of half-finished potion essays and forgotten notes. His mind is elsewhere tonight. He remembers Dumbledores request, to get inside you and figure out this ‘secret’ you might hold, and he feels terrible. 

Annoyance flares inside him, but it’s more than just irritation with the task itself. It’s a violation, and he can’t bring himself to do it. Not again. He needs to find another way. 

The sound of your footsteps approaching outside pulls him out of his thoughts. You knock once on the door before entering, not even waiting for a reply. 

“Good evening, professor,” you say, closing the door behind you. “What is it you wanted to see me about?” 

He’s surprised at what he sees. How well you carry yourself. He had expected at least a hint of something –grief, frustration, anything. But here you are, standing before him completely composed. No sorrow in sight. 

“Dumbledore has approved your request to acquire some of your personal belongings. We will go to the manor this evening.” 

“Really?” you say, your eyes lighting up as you approach him. “Thank you!” 

He sees the masked longing in your features as you say the words, and he shifts in place for a moment, not knowing how to handle the situation.  

“Are you certain you are ready for this?” he asks, watching you closely.  

“Why wouldn’t I be?” you reply firmly. 

He studies you a moment longer, noticing the shakiness of your hands at your side.  

“You must understand, Miss [Last Name],” he begins, carefully broaching the subject. “This will be no simple task. There will be memories, things you may not be ready to see.” 

He struggles to read your expression, something he is usually particularly good at when it comes to his students. It unsettles him.  

As you look him in the eyes, you smile. “I’m ready, Professor. Honestly.” 

He sighs, knowing he can’t force you to change your mind. “Very well. But if you start to lose control, we are leaving.” 

He approaches you, holding is arm out. “Let’s go,” he says, before you touch his arm lightly and apparate away with him to the manor. 

You arrive outside the gates of the manor, clutching to Snapes’ arm as you steady yourself from the sudden landing. You take a few shallow breaths, not wanting to throw up in front of him. 

“Are you alright?” he asks, clearly noticing how your fingers dig into the fabric of his robes. 

“I’m fine,” you reply, snatching your arm away from his. “Sorry.” 

He nods, before walking ahead of you through the open gates. “Keep your eyes open. We do not want to be spotted here.” 

As you walk behind him, you wonder why he’s suddenly had a change of heart with you. He was so mean to you before, but now he’s being... nice ? You know it’s probably because he saw how you were at the Owlery earlier, and you hate that. You don’t need anyone's pity. Especially not his. 

Trying to push the thoughts of Snape away, you focus on what you’ve come to do.  

You see the manor standing eerily in the distance and you’re not sure what to expect. It feels so long since you were here, but really, it’s only been a few days. The terror you felt when the intruders came, the guilt of losing your parents, the memories – the ones that aren’t gone – feel too close still. 

You push it all to the back of your mind. Calm down. You have to keep it together, or Snape will take you back to Hogwarts with nothing, and something tells you he’s not big on second chances. 

“We don’t have to do this,” Snapes voice cuts through the silence, and you realise he’s been watching you. You can’t meet his eyes but play it as cool as you can. 

“I know.”  

There’s no turning back now. The manor stands before you, darker than you remember. You feel Snapes eyes on you, knowing he’s waiting for you to lose it. But you won’t - at least not here. Taking a steady breath, you make your way towards the door and push it open. The state of the house alarms you as you wander through the ground floor. You hadn’t realised it was this bad. Everything is ruined.  

You breathe in, trying to steady yourself, but your heart races. Every corner of the house is a reminder, every room bringing back a memory of your parents. Their influences, their choices. You pause at a portrait that lays in ruin on the ground, but it’s still partially visible. It’s a hand-painted picture of you and your parents – you're younger here but the sentiment is all the same. 

The walls feel like they’re closing in on you, and it’s becoming more difficult to ignore the flood of emotions threatening to drown you. 

Suddenly, Snape moves in front of you. His eyes lock into yours, hard and unreadable. “We do not have time for sentimentality,” his voice cold again. “We are here to collect what you need. Nothing more.” 

You scowl, a retort of anger building up inside you. But instead, you swallow it, shoving it all to the back of your mind. The amount of emotion you’ve managed to push to the back of your mind today is becoming painful, but it’s necessary. You can’t show it again. Not in front of him.  

“Stop it,” he says, moving dangerously close to you. “You can’t keep doing that.” 

“Doing what?” you feign innocence, but the fact he might be onto you scares you.

Then, without warning, he grabs your arm with a bruising grip. You let out a gasp at the sudden contact, noticing the way his eyes are full of fury as they look down to you.

“You are damaging your mind,” he seethes. 

You flinch as the emotions threaten to give way, your head pounding with each beat of your heart. You try to look away from him, but his grip only tightens, forcing you to meet his gaze.  

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you almost whisper. 

His eyes narrow. “You think you can keep it all inside forever? Do you think it will protect you?” 

“I can handle it,” you scowl, trying to shake his arm off you. 

His grip doesn’t loosen, and the intensity of his stare makes you feel trapped. “No, you cannot. Occlumency is not to be relied on this way. You will lose yourself – it's already breaking you.” 

His words turn your blood to ice. “How would you know?” 

He hesitates, his eyes leaving yours for a moment. “I saw your mind, briefly, in the hospital wing,” he admits. “I know it was an invasion of your privacy, but it had to be done so we could figure out who you were.”

He finally loosens his grip, stepping away and allowing you to gently rub the spot where his fingers had dug into your arm. His betrayal hurts. You hadn’t expected this at all, least of all from him. 

“I saw the cracks. Your mind is fragile...” he faces you again and the expression in his stare makes you uncomfortable.  “Too fragile,” he says softly. “You need to stop forcing it. It must recover slowly.” 

His eyes show you he’s telling the truth, but you’re angry. How dare he look into your mind? 

“What?” you snap back, tearing your gaze from him. "You had no right to do that."

“I didn't have a choice.” 

You sigh, balling your fists at your side. He's probably right, but that doesn't make it any less invasive.

“I’m going to get my stuff,” you say coldly, refusing to look at him as you make your way to the stairs.

You hear him following close behind you, but you don’t have the energy to argue with him again, so you let him. 

When you walk into your room, you’re relieved to find you stuff cramped into a little case in the corner, just as you had left it. You’d taken the precaution in case something like this happened so you could easily come back and quickly pick it up if needed. 

“You charmed it?” Snape asks, standing behind you as you check everything is there. 

You roll your eyes, having no patience for him right now. “Obviously.” 

He doesn’t argue back, clearly sensing your mood, and leaves the room without another word. 

You take a moment to check your bag one last time, wiping away a stray tear that you hadn’t realised had fallen. At this point, you don’t know what’s upsetting you more - the invasion of your privacy? Or the fact that this might be the last time you’ll ever be in your home? 

You pack it all up quickly, not wanting to be here too much longer.

The sight of Snape at the bottom of the stairs irritates you even more - the way he watches you walk down the stairs, as if trying to figure you out.  

Why does he even care? Not even yesterday he was implying that you’ll fail, that you’re not good enough. Why the sudden change? 

Whatever it is, you don’t have the energy to care right now. 

“I’m ready.” 

He doesn’t say a word, just holds his arm out towards you. Taking it, you hold your breath and brace yourself for the effects of apparition.  

The next thing you know, you’re standing back in Snape’s office. 

This time, you force the nausea down and instantly withdraw from him, not wanting to rely on him to steady you again. Leaning against the nearest bench, you close your eyes and quickly gather yourself. Before you can force everything down again, you turn to him. This may be your only chance to hear his honesty. 

“What exactly happened that night?” you ask, stepping towards him. “You say you saved me. But from what?” 

There’s a weakness in his eyes, something that you feel he rarely shows. The usual hardness is gone, giving way to a soft gaze as he looks back at you. He’s hesitating, pressing his lips together in a sign of restraint. 

“You panicked,” he begins, avoiding your eyes. “You were reckless. There were clear signs of injuries all over you.” 

He pauses, and the silence is almost unbearable. “As for saving you... I could not have left you there. You were hurt.” 

“What do you mean?” you ask, confused.  

Reckless? You know you’d been hidden in the house for a few days, and you briefly remember the other wizards breaking in. But you don’t remember fighting anyone. 

“Why can’t I remember?” you ask helplessly, a question more aimed towards yourself than to him.  

He’s silent. You search his face for answers, but there are none. You want to ask more, to demand answers from him, but you feel lost. Betrayed by your own mind. 

“The mind can be a fragile thing in moments of distress,” he says quietly, stepping towards you. “You were overwhelmed by loss and clearly confused. It is not uncommon for such memories to fade.” 

He watches you, seeing the sadness in your face. A sadness so fragile he hasn’t seen many students betray in front of him. “If you don’t remember the rest, perhaps it is for the best. Some things are better left forgotten.” 

You stay silent for a moment, trying to compose yourself.

“Maybe it is for the best,” you echo, though admittedly unconvincing. 

Snape doesn’t respond, he just stares at you. There’s an unspoken tension between the two of you now, and you'd rather get away from it.

“I should go,” you say quietly, lowering your eyes. You don’t wait for a response, turning and walking towards the door. You leave quickly, closing the door behind you. 

The halls are silent as you make your way to your dorm, your mind still racing over what just happened. You're still pissed at him for looking through your head while you were literally unconscious and couldn't do anything about it, but at least you have your things now. Though, it feels more like a hollow victory than anything. 

You only hope Ivy will leave you alone for a bit, though you know better than to trust that. You can almost feel her presence. The constant looks from her, the way she pushes you. You’re only a few days into your new life and already you’ve managed to have her on your back. Now, on top of that, you'll have to worry about Snape watching you too. 

Chapter Text

It’s been almost two months since Severus accompanied you to the manor, and in that time, he has been observing you closely. Every movement, every choice you make seems to draw his attention, and his keen eyes have not missed a single detail.  

You’ve been spending far too much time with the Weasley twins, much to his distaste. Their antics are undeniably bothersome, but it’s not their behaviour that is causing him unease for once. It’s the way you seem to be pulled towards them, delving in their mischief. He notices how often you choose to favour the Gryffindor table, and your Slytherin peers have certainly taken note. 

Your performance in classes has been commendable for the most part, as expected. But it doesn’t settle the growing discomfort he feels when you breeze through the potion practicals with that insufferable Hufflepuff, Diggory. He had paired you together with the expectation that the interaction may expose some challenge for you. Yet, you continue to excel.  

It’s irksome, but impressive, how you continue to thrive in any environment thrown at you. 

But not everything has been so easy for you. The tension in his class between you and Selwyn has not gone unnoticed – your interactions, though infrequent, often end in disagreements. Selwyn's arrogance and your inability to let things go has led to many verbal spats between the two of you, much to Severus’ irritation.  

He has forced several detentions on the both of you as a result of the petty bickering, even sending you to Filch a couple of occasions, though neither of you have been the slightest bit remorseful. It has only added another layer to Severus’ growing wariness to you. While he could appreciate the fire within you, the rivalry worries him. It’s only a matter of time before something slips. 

And then there’s the matter of your Occlumency. Though a delicate subject, it’s one that can no longer be overlooked. He’s offered his assistance on more than one occasion, each time sensing your troubles – usually in detentions with him when you were trying to shut off. It was Insufferable, but predictable.  

Yet, each time you have refused his help. You barely speak to him at all at this point, and now he finds himself at a loss.  

Especially after the events of last week. 

It had been another tense potion class, but the task was relatively easy - he had assigned you all to make a Dreamless Sleep potion. There was something off about you already that day, but having been in a rather foul mood himself, he hadn’t thought much of it. After all, your concentration had always been impeccable, even under stressful situations.  

But as the class wore on, Severus noticed the subtle shifts – your hand trembling as you stirred, the way your brow furrowed in frustration. He saw Diggory lingering just a bit too long at your cauldron, whispering hints far too obviously in your ear. You were doing your best to keep up, but something was clearly wrong.  

As the class reached the final step, something happened to your potion. Maybe your hand slipped, maybe you measured the ingredients incorrectly. He can’t be certain of the cause. All he knows is that an explosion followed, and the potion was left covering you – your robes, your hair, even your face.  

All eyes were on you in that moment - including his own.  

“Oh look, another disaster,” Selwyn laughed, loud enough for the whole class to hear. “How on earth have you managed that?” 

The hushed laughter that followed grated on him, and Severus could feel the knot of frustration tighten in his chest as the pressure to diffuse the situation rose.  

He’d simply had enough.  

Admittedly, his frustration had got the better of him and he had taken it out on you rather harshly - berating you for your foolishness and calling you out for all the class to hear.  

He left you to clean up your mess alone, deliberately not allowing Diggory to help you. 

And for a moment, he had felt a twinge of regret when he caught the sight of you wiping potion residue off your robes and out of your hair without a single glance his way. He knew he had been too harsh, too eager to make an example of you.  

But it wasn’t just that.  

The distance between the two of you had grown so much even he couldn’t ignore it. His offers to help you, the way you refused him, it couldn’t continue.

This afternoon’s potions class is going a similar way to usual, though today you’re the least of Severus’ worries. 

It's only a few days until the Durmstrang and Beauxbaton students arrive at Hogwarts ahead of the Triwizard Tournament. And while everyone else around him is excited, Severus is stressed. There’s no question about it. 

So, after he assigns a basic potion for you all to make, he retreats to the quietness of his storage cupboard. He brushes his fingers over various vials and jars, but his mind is elsewhere. 

Karkaroff – the treacherous rat – will be coming to Hogwarts. The headmaster of Durmstrang had built his life on lies and cowardice, always being more concerned with his self-preservation than loyalty, and his tendency to throw others under the bus when things got rough is something Severus could never respect. 

His fingers tighten around a bottle of dragon liver. 

“I know what I'm doing,” came a voice, suddenly. Your voice. 

He pauses, feeling the all too familiar headache start to throb behind his eyes at your words. He’s barely heard your voice all week, and now he knows it can only mean one thing - you and Selwyn were winding each other up again.   

Though, there was something different about your tone today. It sounds more volatile, like a storm on the verge of breaking. 

“Oh, clearly.” Selwyn's voice came next, dripping with mockery. “ You always do, don't you? Just not always the right thing.” 

Snape can practically hear the sneer on her face, and he doesn’t like where this is going. He knows how much she loves to provoke you, but it infuriates him how you allow it to get to you so easily. He rubs his temples, hoping your bickering eases off and he doesn’t have to step in once again. He just doesn’t have the patience for this today.  

“Back off, Ivy. She can do this.” 

Ah, Diggory. Finally, the boy manages to do something useful for once. Perhaps there is hope for him after all.  

“Hm, just making sure she doesn’t embarrass herself again like last week,” he hears her reply, and a few students laugh as they remember the incident. 

His eyes narrow at her words. He knows she’s pushing you too far, and he seriously hopes you don’t rise to it this time. He’s warned you too many times about this. 

“You know what, Ivy? ” Your chair scratches along the floor, and he exhales a deep sigh.  

Here we go.  

“If you have so many problems with how I work, maybe you should-” 

Before you can finish, he hears a beaker shatter on the ground. “Maybe I should what, huh?” 

A collective gasp ripples through the classroom, and Snape’s stomach sinks with the all familiar sense of impending doom. He swoops back into the classroom, seeing things have got entirely out of hand once again. 

“You two- enough!” his voice shoots through the classroom, causing the room to fall silent in an instant. 

But the damage had been done. You and Ivy were standing face to face over a spilled potion, your wrist firmly in her grasp as you struggle to free it. He curses himself for letting it get this far. 

“She started it, Professor.” Selwyn whines, letting go of your wrist and turning to him with wide, innocent eyes. " She’s so unpredictable, I didn’t know what else to do.” 

Severus doesn’t take the bait. He fixes his eyes on you, and he can feel the tension. The fire blazing in your eyes as you look at Ivy. The raw emotion that he’s seen building up for days, ever since the last incident. He hoped you would come around, hoped you would speak to him, but you hadn’t. And now here you are, creating even more trouble in his class. 

“I don’t care, Selwyn,” he says coldly. “This will be the last time I hear anything from you. Both of you. ” 

You refuse to meet his eyes, instead looking to the shattered potion on the ground. 

“Everyone, get back to work,” he hisses. “This is not a circus. You will behave accordingly.” 

Everyone reluctantly returns to their task, throwing wary glances your way. His eyes narrow between you and Ivy, the tension in the air very much still present. 

“[Last Name], clean that up,” he snaps, the annoyance in his voice evident. 

You earn a sympathetic glance from Diggory as you get to the floor and clear up the glass by hand. Severus watches you at the front of the classroom, his eyes dark in irritation. What on earth has got into you lately?  

The bell rings, signalling the end of class, but Severus isn’t finished with you yet. 

"You two, stay,” he orders, cutting through the noise of the other students leaving the classroom.  

You slump down at your bench, arms crossed, your eyes fixed on the desk in front of you. Selwyn, however, choses to sit far at the back, staring your way with a victorious smirk on her face.  

“What is going on with you two?” he demands. “I have never seen such blatant disrespect in my own house.” 

It’s true, he’s never had a problem like this before, especially between two Slytherins.  

“I told you, Sir,” Selwyn speaks up, her voice dripping with a forced innocence. “She’s unstable – look at her.” 

He looks at you again. You’re still staring down at the desk as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world, never giving either of them a single glance. 

His jaw tightens as he stands at the front of the class, carefully considering his next move. The way you’re handling the situation reminds him far too much of himself, and he can’t afford to let it go on any longer. 

“Miss Selwyn,” he snaps, his patience thinning. “You are dismissed. You will serve detention with Filch tomorrow evening. Go.”  

She huffs but doesn’t argue back. Without a word, she storms towards the door, throwing it open and slamming it shut behind her as she leaves.  

The silence that follows is thick and neither of you speak a single word. Severus stays where he is a moment, staring at you disappointedly before approaching you.

“What is going on with you?” he asks, the frustration creeping up despite his attempt to stay composed. 

You look up to him finally, your eyes dark with something he can’t quite place. “Nothing. It's just Ivy being Ivy, like always.” 

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” he replies. “What’s going on with you?”  

You take a deep breath, preparing for whatever it is you’re about to say.  

“ Why do you care?” your tone is venomous. The defiance in your eyes burns as bright as ever as you lock eyes with him. “Stop pretending like you care about me. I told you, I don’t need your help. I can handle myself.”  

The words hit him harder than expected, and before he can even think of a response, you’re getting up off your chair. It catches him off guard and he simply watches you, uncertain for a second, before you head to the door and leave. 

And more surprisingly, he lets you go. 

Is this still about the memories he had looked through when you first arrived? Is it why you still refuse to look at him? He can’t tell anymore, and the distance between you is only growing – taking any secrets you may hold about the Dark Lord’s return with you. 

It’s the day before the champions for the Triwizard Tournament are chosen, and for the first time in a while, you feel excited about the days to come. The other schools will be arriving this evening and you can’t wait to meet them all. 

It’s a Sunday so you have no classes today, much to your pleasure. You don’t think you can face another potions class any time soon, not with the way they’ve gone recently and especially since you walked out on Snapes detention. You don’t even know why you did it. Maybe it was to prove something to him, or maybe you just couldn’t take another minute of pretending that everything is fine. 

 You’re not even sure if he’ll let you take the class anymore. After that stunt, he might have dismissed you entirely. A part of you hopes he has. You can’t stand his favouritism towards Ivy any longer. The way he makes a mockery out of you when you’re struggling while she barely gets off with so much as a warning.  

You shake your head, pushing it all aside. Today is supposed to be a break, a chance to think about anything but that damned potions classroom and Professor fucking Snape. 

Since you decided to stay in bed for most of the morning, it’s almost lunch time. So, you get yourself ready and slip on some comfy clothes before heading to the Great Hall.

When you arrive, the chatter is louder than usual. The upcoming tournament has taken over every conversation in the last week, and the air was almost tangible. 

“Hey, [First Name]!”, you hear your name being called by the twins. 

You sit down across from Fred and George at the Gryffindor table, as you have recently started making a habit of to avoid Ivy and her stupid friends. At first, it had caused a few raised eyebrows, but today nobody seems to care. Everyone is too busy speculating about the tournament. 

“Sooo,” Fred begins, leaning forward with his signature smirk. “How does it feel knowing you could be sitting with a future Triwizard Champion?” 

You snort, almost choking on your pumpkin juice. “Which one of you is planning to die first?” 

George clutches his chest, exaggerating his offence. “We’re exceptionally skilled wizards, I’ll have you know.” 

“Yeah, exceptionally skilled at landing yourselves in detention maybe,” you joke. 

They both grin at you, and you eat in silence for a moment, thinking it over. 

“Are you really going to try it?” you ask, glancing between then. 

“Absolutely,” says George. 

“Without question,” Fred confirms. 

“How are you going to enter?” you frown. Dumbledore had specifically warned that the contest is for those of age and the twins are only Sixteen.  

“We’ve got a plan,” George grins mischievously. 

You narrow your eyes, deciding whether you want to hear this or not. 

“And...” Fred begins, looking to his brother then back to you. “It kinda involves you.” 

You sigh, already regretting asking. “Alright. Let’s hear it then.” 

He leans in, lowering his voice. “Well... we know you’re like, the best at making potions,” he begins. 

You roll your eyes, already knowing where this is going. “You want me to make you an aging potion, don’t you?” 

“Bingo!” says George. 

“You know that’s not allowed, right?” 

“Only if we get caught.”  

You hesitate, pushing the food around on your plate. If anyone finds out, you’ll most likely be expelled. 

“Oh, please [First Name]! We’ll bring all the ingredients. All you need to do is brew it. We won’t tell a soul,” George pleads. 

“We’ll give you something in return, too,” Freds adds. 

You look at them suspiciously. “Go on.” 

“We’ll teach you how to fly,” they say together. 

You stare between them, not knowing how to reply.  

“Come on [First Name],” begs Fred. “You were telling me just the other day how you wished you’d had the chance to learn!” 

You remember the conversation about quidditch you had with Fred during a recent Herbology class. Yes, you’d mentioned it would be fun to learn, and you know Fred and George are skilled fliers, but... you can’t risk the trouble. Not right now. 

“I dunno,” you reply, pushing your plate away. “You know things have been rough for me in potions, and if Snape finds out - I can’t risk it.” 

They continue to plead, and you know you'll never escape their incessant begging. Besides, how can you resist the twins?  

“We won’t tell anyone you’re involved if we get caught, we promise,” Fred swears. 

“Alright, alright. Fine,” you finally say, regretting the words as soon as they leave your mouth. “Bring me the stuff and meet me near the Lake.” 

“You’re the best!” they rush around the table to hug you, before rushing off to wherever to gather what you’ll need. 

You linger at the table, trying to ignore a feeling of unease crawling up you, but after a while, you get the sensation that someone is definitely watching you. Looking around the room, you see nothing out of the ordinary. Everyone is deep in conversation, not even slightly bothered about the Slytherin sitting alone at the Gryffindor table. That is, until you peer up to the Professor’s table.  

There, Professor Snape is staring at you, his eyes narrowed as though he’s expecting something from you - or is he trying to figure out what you’re up to as if you’re just some puzzle to solve? 

At the same time, from the opposite end of the table, you catch the piercing gaze of Professor Moody. He’s been relatively pleasant to you in class, if you can call it that, but you can tell he’s still suspicious of you. You’ve been catching his eyes on you a lot recently.  

Fred had warned you, jokingly, that his magical eye can see almost anything – and the fact his face shows no emotion, just a fixed, calculated stare most of the time unsettles you. 

A wave of exhaustion hits - you're so tired of being viewed with nothing but suspicion. By them, by Ivy. It’s all too much and you’ve had enough.  

You can feel the weight of their eyes long after you look away and the air feels thick under the constant scrutiny. Without thinking, you push yourself up from the bench and move quickly to the doors of the Great Hall - the sound of the conversations fading as you walk down the corridor and out of the castle towards the lake. 

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” you ask, watching Fred set out the ingredients. 

“Stop worrying,” he reassures you. “It’s going to work, trust me."

Sighing, you sit on the grass and begin heating the cauldron with sparks from your wand. 

“Where did you even get all this stuff anyway?” you ask, lifting a jar containing the bat tongue and inspecting it closely.  

“Snape’s storeroom,” they laugh. 

“What?” you freeze, shooting them daggers. Not only are you making a forbidden potion – you're using stolen ingredients from the one person you want to avoid.  

“It’s not like he’s going to miss a few things,” shrugs George. 

“Do you think he’s stupid? I’m already in enough trouble as it is with him. I don't need another reason for him to hunt me down.” 

“It’s fine,” Fred says, sitting down on the grass with you. “Snape’s not going to find out.” 

He sees the way you’re scowling at him and laughs as he puts arm around you, pulling you closer.  

“We’re not going to get caught. You’ll be fine,” he whispers. 

“Right,” you mutter, opening your potions textbook to the page on aging potions. “Just don’t expect me to bail you out if he does find out, alright?” 

“You got it,” Fred replies, squeezing you tightly before letting you get on with the potion. 

You get to work, measuring out the ingredients carefully while the twins hover beside you, watching eagerly as the potion begins to take shape. As you combine the ingredients, the liquid shifts in colour from a dull hue to an amber glow that shimmers in the sunlight.  

You take your time to make it as perfectly as you can, and when it’s finally ready, you carefully pour the mixture into two small vials.  

“You’re a lifesaver!” Says Fred, reaching out to grab one.  

You quickly pull the vial away from him. “No pranks. I don’t want you using it on anyone else. Understood?”  

“We know, [First Name]!” he grins, and you reluctantly let him take the potion from you. 

“You’re officially a part of the Weasley making potion team,” beams George, glazing over his potion. 

You laugh, knowing it's too hard to stay mad at them when their energy is so infectious.  

“As long as I’m not implicated if you two get caught, I’m okay with that,” you say as you tidy up. 

You can’t help but feel a bit of unease as they fawn over the potion, but there’s no turning back now.  

“So,” you say, brushing the dirt off yourself as you stand. “When are you teaching me to fly?” 

The quidditch pitch remains out of bounds due to the Triwizard Tournament, so Fred and George take you to the edge of the Forbidden Forest. It’s out of the way enough so you’re less likely to be seen, but not too far away that you’ll get into trouble. 

The tall, dark trees loom just beyond the clearing as you stand at the edge of the Forest. Fred and George stand beside you looking as mischievous as ever, and a part of you thinks they’re enjoying this more than you. 

“Ready?” asks Fred with a wicked grin, mounting his broom effortlessly.  

You’re still unsure about the whole thing but you can’t help the spark of excitement in your chest. You’ve never had the chance to do anything like this before, and with the way things are going, you need a bit of fun to lift your spirits.  

“Alright,” you grin. “I’m ready.” 

“That’s what we like to hear,” replies Fred with a wink. “Okay, first things first – get on the broom.” 

You mount George’s broom, and its surprisingly easy. It feels light beneath you, like it’s allowing you to take charge. 

George claps, “Great! Alright, here’s the trick. Don’t think too much, just trust the broom. Let the wind guide you.” 

You nod, and the broom gently starts to lift off the ground. Fred swoops away, flying freely above you as you get comfortable with it pulling you into the air. 

“Be careful,” George shouts, “and for Merlin’s sake – don't look down!” 

The wind pulls through your hair as you soar through the sky, and finally, it feels like the chains that have been pulling you down recently have been snapped. For the first time ever, you feel so completely free.   

You're flying above the forest slower than Fred, but the speed feels just enough for you right now. The thrill of being up so high is exhilarating, and you can hear George throwing you words of encouragements to you from the ground. 

“Keep up with me if you can!” Fred teases, speeding past you.  

You accept his challenge, leaning forward to gain more speed and catch up with him, laughing as you come close behind. But just as you lean again, something goes wrong.  

Terribly wrong. 

The broom suddenly jerks beneath you, swaying left and right in jagged, harsh movements. Before you can react, it shoots off into the air faster than you can handle and your heart sinks at the sudden speed. You make the terrible mistake of looking down and watch as the ground blurs beneath you while you rise higher and higher into the sky. 

“Fred! -” you gasp, but the words die in your throat. You desperately try to pull on the broom and gain back some control, but it refuses to listen as it forces you higher and higher into the air. 

You can see the whole grounds of Hogwarts now, and the dark forest lays eerily below you. 

“OI - WAIT!  [First Name]!” you hear Fred yell, but even he can’t keep up with the speed your broom is going. 

The broom tilts at an awkward angle, and fear instantly takes over you. You’re barely managing to hold on at this point. The howling wind in your ears is relentless, you can’t hear a word from Fred anymore. You’re simply being dragged through the air, both hands grasping desperately onto the broom as you try to hold on. 

But your arms are weakening. The cold air, as well as the strength it takes to hold yourself up, is just too much for you. The panic crawls up your throat as you feel your sweaty palms slide down the broom. 

You're going to fall- 

The world freezes around you as you let go of the broom. It feels painfully slow at first, but suddenly you’re hurling down to the ground at lightning speed. It almost feels like you’re spinning your way down into an endless void. You try to scream, but the winds gales smothers any sound you make. 

You prepare yourself for impact, shutting your eyes tightly. You can only hope it’s quick. 

“Arresto Momentum!”  

Everything slows.  

The wind stops howling and your body, which had been seconds from plummeting, now drifts carefully downward as though you’re as light as a feather. 

You fall to your knees the second your feet make contact with the ground, very nearly on the verge of passing out. You close your eyes and clutch your chest, shutting out everything and trying to calm your breathing as best you can. 

“Miss [Last Name]! What in Merlin’s name are you doing?!” Professor McGonagall's angry voice snaps you out of it. 

“Flying… lesson,” you huff, still out of breath as you weakly attempt to pull yourself up from the ground. 

Fred and George rush over to you, stopping dead in their tracks as McGonagall's stern gaze snaps to them. 

“And what are you two doing?” she asks, her tone sharper. 

“Supervising,” Fred says. 

“Closely,” George adds. 

She inhales sharply through her nose. “Detention - both of you. And if I ever catch you endangering a student like this again, I will personally confiscate your brooms until you graduate. Am I clear?” 

The twins nod, and for once, they have nothing to say. 

She turns back to you, her expression softening as she looks over you. “Are you hurt?” 

You shake your head, but your heart feels as though it’s seconds from ripping out of your chest. 

“Good,” she says. “Now, I believe this mater must be addressed to your Head of House.” 

Your stomach drops. 

“No-,” you blurt out, eyes widening. “Please-, don’t tell Professor Snape.” 

She raises her eyebrow at you. “You broke school rules. Surely you don’t think there won’t be consequences?” 

“I know,” you say, trying to keep the utter desperation out of your voice. “But- please - can’t I just do detention with you?” 

She looks at you suspiciously. “Is there a reason you’re so opposed to seeing your Head of House, Miss [Last Name]?” 

You quickly shake your head, “No, I just...” 

“Very well then. You will follow me.” 

You can feel your stomach churn as she walks ahead, leading the way back towards the castle. Fred and George give you an apologetic look, and you can't help but feel annoyed at them. You know it’s your own fault for going along with it, but you're too angry that the one thing you didn't want to happen is now happening.

The walk to the dungeons feels so much longer than usual. Your mind keeps flashing back to the moment you were spinning in the air, the world warping around you. It all becomes a bit too much, and you need to lean on the nearby wall to help steady your shaky legs.  

“You are lucky to be alive, Miss [Last Name],” McGonagall says shaking her head disapprovingly as you stop to compose yourself. “You should have known better than to trust those two." 

You can’t bring yourself to respond as you continue walking beside her. She’s always been wary of you since she learnt of your past, but you really thought you’d managed to convince her you’re more than that. So much for all that work. 

When the two of you finally reach the dungeons, the sharp pounding starts in your chest again, making you feel dizzy with each daunting step.  

Professor McGonagall knocks sharply on the door to Snapes office. And then- 

“Enter.” 

Your insides twist uncomfortably at the sound of his voice.  

She opens the door and steps inside, expecting you to follow, but you remain stiffly in the doorway. She turns back to you, and you shake your head at her in a silent protest, refusing to go inside. 

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” she says, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you inside. 

Snape sits at his desk, quill in hand, looking disinterested in the parchments in front of him. 

“Severus,” she begins, pushing you in front of her. “I believe this one belongs to you.”  

She gestures to you, and Snape finally lifts his head. His dark eyes meet yours, cold and unreadable, and you look to the floor quickly. 

“For what crime do I owe the pleasure?” he drawls. 

“Miss [Last Name] almost plummeted to her death near the forest,” her voice is sharp with frustration. “It appears she was receiving flying lessons from the Weasley twins.” 

Snape pauses for a moment, setting his quill down gently. “I see.” 

“I will leave her in your care. Ensure she understands the consequences, Severus.” 

A part of you wants to beg her to stay, but before you can, she leaves the room and slams the door shut behind her. 

 And now, you find yourself alone with the one person you were actively trying to avoid.  Great.  

The silence almost eats you alive as you stand there, unmoving. 

"I assume you have some kind of pitiful excuse for your behaviour?” he says, the creak of his chair as he leans back making the silence feel more oppressive. 

You swallow hard, eyes still firmly on the ground. “I-,” you try to speak, but nothing comes out. 

He sighs heavily. “Of course. More silence – how predictable .” 

You clench your fists at your side, knowing you’ve only allowed him to make a mockery of you once again. You force yourself to look at him, to not let him win. 

“Tell me, Miss [Last Name]. How long are you planning on keeping up this ridiculous act of rebellion?” he says, rising from his chair. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you manage to get out. 

“Don’t you dare insult me,” his low voice sends a shiver through you. “After your stunt yesterday, you will speak to me.” 

He’s standing a few steps away from you now, and he’s never looked so angry.   

“What, you mean the detention where you let Ivy get away with everything?” you cross your arms, matching his anger. “Again.” 

“Selwyn is irrelevant to this conversation,” his voice is cold, and his dismissing tone only adds fuel to your rage. 

“Not to me,” you hiss back. “If you want to know what’s going on so badly, if you actually care, I’m just sick of always getting the blame for things. You embarrass me in front of the whole class while letting Ivy get away with everything she does. Do you think I don’t see it?”  

“You think I care about fairness?” he asks. “It’s about discipline. If you cannot resist rising to Selwyn's petty remarks, it is your own fault.” 

You really try to contain the anger rising inside you, to stop yourself snapping back. But the frustration you’ve been holding onto for the past two months finally boils to your surface. 

No, it’s not about Ivy at all. Not really. It’s about him. 

“Well maybe if you hadn’t gone through my memories, I'd be able to focus on something else instead of... this!” The words leave you before you can catch them, the resentment of his confession finally spilling out. 

The silence that follows is like a chasm between you, deep and unforgiving. Even Snape seems to regret asking you by the way he freezes, his eyes locked onto yours.  

He turns away, moving towards a shelf next to him to compose himself. “I suspected this was the issue,” he says quietly. 

“I didn’t ask for you to see things I wasn’t ready for people to know,” you say bitterly, and for once, he’s the one who can’t look at you. 

You see his expression flare in irritation before he speaks again. “You seem to think I enjoyed invading your privacy, Miss [Last Name]. The headmaster requested it of me, and if I had refused, he would have done so himself.” 

He turns back to face you. “You were found at the home of Death Eaters. We had to make sure you weren’t a threat. Surely, even you can understand that?” 

It’s understandable, yes. But you can’t help feeling so angry about it. Your mind has been so messed up, so jumbled since the incident. You can’t seem to fix it, and it must be due to his prying.  

“You ruined it all!” you almost shout. “I spent years building it all up, and for what? For you to take it all away!” 

His expression doesn’t change, but there’s annoyance in his eyes. 

“I can assure you I did not ruin anything. As I have been trying to tell you, your defences were shattered from the fall.”  

“But what fall? You won’t tell me what happened. Why?” you ask, frustrated. 

He hesitates before speaking again. “When I found you, you were afraid. Reckless, as I said before. It’s likely you were in a duel not long before I arrived. You were wounded, and... you fell down the stairs.” 

His words slowly sink in, and you can sense by his hesitation that he’s still holding something back.  

“That’s it?” you ask, trying to figure out what he could be hiding. 

“That’s it.”  

You stand there for a minute, his words doing nothing to ease the burning anger inside you. “You’re lying.” 

The silence that follows is so unsettling you almost wish you could take it back.

“Do you want to add insubordination to your list of offences, Miss [Last Name]?” he asks, calmly. 

You scowl, caught off guard by his sudden shift. “What?” 

“You’ve already shown lack of respect for authority, and now you question my words,” he continues. “I suggest you remember your place here.” 

You open your mouth to respond, stepping closer to him, but he’s already moving away.  

“Detention. Tomorrow afternoon, before the feast. I expect you to show the proper respect – something you have clearly forgotten how to do.” 

Spending Halloween with Snape? How fitting. 

"Now, come with me. The other schools will be arriving shortly, and you will stick with me so I can ensure you don’t cause any more trouble.” 

He opens the door to his office, stepping aside to let you pass. The pointed look he gives you as you walk by reminds you that you are still very much under his watch.  

The walk is painstakingly silent, filled with so much unresolved tension. You can feel his presence at the back of you as you walk, and you try your best to settle your emotions. You need to relax. 

When you finally make it outside, you can see all the other students lining up in their houses in front of the castle. The chilly evening air makes you shiver as you stand there in nothing but your jumper, not having had the time to change into your school robes like everyone else. 

“Hey, [First Name],” smiles Jade as she approaches you and Snape. “Professor, there’s an issue with some of the first years. They won’t stop fighting, can you sort them out?” she asks, her gaze shifting to him. 

He lets out a frustrating sigh, turning to you. “You will stay here until I return.” 

You watch him walk off, and his stride is more precise than usual. Good. You hope he’s annoyed. 

“So, how do you think the students will arrive?” Jade asks, excitedly looking into the sky. The moon shines brightly over the forbidden forest, the sky clear with thousands of glistening stars. 

“Uh, I’m not sure. Broomsticks maybe?” The thought makes you remember your near-death experience earlier, and you look to the Gryffindor line to see if you can see Fred and George. You smirk when you see them standing close to Professor McGonagall. At least you’re not the only one suffering. 

Snape returns as joyful as ever, glaring at you as if it’s your fault he has to deal with his house. He stands behind you at the back of the Slytherin line, no doubt to make sure you stay in his line of sight.

You scan the dark grounds of Hogwarts, but nothing is moving. Wrapping your arms tightly around yourself, you try to warm yourself up as you wait for a sign of anything happening. 

“ There !” someone shouts. 

Something large appears over the forest, much larger than broomsticks, that’s for sure. You squint, trying to make out what on earth it is, when you notice it’s a carriage being pulled by... horses? 

“Everyone! Welcome the delegation, from Beauxbatons!” Dumbledore’s voice calls loudly as the carriage lands.  

A flood of chatter erupts as people step on their toes, trying to see the commotion at the front of the castle. Being at the back of the line, you can’t see a thing. But to be honest, you’re not that bothered. You’ve been excited for this for a few days, but now you’d honestly rather just go to bed. 

You look around, trying to distract yourself from the fact it's freezing, and your eyes catch a familiar face in the Hufflepuff line. Cedric waves at you and pulls a playful face at Professor Snape, clearly making fun of the fact you’re stuck with him. You can’t help but laugh, returning a teasing grin. 

A sudden nudge in your back catches you off guard. Turning around, you’re met with Professor Snape’s cold eyes staring down at you, his face expressionless as ever. 

“Behave,” he says dryly. 

You straighten up, the light-hearted moment with Cedric quickly fading as you feel Snape’s eyes still on you.  

Soon after the arrival of the Beauxbatons, the shape of the Durmstrang ship appears on the horizon of the Black Lake. Its sleek outline draws closer, and you try peer over the top of peoples head to see, wishing you were closer for this one. 

Everyone goes silent, watching and waiting to see who’ll emerge from the mysterious ship. You feel Snape shift behind you, and you glance up to catch a view of his face – an expression of frustration and... discomfort?  

He stares at the ship, eyes narrowing as if it’s something that disturbs him. The expression lingers for a second, but then it’s gone before you can make sense of it.  

Weird.  

You turn your attention back to the ship to see the Durmstrang students starting to file out of it in a military style precision.  

“It’s Krum!” someone in front of you whispers, but you’ve never heard that name before. Still, your gaze instinctively drifts towards the figure at the front of the group. He stands tall, his face a mask of cold indifference as he leads the way towards the castle.   

There's something impressive about the way the Durmstrangs carry themselves, every deliberate step, the rigid posture they walk with – all perfectly synchronised. 

You move your feet, trying to get a better view as they get closer to you, but before you can take another step, you feel a firm hand on your shoulder. Professor Snape pulls you back with a harsh tug.  

“Stay where you are," he says sharply, his attention fixed back on you.  

You don’t dare to protest. 

With a quiet huff, you watch as the Durmstrang students march past you and into the castle. You trail behind, following behind your fellow Slytherins as you all make your way to the Great Hall.  

The excitement of the Tournament is at its highest, but while everyone else is caught up in the thrill, you can’t help but feel... distant. As if you’re standing on the edge of something you’re not quite part of. 

Chapter Text

The Great Hall is a buzz of excitement as the feast draws to a close. At the Slytherin table, you’re engaged in an easy conversation with the group of Durmstrang students who have drifted over. Their thick accents and confident smirks are adding a whole new energy to the table. 

You’ve spent most of the evening getting to know them pretty well – especially Jakob, a tall, broad boy with dark hair and an over-confident gaze. You feel drawn to his charm and the way his deep voice seems to make the stories of Durmstrang so captivating, and the occasional smirk that makes your stomach flutter. 

“So, will you do it?” he asks, the deep melodic tone of his accent wraps around you like a spell. 

You blink, briefly distracted by the way his eyes hold yours. “Do what?” 

He laughs a little too loudly, drawing attention to your conversation. “Enter your name, of course! Or are you too scared?” 

Further along the table Ivy laughs loudly, butting in before you can answer him. “You’ve got to be joking. She's not exactly Champion material, is she? She’s hopeless.”  

A few of her friends laugh quietly with her, but their amusement isn’t shared by the Durmstrangs. Or you.  

You scowl at her, ready to bite back when another one of the Durmstrang’s, Eirik, cuts in. “I think you should enter,” he says, his voice playful with challenge. “Slytherin has that... edge. Or is that only a rumour?” 

You shift in your seat, not liking the attention on you, so you try to deflect the question. “Are you all going to enter?” 

Jakob smirks. “Of course. We are here to show you Hogwarts students what real competition looks like,” he says confidently. “We do not back down from a challenge.” 

You hear Ivy whispering to her friends, no doubt something about you, but Dumbledores voice cuts through the chatter. 

“Settle down, please.” He calls, and the room falls silent almost instantly. 

“Now. It’s almost time for the Triwizard Tournament to begin, but first, I’d like to make some announcements.” 

Your eyes are drawn to the Goblet of Fire sitting ominously on a table next to him. 

“I would like to introduce the esteemed judges who will be overseeing the Tournament this year. Mr Crouch, and Mr Bagman,” Dumbledore gestures towards the two men on his right, “have worked tirelessly over the last few months ahead of the Tournament.”  

He continues, “They will be joining myself, Professor Karkaroff, and Madame Maxine on the panel who will judge the Champions efforts.” 

Karkaroff and Maxine stand up and give a quick wave to everyone from the professors table, but it's Snape who catches your attention. He’s sitting beside Karkaroff, glaring up at him, his expression one of barely concealed disdain.  

You're amused at the sight. He really does just hate everyone. 

“Tomorrow evening,” Dumbledore carries on, moving towards the goblet. “Three champions shall be chosen from each attending school, by the impartial selector... the Goblet of Fire!” 

Blue flames leap from the Goblet before settling into a steady, hypnotic dance. 

“Anyone wishing to enter must place their name in the Goblet before tomorrow evening. An age line will be drawn, permitting only those of age to cross.” 

His warning makes you worry about the aging potion you made for Fred and George. You guess it probably won’t work against an age line, especially if Dumbledore has drawn it. What if he finds out you made one and illegally distributed it to students? 

You need to talk to them as soon as you can and warn them not to use it.

As the evening winds down, everyone starts leaving the Great Hall to get back to their common rooms for the night. You push back from the table, but before you can get away, Jakob leans in slightly. 

“Leaving so soon?” he teases, the ever-present smirk tugging at his lips. 

“Curfews coming up,” you say, peering over to the Gryffindor crowd to see if you can see the twins.  

He tilts his head when your eyes meet his again. “I was hoping for more conversation with you. Tomorrow?” 

There’s something deliberate in the way he says it, and you hold his gaze a little longer than necessary before grinning. “Sure,” you say, before getting up off the table and rushing towards the door. 

You try to weave your way through the crowd to catch the twins, but by the time you manage to spot them, they’re swept up by the other Gryffindor's and disappear through the doors. Accepting defeat, you just hope they’ll be smart enough to not use the potion tomorrow before you can get to them... then again, it is Fred and George. 

Sighing, you decide not to head to the common room straight away. Instead, you feel drawn to the cold, crisp air of the lake and spend some time there before curfew.  

The cool evening wind wraps around you as walk around the edge, looking around at the lakes dark expanse. Your thoughts mirror the lashing ripples on the surface of the water, the unease you feel towards the tournament flooding through you. 

You know if you don't put your name forward, you’ll regret it forever. After all, it’s a once in a lifetime opportunity, and if you don’t get picked, it’s fine. You tried. But if you do... the eternal glory will be yours. 

You settle on your decision. You’re going to enter your name, tonight. No hesitation. 

A few minutes after curfew, you carry yourself confidently back to the castle without much thought. The corridors are empty, but you’re wary for patrolling teachers as you sneak past the dim torches casting eerie shadows along the walls. 

You spot the goblet sitting in the centre of the room, the untamed white and blue flames still twisting with a life of their own as if daring you to step forward. You stare at it for a moment, feeling the intense weight of what you’re about to do, and the consequences it may carry.   

You need to be quick.

This is your only chance. Don’t waste it.  

You grab a piece of parchment lying next to the goblet and quickly scribble your name on it, watching as ink shimmers before setting into the paper. You don't hesitate. The parchment leaves your grip and vanishes into the flames, sealing your fate. The fire roars violently in recognition of what you’ve done, and it feels like the world is holding a silent breath. 

When the flames die down, you finally step back, feeling your heart racing.  

You’ve done it.  

There’s no going back now. 

You quickly make your way back to the common room unnoticed, sinking into the sofa as the quiet settles around you. The clock strikes midnight, and the room is completely yours. Everyone else seems to be asleep, but for some reason, it still eludes you. As usual, your thoughts refuse to settle as they drift between the tournament, Snape, and your upcoming detention. 

People talking loudly close to you jolts you awake, and your eyes snap open to find yourself curled awkwardly on the common room sofa. You're feeling stiff from the night you’d unknowingly spent there, blinking against the dim lights as students shuffle past you talking about breakfast.

You squint, trying to look at the clock. 

10am.  

No. No, no, no. 

You were supposed to wake up early and find the twins to stop them before they did anything stupid with that damned potion, but now you fear you might be too late.  

You rush up off the sofa so quickly your vision blurs, nearly tripping over the blankets tangled around your legs. A few first year's huff and jump back as you shove past them, but you apologise quickly before racing down the corridors to the chamber where the goblet is, hoping you aren’t too late.  

As you round the corner, you see them. 

Fred and George Weasley. Except, they don’t look like themselves. 

You freeze. They’ve clearly used the potion, and it’s backfired - badly. A crowd is forming around them, laughing and pointing at their altered appearances. 

Fred’s hair is grey, and his face is covered in wrinkles you know definitely weren't there yesterday. George looks similar, though his eyes are slightly clouded and he’s balding. 

Well, they’re older, that’s for sure. 

“Fred!” you shout, pushing through the crowd. 

Fred and George glance over to you, scowling. “Oi! We didn’t ask for this!” Fred shouts, his voice raspy.  

“How much did you take?” you ask quietly, gripping his arm.  

“Only a tiny bit! What did you do?” George asks, his arms outstretched. “I can’t see anything!” 

He trails away, walking straight into the wall and falling to the ground with a thud. You cover your mouth with your hand, desperately try to contain your own laughter, but it slips. 

“I didn’t do anything,” you say, trying to stifle another laugh as you rush over to help him up. “I was going to warn you it wouldn't work to cross an age line... but I overslept.”  

Fred groans loudly. “Brilliant.” 

The crowd around you grows, and you suddenly find yourself trapped with the twins inside a circle of students. You need to get out of here before a professor shows up.

You grab them both, pulling George back towards you as he tries to wander off again. “No- stop," you warn, keeping your voice low. "We need to get you both out of here before we get caught.” 

Taking hold of their robes, one in each hand, you carefully pull them alongside you as you guide them through the thinning crowd. George stumbles awkwardly next to you, but you’re trying your best to keep him up. 

Once you’re out, you breathe a sigh of relief at the empty corridor that leads to the hospital wing. You’re almost in the clear. 

“All right, let's take it nice and slow,” you say, feeling Fred leaning more closely to you with each step, his new frail body not able to carry him far. 

“Oi! What’s going on here?” A voice echos down the corridor, followed by the sound of rushing footsteps behind you.  

You turn just as three figures come into view, and you vaguely know them – Ron, the twin's brother, and his two friends, Harry and Hermione.  

Oh great.  

Before you can react, you feel George slip from your grip as he sways unsteadily beside you. “I think... I’m going blind.” 

You quickly use all your strength to pull him up back next to you, feeling crushed by the weight of either twin leaning on each side of you.  

Ron’s eyes widen at the sight, and he almost chokes on his laughter. “What on earth happened to you two?” he asks, his voice barely containing his amusement. George is too wobbly and distracted with trying to stand on his own to involve himself in the interaction, and Fred only glares at him.  

“They had a mishap with a potion,” you say quickly, not sure how much to explain to them. “I’m just taking them to the hospital wing. Hopefully Madame Pomfrey can reverse it.” 

He raises his eyebrow at you, confused. “You’re the Slytherin right? The one who always sits on our table?” 

At the mention of your house, you notice Harry and Hermione exchange an uncertain glance, and you can practically hear their silent judgements. Typical.  

“Yeah, that’s me,” you smile awkwardly, being pulled down by the twins as the effects of the potion take a stronger hold on them both. 

You don’t have time for the house rivalry. George is leaning so heavily into you at this point that you’re struggling to keep him up, and if you don’t get him there soon, you fear you’ll collapse into a big heap in the middle of the corridor. Then you’ll all be done for.

“Look, I really have to get them to the hospital wing,” you say, wrapping your arm around tightly George’s waist. “They’re getting worse.” 

“Alright, alright,” Ron mutters, stepping out of your way. “Just make sure they’re alright, yeah?” 

You nod, too focused on getting them moving again to respond as you steer them to the hospital wing which, luckily for you, is just around the corner. 

“You’ll never live this down!” you hear Rons voice shout back before you turn the corner. Fred groans, and you can’t help but let out a small laugh at this ridiculous situation. 

You’re absolutely exhausted when you finally reach the hospital wing. Your arms are burning from their weight, and it takes the last of your strength to push the door open and pull them both inside.  

The moment you get in, you immediately hear Madame Pomfreys voice as she rushes towards you. 

“Oh my, what have you two done this time?” she demands, taking a hold of Fred as you set George down on one of the beds. 

“I’m not sure,” you say, trying to sound just as confused as you take a step back. “I just found them like this in the corridor.” 

She mutters something about ‘stupid boys and their pranks’ under her breath, not bothering to look up at you as she assesses George’s eyes. 

Nows your chance. 

You slowly creep your way back towards the door, not daring to make any sudden movements in case Madame Pomfrey catches you trying to sneak out. As you reach the door, it creaks open, but before she has time to turn around you leg it out of the room and down the corridor, not stopping until you turn the corner. 

You lean against the coolness of the stone wall, relieved that there’s no sign of her following you while you catch your breath.

You feel bad for leaving them, but you know they’ll be fine. They’re in safe hands now. And anyway, they know how much you put at risk for simply making them the potion. There’s no way they’ll hold this against you. 

After you’ve calmed down, you stop off at the Great Hall to grab a quick lunch before heading up to your dorm. You change into your school robes, straightening them out as you prepare for what is bound to be a thrilling afternoon with Snape.  

Yesterday’s interaction has left a sour taste in your mouth, and you’d rather not spend another afternoon getting at eachother. You’re determined to try a different approach with him, anyway. You need answers - about that night, about your memories, and you won’t get them if you keep arguing with him. 

You’re still fiddling with your tie as you arrive at his Classroom, and you notice the door is already open with no sign of him.

Weird, but whatever. 

Walking in, you perch on a desk at the front of his class, lazily swinging your legs while you still try to fit your tie comfortably – these things really shouldn’t be this difficult. 

Before you can get it to sit right, the door behind you suddenly slams shut with such a force that it almost rattles the stone walls.  

You freeze, holding your tie in a loose knot around your neck. 

“Miss [Last Name],” Snape spits your name like it’s an insult. “I'm not entirely sure what I find more disturbing here... your complete disregard for classroom furniture, or the fact you appear to be attempting to tie your tie with the grace of a hopeless first year.” 

You scramble off the desk, pushing the knot a little too tightly around your neck. “Sorry, Sir. I was just-” 

He raises a hand, cutting you off. “Save your excuses.” 

Snape walks towards you, his lips pressed into a thin line as he looks disapprovingly at you. “I have just been called to the Hospital Wing for an incident involving the Weasley twins and a rather powerful aging potion.” 

Oh. Oh no.   

You try to play it as cool as you can, forcing yourself to be casually concerned. “Oh my god, really? Are they alright?” you ask - and very convincingly if you do say so yourself. 

Snape scoffs. “Don’t play stupid with me, girl. Do you really expect anyone to believe those two idiots could brew an aging potion themselves?” 

You sigh as your shoulders slump forward, remembering that you need to try to keep it neutral between the two of you today. 

 “Fine, I made it,” you admit. “But I tried to warn them about the age line, so it’s not all my fault. I just... got there too late.” 

“How very noble of you,” he sneers. “I trust you understand the severity of what you’ve done?” 

You don’t even flinch as you stare back at him. “Considering I had to drag them to the hospital wing by myself, I think I understand, Professor.” 

His piercing stare doesn’t waver, and you can’t tell if he’s debating whether to yell at you or if he’s just mentally collecting all the ways you’ve irritated him lately. 

When he finally speaks again, his voice is quieter, almost a whisper. “I’d advise you to be very careful from now on, Miss [Last Name].” He warns. “You’ve been nothing but trouble these past few weeks. It needs to change.” 

“Yes, Professor,” you reply, almost too quickly. 

He watches you for a moment, then lifts his chin slightly. “Now, for your part in this ridiculous incident, as well as trying to get yourself killed yesterday,” he continues. “You will help me brew this afternoon.” 

“Really?” It's not the punishment you expected, but you’re glad you won’t be scrubbing cauldrons for the rest of the afternoon. 

“Well, since you seem to have such... skill for advanced potions, I’d rather not waste it,” he says bluntly. 

Your lips twitch at the backhanded compliment, but you don’t push it. You watch as he moves around the classroom and starts setting up a silver cauldron. 

“What are we making, Professor?” you ask, curiously making your way over. 

He doesn’t spare you a glance as he adjusts the cauldron. “You will be assisting me in brewing a Wolfsbane potion. Every day for the next week.” 

“Alright,” you say, smirking. “Is it for you?”

His eyes flicker to you, annoyance crossing over his features. “A werewolf? Please.” He crushes the moonstone a little too aggressively. “This potion is for Professor Lupin. He’s returning this year to assist with the Triwizard Tournament security - though, I suppose it’s far more entertaining to speculate about my personal life, isn't it?” 

You tilt your head slightly, feigning thought. “Hm, I don’t know, Professor. I can see why people might wonder... pale skin, lurking in the dungeons..."

For the briefest moment, he stills, before scoffing lightly. “Your imagination is as insufferable as the rest of you.” 

You grin, but say nothing, noting the way he avoids looking at you as he stirs the cauldron.  

“Now, if you’re quite finished with your petty jokes, I expect your full attention on this.” 

“Yes, Professor,” you say, eyeing the ingredients he’s laid out. “How do we begin?” 

He doesn’t answer you straight away, instead muttering something under his breath as he carefully measures out an oily liquid. You’re in awe of his precise movements as you watch him, you’ve never realised how truly methodical he is with it all until now.  

After a moment, he glances up, his eyes narrowing. "Quite a shift from yesterday, Miss [Last Name]. I assume this means you've reconsidered your usual... defiance?"

"I'm just trying to stay focused," you reply carefully.

He studies you for a minute, as if trying to determine whether your new attitude is genuine or not. “Seventeen wolfsbane leaves – no more, no less,” he instructs. “I assume you are capable of not messing that up?” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, feeling his gaze on you as you carefully count out the leaves and slowly add them, determined to prove him wrong about whatever incompetence he clearly thinks you have.  

“So... Professor Lupin. Is he really a werewolf? How does that work if he’s around students?” you ask, dropping in the last wolfsbane leaf. You’re curious, but you’re mainly trying to break the silence hovering over the two of you. 

“You’ll find out soon enough, it is no secret," he says, keeping his attention firmly on the potion as he adds the dragon blood. “Now, focus. If you can manage that.” 

You take the hint, turning your attention back to the bubbling cauldron in front of you.

The silence leaves you feeling a little uncomfortable since he clearly doesn’t want to chat with you, but you’re also fascinated by the potion. Even if it is supposed to be a punishment.  

The crackling of the flame grows intense as you reach the final step. 

“I will reduce the heat now and you may add the final ingredient,” he lifts his gaze for a second, warningly. “Do not mess it up.” 

No pressure there.  

You pick up the crushed Occamy egg and gently sprinkle it into the cauldron, watching as a deep blue hue emanates inside. Snapes hand barely grazes yours as he carefully stirs the potion six times before inspecting it closely. 

“A decent brew. Well done,” he says, gently placing the stirring rod on the desk. “How is it that you’re capable of brewing an Aging potion and Wolfsbane, but fail miserably on something as simple as a Dreamless Sleep potion?” 

You feel your chest tighten. You weren’t expecting him to bring that up again. 

The reminder of last week stings you all over again and the memory of the last time you brewed the potion before coming to Hogwarts lingers, leaving you momentarily speechless.  

“I can brew it,” you say quietly. “It’s just... the last potion I made with my mother.”  

The words slip out before you can stop them, and the room suddenly feels heavier. Snape says nothing but watches you closely. 

“She’d had nightmares for ages,” you continue. “I hated what they were doing to her. I wanted to help, so she showed me how to make them.” You swallow hard, eyes dropping to the workbench. “I thought if I could take one thing off her plate, maybe she’d feel better.” 

You hadn’t expected to say this out loud, especially to Snape, but in the moment it somehow feels right. He doesn’t respond for a while, and a long silence stretches between you both. 

His expression doesn’t shift, but when he finally speaks again, his voice is even quieter. “Potions, like anything else, are not to be treated as a sentimental exercise. A mistake made from emotional weakness... is still a weakness, nonetheless.” 

You expected something harsher from him, but instead, his tone softens. 

“However,” he continues, “I am aware that brewing potions learned under the instructions of someone else can stir memories. I just trust that in future you will learn to channel your grief into something more... useful. A failure is not the end of the world. Do not linger on it, or it will make it so.” 

It’s not quite kindness, but it’s close. 

And strangely, it makes your chest hurt even more. Because despite his usual sharpness and relentless criticism, Snape understands you. Is it because he's lost someone, too?

“Who taught you how to brew, Professor?” you ask before you can stop yourself. 

His expression falters, like he’s suddenly wrestling with a memory he doesn’t quite want to remember, and you almost regret asking. 

“I’m sorry,” you say quickly. “I was just curious... since you know so much about me.” 

He exhales deeply through his nose, and you think he might be considering you. 

“Very well...,” he pauses, as if he’s choosing his words carefully. “I was taught by someone who valued the craft above all else. It was not something learnt lightly, and certainly never something taught with sentimentality.” 

It’s more than you expected, yet, at the same time, not really anything at all. But for the briefest second, it almost feels as if the invisible wall that you’ve been building between eachother cracks. Very slightly, barely noticeable, but enough to see a tiny glimpse of him. 

But just as quickly as it appeared, it’s gone again. 

“Now, enough,” he says briskly, turning back to the cauldron and pouring the Wolfsbane into a small vial. “Clean this up, and the others in the sink, too." 

You scowl, glancing over to the sink which is piled high with dirty cauldrons. With a sigh, you roll up your sleeves, grabbing the silver cauldron and heading over.  

So much for getting out of scrubbing all afternoon.  

As you rinse out the first cauldron, Snape’s words nag at you. Who could have taught him? The question itches at you, and his vague answer has only made you want to know more about him. 

Your thoughts eventually wander away from Snape and your hands shift to autopilot, having scrubbed cauldrons way too many times by this point. Now, you can barely suppress the nerves creeping up as you realise it’s getting closer and closer to the reveal of the champions for the tournament.  

The nerves creep up faster than expected, and your grip suddenly slips on the cauldron you’re cleaning, making it plunge loudly into the sink.    

“Miss [Last Name],” Snapes voice comes sharply, and you turn to see his eyes narrowed on you suspiciously. “You’re making rather more noise than necessary for someone cleaning cauldrons.” 

“Sorry, Professor,” you say, forcing a smile. “My hand slipped.” 

He huffs, getting back to his work. 

You think more about the possibility of being chosen - what if?   

What if your name is chosen? You haven’t been at Hogwarts long... would the goblet even choose someone like you? Still, the idea both excites and terrifies you, but the possibility feels so real now. 

You’re so deep in thought that you don’t even realise Snape has quietly started moving towards you until his voice cuts through your haze. 

“What is it now?” he sighs, leaning against the nearest bench with his arms folded. 

Damn it. It’s like he can see right through you. 

You hesitate, looking down at the soapy cauldron in your hands as if it’s suddenly become the most interesting thing in the world. “Nothing, Professor.” 

He’s silent, and you brave a glance back up at him to see he’s still watching you with his eyebrows raised, clearly unimpressed by your answer.

“I was just thinking about who’ll be chosen as a champion later,” you admit. 

“Ah yes,” the disdain in his voice is unrelenting. “Curious about who will be chosen to compete for glory and death. How honourable.”  

His sarcasm stings you in a way you can’t make sense of, and you feel the guilt twist inside you. He steps closer, his eyes searching yours. 

“Please. For Merlin’s sake, tell me you didn’t,” his voice is pure ice. 

You grip the cauldron a little tighter. “What?”  

“Tell me,” he says deliberately slow as if he’s speaking to a child, “you did not place your name in the Goblet of Fire.” 

You shake your head at him, keeping your voice steady. “I didn’t.” 

He studies you, his eyes cutting through you like blade, searching for any cracks in your composure. It takes everything you have to keep your expression neutral.

“You had better hope not,” he mutters, shaking his head. “I cannot think of any worse scenario than you being involved in this ridiculous competition." 

He turns on his heel and walks back to his desk. “Now hurry up with those cauldrons, or you and I will both be late to the feast.” 

You watch him sit down, turning his attention back on his work like the conversation never happened. Only then do you realise your grip on the cauldron is way too tight, and you release it into the sink with a silent breath of relief.

You don't even know why you lied to him - maybe it's because you're so determined to stay on his good side after everything that's happened lately. You feel bad, but it’s not like he’ll ever find out. The only way he would is if you’re chosen this evening, and that's probably not going to happen… right?

Your hands ache when you’re finally done cleaning all the cauldrons, and you massage them gently as Snape escorts you to the Great Hall ahead of the feast and the choosing of the champions. The walk is silent, but it feels different this time, and for once, you don’t try to fill it. 

Maybe it’s the way he’s unusually stiff, or maybe you’re still thinking about the small crack in his defences you saw earlier. Either way, by the time you reach the Great Hall, you’re no closer to understanding him. 

You break away from Snape and join the Slytherin table, spotting Jakob already sitting with his friends. They’re grinning at you as you approach, but their attention shifts briefly to Snape striding past towards the professor's table. His cloak billows fiercely behind him, and for a moment, even the Durmstrang students pause their conversation to watch him. 

“Are you a troublemaker?” Jakob teases as you sit next to him, his eyes still fixed on Snape. “Or does he just have a strange way of picking favourites?”  

You laugh at the absurdity. You, Snape’s favourite? As if.

"Troublemaker? Maybe just a bit,” you admit, shaking your head. "But trust me, I’m far from his favourite.” 

Before they can press you any further, the room quiets as Dumbledore approaches the Goblet of Fire. The announcement of the first champion is about to begin, and everyone looks to the front in excitement. 

“Here we go,” Jakob whispers in your ear, and you can’t help but smile as the excitement rising inside you. 

He plunges the Great Hall into darkness with a flick of his wand, which only adds to the suspense. You watch as the flames flicker fiercely, turning darker with each second. 

Suddenly, the flames turn a deep red, throwing out a piece of parchment which Dumbledore catches gracefully. 

“Ah, the champion representing Durmstrang will be... Viktor Krum!” 

A storm of applause erupts through the Hall, and you watch as Krum celebrates with his friends from across the table. Jakob leans forward to join in the celebration, his voice blending in with the chanting before Krum makes his way into the chamber behind the professors table. 

The celebrations die down quickly as the Goblet turns red again, throwing out another name. 

“The champion for Beauxbatons is... Fleur Delacour!” 

You haven’t met any of the Beauxbatons yet, since they mainly hang around at the Ravenclaw table, but you can’t help but admire the way the hold themselves with such grace. You watch as Fleur throws her long, silky blonde hair over her shoulder and effortlessly makes her way through the crowd to join Krum.

The nerves start to twist violently inside you as the last name is thrown from the Goblet – the Hogwarts champion. 

Everyone watches as Dumbledore catches the flying parchment in his fingertips and carefully unrolls the paper. For a split second, you notice his smile falter slightly, before resuming his usual confident tone. 

“And the champion for Hogwarts is... [First Name] [Last Name]!” 

Your breath catches as the world seems to stand still around you. Then, the Slytherin table bursts into cheers, the sound echoing around you. The Durmstrangs are just as loud, pounding their fists on the table in celebration.  

You can barely hear them all over the sound of your own heartbeat as the excitement surges through you. 

You did it – you actually did it. 

Someone shakes your shoulders roughly, bringing you back to the moment. “You did it! You mad girl!” Jakob cheers, pulling you up and throwing his arms around you in a crushing hug.  

Laughter bubbles up inside you - you can’t believe you’ve really been chosen, and as the Slytherin crowd around you, pushing you towards Dumbledore, you can’t help the massive grin that’s plastered on your face. 

The Goblet of Fire chose you. 

The adrenaline pumps through you as you take quick steps towards Dumbledore, oblivious to the unease in his eyes when he hesitates again before handing you the parchment with your name on. You swallow hard, feeling the excitement build up as you walk towards the chamber.

Once you’re inside, the noise of the Great Hall finally fades, and you breathe deeply to try and steady yourself. Your excitement is still barely contained when a hand clamps round your wrist and pulls you backwards. 

It’s Snape.  

And he looks absolutely furious. 

“What have you done?” he hisses, his grip tightening with each word. You’re used to him being angry with you by now, but his face is nothing like you’ve ever seen. 

The other champions hear the commotion, but Snape doesn’t care. He pulls you behind a pillar out of sight at the back of the room.  

“You told me you didn’t put your name in,” he spits. “You stupid girl.” You can see the rage on his eyes as they burn into yours. “You lied to me.” 

There’s something about the way he says it, something that makes his words feel like a knife twisting deeper and deeper.  

You shake your head, “No, I-” 

He tightens his grip a final time before releasing your wrist as though he can’t stand to touch you any longer. Your wrist throbs from his touch, but it’s nothing compared to the ache in your chest. 

“Reckless, irresponsible, foolish girl.” Every word hits you like a blow, and you feel the guilt building up. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

The excitement you felt just minutes ago just feels so childish now in the face of his rage. Tears sting at your eyes and you struggle to find the right words as you try to explain it to him.  

But he doesn’t let you. 

“You have ignored every single warning I’ve given you, every piece of advice you’ve been given to stay out of the spotlight ,” he growls, his face inches from yours. “And now you’ve put yourself in the most dangerous position possible-” his voice drops even lower into a whisper, “-and for what?” 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at him. For once, you can’t find a single thing to say. 

You should say something. Defend yourself. Tell him you can handle this, that you’re more than capable. 

But you just can’t. The way he looks at you is nothing like before. You've seen him angry at you, irritated, fed up with you. But this is worse. 

“I...” you exhale shakily. You have so many reasons to shout back at him, to match his anger. But now, under the weight of his glare, they all feel so empty. 

Snape watches you for a long moment, looking as if he’s deciding whether you’re even worth wasting his breath on anymore. 

Before either of you can say another word, the chamber doors burst open again, and the other professors rush in. Their attention is fixed onto Harry as he steps into the centre of the room. 

Snape instantly straightens, his expression hardening as though he’s trying to compose himself. Then, without another word, he turns on his heel, his robes flowing harshly behind him. 

He doesn’t spare you a final glance as he storms away from you.  

Your hands shake as you wipe away your tears, barely able to listen to the chaos around you as the attention shifts to Harry. You stand there, frozen, feeling stupid. All you can think about is Snape and the way he looked at you. Like he was so disappointed in you.  

And for some reason, it hurts more than you want to admit.  

“It seems... we have no other option,” Dumbledore's voice comes solemnly. “Both [First Name] and Harry have been chosen to compete, therefore, we must accept it.” 

The mention of your name brings some of the attention back to you, and the professors look your way – all except for Snape. 

You try to ignore the pain crushing your chest. 

The rest of the meeting passes in a blur. You barely hear the rules, barely process the weight of what you’ve signed up for. 

You were so excited for this, so ready to prove yourself. But now it just feels like a huge mistake.

As soon as it’s all over, you slip out of the chamber as fast as you can, eager to put distance between yourself and the conversation with Snape. But no matter how quickly you force yourself to move, the weight of it follows, setting heavily on your shoulders as you walk the corridors. The excitement from earlier feels like a distant memory now, replaced with a sinking feeling you can’t shake. 

Just as you round the next corner, you nearly collide with someone, feeling their hands on your arms to steady you. 

“Hey- whoa.” It’s Cedric. His hands drop, but his eyes search your face, instantly noticing your distant mood. “You alright?” 

You blink up at him, but can’t find the words to respond.

“Did you really put your name in?” he asks quietly. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

You swallow, trying to keep it together. “Yeah. I just... didn't expect to be chosen, I guess” 

He nods slowly. “Well, I’m not surprised you were,” he smiles. “You’ve always had that fire, haven’t you?” 

Despite everything, you let out a small laugh. 

His expression softens. “So, why do you look like you’d rather be anywhere else right now? I know you, you’d be over the moon about this… but you’re not.”

“I was excited- I am-," you sigh. "It’s just… I’m not sure how to feel about it all right now.” 

He gives your arms a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll figure it out, you always do.”

And just like that, you feel some of the weight inside you starting to ease. He believes in you - of course he does.  

“Take care, okay?” he says, stepping back. “I’ll see you in potions tomorrow." He pauses, speaking quieter. “I’m here for you. Always.” 

You feel your chest tighten but force a smile. “Thanks, Cedric.” 

And with that, he disappears down the corridor, leaving you alone with your thoughts once again.   

By the time you reach the common room, the tension from earlier has loosened just a little bit. The moment you step inside, you’re surprised when it floods in a wave of excitement, crashing over you.

Everyone’s laughing, cheering, or clinking their glasses with each other as they raise them in your honour. You can’t help but smile at the scene - the Slytherin house pride is always unmatched.  

“Well done, [First Name]!” Jade voice rings out as she rushes over, puling you into a tight hug. “Everyone’s so excited for a Slytherin champion! We know you’ll make us proud.”  

A few prefects join in the support around you, tapping you on the back. “We’re with you all the way,” one of them adds, raising his drink towards you.

The room buzzes with excitement as more students offer their praises - some familiar, and some you haven’t had the chance to meet yet. You laugh, soaking it all in as the sense of belonging you’ve been chasing finally settles over you.

This is what you’ve wanted after all, isn’t it? 

But even as you smile and enjoy the moment, there’s a constant shadow growing darker in your mind.  

Snape. His expression – cold. Angry. Cruel.

His grip on your wrist, the way he’d pulled you aside.  

Forcing another smile, you turn your attention back to the celebration. Enjoy it, you tell yourself. Stop letting him ruin everything.

You try to force it all back, but no matter how much you try, the memory of Snape still lingers in the back of your mind. The shadow you can’t outrun. 

Chapter Text

The torches along the dungeon walls flicker, and you watch the flames twist together as you lean against the cold stone outside Snape’s classroom. Your arms are folded tightly across your chest, but it does little to keep the chill away. You don’t even know why you’re here. 

Well, that’s not true. You know exactly why you’re here. You said you’d help him with the Wolfsbane this week, and you don’t go back on your word. Even if part of you is screaming that this is the last place you should be. 

Footsteps echo down the corridor, unhurried and purposeful. You already know who it is before you lift your head. Snape rounds the corner, his robes shifting around him as he walks, and the moment his dark eyes land on you, you straighten up without thinking. 

“What are you doing here?” his voice is dangerously calm. 

“You asked me to help with the Wolfsbane this week. I wasn’t sure if you still wanted...” you trail off, noticing his expression darken. 

He exhales sharply, like he’s only just remembered. “Let me see if I understand this correctly,” he drawls, voice thick with disdain. “You have single handedly thrown yourself into a deathtrap, and yet, you still find time to play the role of the dutiful assistant?” 

You wince at his words. You hoped, foolishly, that he might have cooled off since yesterday. “I said I’d be here. I don’t go back on that.” 

Snape’s eyes narrow, his gaze cutting through you like a blade. “No? I must have imagined you lying to my face then.” 

Your breath catches, and for a moment, you don’t know if it’s the anger or guilt that tightens in your chest. Maybe it’s both. 

He steps closer. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” 

“I do,” you admit, toying with the sleeve of your robe. “But it doesn’t matter now, does it?” 

Something shifts in his face, but you don't know what it means. For a moment, you almost expect him to go wild at you again, tearing you apart with his words like he did after you were chosen.  

"I no longer require your assistance, Miss [Last Name]," he says coldly. "The tournament is your priority now. You'd be wise to prepare yourself for what's to come."

A lump forms in your throat, but the implication is clear. You nod stiffly, not trusting yourself to say anything more. Then, without another word, you turn and walk away. 

Since that day, you’ve tried. You’ve lingered after lessons, hoping for a moment alone to ask about the Wolfsbane, about anything – but he never gives you the chance.  

You even knocked on his office door a few days after. You waited, hoping he’d at least tell you to go away, but he never even answered. Now, you're not even sure what's worse... the fury he had after you were chosen, or the icy silence that has followed since.   

But you can’t dwell on it. You have bigger things to focus on now, and if he doesn’t want to support you through this, fine. 

It’s now been two weeks since your name flew from that damned goblet, and in that time, life has been nothing short of hectic. Honestly, some part of you wonders if you've made the right choice entering. The constant attention is already wearing you thin, and you can't help but think that maybe Snape was right after all. Not that you'd ever admit it.

Everywhere you turn, people want to ask you questions. It’s endless. First years stare at you and whisper behind their hands, while older students stop you mid-step and ask you if you’ve got a strategy, if you know what the task is, if you’re ready. You just give back vague answers at this point, nothing that really gives much away. 

What’s even worse, though, is the whole of Slytherin have taken your selection as their personal victory. They cheer for you, boast about you in the halls, and shoot glares at anyone who dares to suggest you’re not up for the challenge.  

You’d expected it. Slytherins always support their own, but you hadn’t expected it to be this intense. They believe in you, fiercely, as if your win is already certain and not just a possibility. It should make you feel more confident, and in a way it does. But it also terrifies you. Because if you lose, they lose too.

By the time you make it to the Great Hall this morning, after surviving another relentless interrogation in the corridors, you veer towards the Gryffindor table, dropping yourself into an empty space across from Fred and George. 

Unfortunately, their shock at you being chosen quickly wore off, and now they’ve practically appointed themselves as your personal tournament coaches. Which would be great, if their advice wasn't so utterly useless. 

“Ah, the champion graces us with their presence,” Fred announces, setting down his goblet.

“Late start?” George asks. 

“Interrogation duty,” you mutter, reaching for a bowl of porridge. “I swear, if one more person asks how I’m feeling about the tournament, I’m hexing them.” 

“Fitting response from a Slytherin,” Fred grins. “Very dramatic.” 

“Very on brand,” George nods in agreement. “We approve.” 

You roll your eyes, shoving a spoonful in your mouth. “Right. Because intimidation is clearly my greatest skill.” 

Fred smirks, and without warning, flicks at grape at you. You only just manage to catch it before it hits you in the face.  “What was that for?” you scowl. 

He shrugs, “You never know when you’ll need to dodge.” 

Oh great, here we go.   

“You need quick reflexes,” he continues, throwing another one which bounces off your forehead and lands directly into your porridge.  

George shakes his head, “Tragic.” 

Fred sighs dramatically. “Honestly, I don’t know how you’re still alive.” 

You shoot him a look as you dig the grape out of your porridge. “Brilliant. Maybe I’ll let whatever the task is pelt me with fruit and call it a strategy,” you say, flinging it back at him.

“Or,” George shakes his head, ever the voice of reason, “you can focus on outmanoeuvring them. Think ahead and predict their moves-” 

“And dodge,” Fred interjects. 

George sighs. “Yes, and dodge.” 

Fred suddenly starts rummaging in his robes. “Speaking of strategy, we’ve been brainstorming a few ways to give you that little... edge.” 

You freeze mid-bite. “I don’t like where this is going.” 

George grins as Fred pulls out a small vial of something purple. “Weasleys Whispering Wisp. Makes you utterly silent for thirty seconds, perfect for sneaking up on opponents.” 

You eye it warily, “What’s the catch?” 

Fred shrugs. “Might cause temporary squeaking when you talk after.” 

George nods, “or spontaneous honking. Still fine-tuning that bit.” 

You groan, pressing your fingers to your temples. “You do realise this is a super serious, deadly competition, right?” 

“And that’s why you need every advantage you can get,” Fred replies, looking way too pleased with himself. 

You glance between them, both beaming with far too much enthusiasm this early in the morning. You appreciate their efforts, really, but something tells you this will be a very long tournament. 

After breakfast, you and Fred make your way to Herbology. You try to focus on the day ahead, but it’s almost impossible to escape the constant buzz of anticipation around you. Once again, you feel people's eyes on you, following your every move. 

Fred walks beside you, completely unbothered and grinning like an idiot as he continues to go on about his ridiculous ideas to help you in the tournament.

"Now, hear me out," he says, nudging your arm. "If we just-"

"No."

"You didn't let me finish."

"Because I already know it's illegal, highly questionable, or both."

"Ah, but you didn't say impossible," he grins.

You glare at him, and thankfully, he finally drops it as you both reach the greenhouses and take your usual seats at the back. You’re halfway through unpacking your stuff when a voice comes from in front you. “Hey, [Last Name], got a second?” 

You look up to see a Ravenclaw from your class standing up from his seat, walking towards you with an over confident grin. You don't even know his name, but by the way he's leaning against your table like you're old friends, he clearly thinks you should.  

“Yeah, what’s up?” you ask, glancing at Fred who's clearly enjoying the show.

“Just wanted to check in,” he grins, leaning against your table. “How’s everything going? Need a hand preparing for the first task? I’d be happy to help out.” 

You blink for a second, caught off guard. Well, this is new. “Er... I think I’m good. Thanks, though." 

He nods, still grinning. “Fair enough. Well, you know where I am if you change your mind. Good luck with it.” 

As soon as he’s out of earshot, Fred leans in. “Would you look at that? Someone's already got themselves a little fan club.” 

You elbow him hard. “Shut up, Fred.” 

"No need to deny it, oh Great Champion."

You groan. "I swear if you start calling me that-"

“I knew you’d start pulling admirers," he laughs, ignoring your threat. "Fame suits you.” 

You shoot him a look. “Jealous? Maybe I’ll start charging for autographs soon.” 

“Next thing we know, you’ll have a line of admirers waiting outside the Great Hall.” 

You snort, shaking your head. “As if I have time for that.” 

Fred chuckles under his breath. “True, I suppose you’ll need a manager. It’ll cost you, though.” 

You shove him lightly, rolling your eyes as you turn back to your work. Focusing on the class with Fred around is going to be impossible at this rate.  

Eventually, the chaos of the morning winds down and you manage to escape Fred and Georges so-called ‘coaching’ for a bit of peace. You gather your things and head towards the library, which has become one of your new favourite hiding places away from all the madness, along with the Owlery where you sit with Crow whenever you can.

You step into the library, the familiar scent of parchment and ink fill the air, and you spot Jakob at one of the tables near the windows, surrounded by his usual pile of books. He looks up as you approach, meeting your eyes before looking at the clock. “Ah. You live.” 

You drop into the chair opposite him, exhaling dramatically. “Barely. I was this close to being roped into some Weasley-style training programme.” 

He laughs, pushing a few books aside to make space for you. “Let me guess... highly advanced tactics?” 

“You could say that,” you say, fishing out your parchments. “Apparently, dodging fruit is my new survival strategy.” 

Jakob shakes his head in mock disappointment. “If you do let them train you, I fear for your chances.” 

“That makes two of us.” 

His smile softens, speaking quieter than before. “You will do fine. You are much smarter than you give yourself credit for.” 

You hold his gaze a moment before letting out a long breath, easing some of the tension in your chest. Jakob has such a way of grounding you and reminding you that despite everything, you’re still you. 

You settle into your work, letting yourself unwind as you focus on one of your assignments, occasionally chatting quietly with Jakob. But eventually, the bell rings, signalling the end of your peaceful study time. 

“Guess I should get going,” you say, shoving the parchments back into your bag. 

"Good luck in class," he smiles. "Try not to die."

"I'll try my best," you laugh, shaking your head. "See you at dinner?"

“Of course, see you then," he says, returning to his book.

You head out of the library, and the quiet is instantly swallowed up by the energy of the packed corridors. You have to dodge a few people to make it through, but eventually you arrive at Defence Against the Dark Arts just as Moody is pacing in front of the desks. 

“Right,” Moody grunts, slamming a heavy book on his desk. “Today, we’ll be going over defensive shielding. If you can’t protect yourself in a fight – you're already dead.” 

Shielding? Finally, something that might actually help you survive the tournament. Admittedly, your shields have been weak lately. You’ve been working on them, but no matter how much you try, they just don’t hold up under the pressure like they should. 

“Protego,” Moody continues, “basic shield charm – blocks minor hexes, jinxes and some curses if you’ve got the right strength. Learn it, improve it. I guarantee you’ll need it.” 

He slams his cane on the ground, causing the incantation to scribble itself on the blackboard behind him. “Pair up. Let’s see how well you can protect yourselves.” 

You turn to your usual partner, a Gryffindor, Angelina, who’s already up and ready with her wand in her hand. She’s taller than you, confident, and an excellent duellist. A perfect partner. 

“Ready?” she asks in a challenging tone. 

“Always,” you smile, getting up and pulling out your wand. 

The class shuffles into position, pushing the desks aside as the pairs spread out. Angelina moves a few steps back from you, rolling her shoulders. 

“Want to go first?” she offers. 

You nod, taking a steady breath before raising your wand. “Protego.”  

Angelina flicks a stinging hex your way, and it doesn’t even have to try to penetrate your shield. It’s thin, weak and barely holding its shape. The hex zips past your shoulders, barely missing.  

“Damn it.” You’re already annoyed at yourself. 

“It’s alright,” she says. “The form is right, you just need more power behind it. Try again.” 

You take a deep breath, gripping your wand tighter. “Protego!”  

Your shield flares up, but before you can even be proud of it, Angelina sends another hex your way and it buckles under the impact. 

“You have to mean it,” she says, lowering her wand. “Like you actually want to block whatevers coming at you.” 

You let out a frustrated sigh. You do mean it, but it’s like there's something stopping you from pushing further. As you’re preparing your stance to try again, Moody swings past you.  

“Less than two weeks ‘til the first task, and you’re putting up shields like a first year?” he says, his magical eye locking onto you. 

Your grip tightens even harder on your wand. “I’m working on it, Professor.” 

“Work harder,” he snaps. “Because out there, your opponent won’t wait for you to get it right.” He turns, stomping away to observe another pair. 

“Ignore him,” Angelina says, quietly. “You’re not bad, you just need to trust yourself more. Let’s go again.” 

You reset your stance, and this time, you don’t just say the incantation - you force everything into it. “Protego!” 

The shield flares brighter than before, not perfect, but stronger.  

Angelina grins. “That’s more like it!” 

The rest of the lesson flies by, and by the end, you’re exhausted. Your shields are still far from perfect, but at least you’ve improved just a little bit.  

“Miss [Last Name],” Moody growls at you as you’re leaving the classroom. “Dumbledore wants to see you. Now.” 

You feel your heart skip a beat. You’ve haven’t been called to Dumbledore’s office yet, except for when you first arrived here, and your thoughts immediately wonder what you’ve done wrong. You don't think you’ve done anything to get in trouble with the headmaster, though.

Moody gives you a quick dismissive nod, and with a quick bye to Angelina, you leave, trying to ignore the growing unease inside you. 

The corridors are weirdly quiet as you make your way to his office. There's no usual buzz of students wanting to ask you questions, no whispers following your every move. As you reach the gargoyle to his office, it swings open and you make your way up the staircase, getting flashbacks from the first time you were called here. It’s barely been three months, but you’ve changed so much since then. 

“Ah, my dear,” Dumbledore greets you with his usual, gentle smile, waving you into one of the armchairs. “Please, sit.” 

You do as you're told, settling yourself into the armchair as he sits behind his desk, folding his hands neatly.  

“First, allow me to congratulate you once again on being chosen as our champion. It is no small feat, and I believe you will represent Hogwarts well,” he says calmly. 

“Thank you, Professor,” you say, offering a polite smile.  

“I trust you’ve had a productive day today?” he asks, though the question feels more like formalities than a genuine enquiry. 

“Yes, it's been as good as it can be,” you reply, not wanting to give away your struggles with your shield charm or your general anxiety about the tournament. 

After a short pause, Dumbledore leans slightly forward. “I wished to check in with you, before the wand weighing ceremony tomorrow. How are you feeling?” 

Fuck, you’d forgotten about that.

“I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. Dumbledore watches you closely, and for a moment, it reminds you of how Snape looks at you - or looked at you. He's barely glanced your way since you were chosen. 

“Miss [Last Name],” he says firmly. “I wish to remind you that your story must remain intact. There can be no inconsistencies. The ceremony will bring more attention to you, and with that comes scrutiny. You must be ready.” 

You nod quickly. He’s right, the ceremony will be the first real public recognition of your participation in the tournament, and once it’s over, your name will be out there for everyone to see. “I understand."

“I know it is not easy for you, and I wish circumstances were different. You’ve handled it with such grace so far, but I must urge you to continue to do so. The world will be watching.” 

“I will, Professor,” you say, swallowing hard. “I'll be ready.” 

“Good. Take the time to prepare this evening, it will come soon enough.” 

As you rise from the armchair to pick up your bag, Dumbledore offers you one last reassurance. “You’ll be just fine, my dear. You’ve come so far already.” 

With one last glance, he turns back to his desk, and you know the conversation is over. It feels a bit awkward walking towards the door, but you leave quickly, not wanting to linger too long. 

The gargoyle resumes its usual guard in front of his office, and the conversation still plays in your mind. It’s not that his words weren’t comforting, but somehow, they don’t ease the tension that’s building up. 

“So, how was Defence Against the Dark Arts today?” Jakob asks when you’re sat down for Dinner that evening.  

You shrug, still feeling the frustration from this afternoons class and the fact you still can’t cast something as simple as a shield. “Don’t get me started,” you mutter, shovelling some vegetables on your plate without really looking at them. “Moody had us casting a stupid shield charm. I swear every time I get nothing.” 

Jakob raises his eyebrow, leaning forward lightly with amusement. “You are struggling with a shield charm? You? ” 

You throw him a look, not in the mood for his usual teasing. “Yes, Jakob. Me. It’s like I’m cursed from protecting myself or something. No matter how hard I focus... it just slips away.” 

He sits back, studying you. “That is not like you to give up easily, hm? So, what is your plan? Let it defeat you?” 

“Oh, I’m not letting it defeat me,” you glare at him. “But I’m pretty damn close to snapping my wand in half at this point.” 

He laughs, “So stubborn, just like always,” he says. “Do you want help?” 

You hesitate, the idea of asking for help isn’t exactly your favourite thing... but Jakob is a good friend now, and you know he’d never let you struggle if he could help it. “If you’re up for throwing hexes at me, sure.” 

“Throw hexes? I can do that,” he says, amused. “But I will not go easy on you.” 

“I wasn’t expecting you to,” you say back, meeting his eyes with determination. 

Jakob smiles at you playfully. “Good. Let’s get started then. Want to leave early and skip the rest of this?” 

You glance around the hall, then back to him. “Sure, let's go.” 

You follow his lead, quickly grabbing your stuff and rushing down the hall after him. As you both make your way to the exit, you can already feel the cold evening air waiting for you beyond the castle walls. 

“Race you to the lake?” Jakob calls over his shoulder, already ahead of you. 

You don’t even answer him as you take off into a sprint. The cold air hits your face as you race past him, legs burning but pushing through. Jakob calls after you, but you don’t slow down.  You reach the lake's edge just as his footsteps falter behind you, putting your hands on your hips as you catch your breath. 

He finally catches up, slightly out of breath, but grinning. “I will let you have that one,” he says, shaking his head with a chuckle. 

You laugh softly, but your attention shifts as you look out at the lake. “We’d better get started before it gets too dark, we don’t want to be caught here after curfew.” 

Jakob nods, letting his bag fall to the grass. “Then lets make it quick."

You both move to a spot a little away from the water’s edge, the cooling breeze rustling the nearby trees. “Alright, show me what you got,” he says, pulling out his wand. 

You exhale slowly, trying to clear your mind of the remaining frustration from class earlier. He flicks his wand in your direction, and the first hex speeds towards you, much quicker than Angelinas had. 

“ Protego!” you shout, raising your wand just in time. The shield flares into life, but you can tell it’s weak. The hex hits and instantly splinters the shield, the energy fading off harmlessly to the side of you. 

You brace yourself, ready to go again. Jakobs hexes come fast and hard towards you, and each failed attempt only makes you focus more, pushing yourself. Time seems to blur as you fight to keep up, and finally, after what feels like forever, the shield holds strongly against one of his nastier hexes. 

“Not bad. You will be ready for Moody’s next lesson, that is for sure,” he says proudly. 

You smile, finally feeling a bit of accomplishment. “Thanks for the help, Jakob.” 

“No problem, I am always here to help you,” he smiles back. 

You take a deep breath, glancing to the sky as the last hints of daylight fade out. “Well, I think that’s enough for tonight,” you say, tucking your wand into your sleeve. 

“Yes,” Jakob says, also looking to the sky. “We do not want detention added to your list of things to conquer,” he jokes, starting the walk back to the castle. 

You roll your eyes but follow him, feeling a quiet sense of satisfaction you haven’t felt for a while. 

After curfew, you curl up on the sofa in the common room, knees drawn up, watching the last embers of the fire burn low. You should go to bed, but you can’t. Your mind is too loud, tangled with thoughts of tomorrow and the ceremony. 

The press will be there. That much is unavoidable. And you know how they operate - they have a way of twisting words, of shaping answers into something they aren’t. No matter what you say, they’ll try to turn it on you, and you can’t afford to hesitate. Not even for a second. 

They’ll ask about your parents, that’s inevitable. But how do you talk about people who aren’t here? How will you pretend they are still here, when the grief of losing them still sits heavily in your chest? 

You force yourself to breathe steady, pressing your fingers to your forehead. Three months. It’s only been three months since they died, and in that time, you like to think you’ve learned to tell the lie without faltering. 

They’re just private people. They don’t like the attention. They’re fine, they’re fine, they’re fine.   

You'll need your walls up tomorrow, that’s for sure. You can’t risk cracking in front of the cameras. You feel confident that using them just a little, just enough, should be fine. 

Still, you know it’s a risk. Snape’s voice echos in your head, his warnings about relying too heavily on it, how fragile your mind is right now. He’d tell you not to use it, not in this situation. 

No - you try not to care about what he’d say. It’s not like he’s offered any help in the last few weeks. You push the thoughts away. You'll figure it out, just like you always do.

Chapter Text

Your stomach tangles in knots as you make your way through the castle to the wand weighing ceremony. You shouldn't be this anxious - you'd spent all last night preparing for this, running through all the possible questions and rehearsing near perfect answers. But somehow, it just doesn't feel enough.

Maybe your decision to enter this tournament wasn't your best after all... you weren't expecting to have to lie about your life to the whole world, and it feels like you're already starting to sink before it's even begun. And as if things weren't bad enough, you barely slept. You got up early to make sure you looked the part, styling your hair neatly into curls that fall down your back, and thanks to Jade's flawless makeup, no one would even guess how little sleep you've had.

Yeah, you look the part. But you definitely don't feel it.

As you walk through the corridors, you go over the half-truths and carefully crafted lies you've prepared, making sure it all sounds natural but not too rehearsed. The last thing you need here is for someone to start asking the wrong kind of questions.

You’re so lost in it that you don’t realise you’re not alone anymore. A shift of dark robes suddenly catches your eye, almost making you trip over your own feet as you register the tall figure now walking beside you. 

“Professor-,” you say, holding a hand over the racing of your heart. “You scared the shit out of me.” 

For a second, you think you’re imagining it. Snape hasn’t spoken to you in ages, and now here he is, just casually appearing at your side as if nothing happened. He raises an eyebrow, looking to your hand. “Language.” 

You roll your eyes, of course that's the first thing he says. You open your mouth to demand why the hell he's sneaking up on you, but he cuts you off before you can say anything. “Are you prepared for this?” 

“As much as I can be,” you reply, voice still shaking from the scare. “Why are you here?” 

His expression stays firm as he glances down at you. “Because I’m your Head of House, which means you’re my responsibility,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “And the press will tear you apart if you’re not careful.” 

“I don’t need you babysitting me,” you mutter, looking away from him. 

“Is that so? Because, as I recall, the last time you made a decision without thinking, it landed you in this mess.” You can tell by his voice that his disapproval is still very clear. “And now, I’m the one left to deal with the consequences. So, yes, I will be keeping an eye on you.” 

Right. Because obviously you’re incapable of handling anything yourself. 

“I don’t need your help,” you snap back.

“Well, Miss [Last Name]," he says coldly. "Unfortunately, you'll be getting it whether you like it or not - if you want to survive this ridiculous charade.” 

You resist the urge to glare at him, keeping your eyes ahead as you keep walking. Is that really all he thinks of you? That you’re just some helpless idiot that needs saving? “How generous of you,” you say bitterly. “Should I be thanking you for finally deciding I’m worth your time again?” 

The words come out before you can stop them, and you barely have time to register the change in his expression to something angrier before you realise – oh, shit. Maybe you went too far. 

Not giving him the chance to respond, you quickly push the door open and step inside, feeling relieved. He can't shout at you here, not with the reporters and cameras around. But then, out of nowhere, a flash of light blinds you, making you flinch backwards. You scowl as your vision clears, blinking rapidly, and catch the photographer grinning before shuffling away.  

Perfect. That’s going to be a great shot – mid blink, probably looking stupid. 

Shaking off your irritation, you linger at the door for a moment, not entirely sure what to do or where to go. Before you can decide, Snape brushes past you without so much as a glance, making his way towards Dumbledore - who's already look your way with his usual overly kind smile.  

“Ah, it seems we are all here at last,” he says in his gentle voice. “The champions, all gathered in one place. How wonderful.” He clasps his hands together as he moves towards the centre of the room. “Now, let us proceed with the wand weighing. Mr. Ollivander will be ensuring that each wand is in perfect working order for the challenges ahead. A crucial part of your preparation.” 

Then, one by one, you and the other champions hand your wands over to the famed wandmaker. He inspects each one closely, assessing the properties, core, and their ability to perform in combat. 

As you watch Harry’s wand be tested, pouring a fountain of wine from its tip, a sudden awareness pulls at the back of your mind. It’s that strange, unmistakable feeling of being watched. Your fingers curl against the wood of your wand, hidden snuggly up your sleeve. Shifting in place, you feign interest in the testing, but then you feel it – eyes on you. 

You look up, and sure enough, Snape is watching you from across the room. Though, he isn’t just watching you. His dark eyes are locked onto your arm, or more specifically, your wand that peeks out from the sleeve of your robe.  

Your grip tightens instinctively, trying to figure out what he’s trying to piece together in his head, and that’s when he looks up. For the briefest second, something passes over his face, then, to your surprise, he gives you a small, approving nod. 

You brush it off just as quickly, returning your attention back to the ceremony. Now isn’t the time for distractions. 

“Now, Miss [Last Name], if you don’t mind,” Ollivander says politely, his eyes gleaming with curiosity as he extends his hand towards you.

Well, this isn't great. You know fully well your wand doesn’t like others touching it, let alone using it. Though, strangely, it hadn’t reacted at all when Snape handled it when you first arrived at Hogwarts... or had it? He didn't mention anything about it... then again, the way he just looked at it was a little suspicious.

Still, it’s not like you can refuse, so you pull it free and hand it over to him, silently praying it will cooperate.  

Ollivander’s touch is gentle as he runs his fingers along the silvery veins etched along the length of your wand, and for a moment, they shimmer briefly before dying out under his touch. He chuckles softly, clearly fascinated. “A very loyal wand you have here, Miss [Last Name]... yes, very peculiar indeed.” 

He lifts it to his ear, as though listening for something beyond the usual hum of magic, his brow furrowing slightly. “You know,” he muses, “I’ve handled thousands of wands in my lifetime, but I rarely come across ones quite like this.” 

The room has gone silent, and you can feel everyone’s eyes on the interaction. You hate it, but you can't lie, you're curious now too.

“The wood is undeniably acacia,” he says, tilting your wand in the light. “But the core... I must admit, eludes me. It responds well, but there’s something more. Something I cannot place.” 

Some of the reporters whisper quietly between themselves, and your palms start to sweat. You wipe them discreetly on your robes, trying to calm down. 

“I can’t tell you more than that, unfortunately. The wands allegiance is clear, though – it seems loyal to you. Fiercely so.” 

Weird. You obviously knew your wand was... strange, but this is something else. If only you’d asked your father more about it when he gave it to you, but you were too young and too excited to care where it came from back then.

“How did you come to possess it, if I may ask?” he asks. 

“Uh.. my father had it made for me,” you say truthfully. “I’m not sure who the maker was.” 

Ollivander nods, as if storing the information away, but he doesn’t press you further. He quickly tests your wand, sending a rather weak puff of smoke from the tip, and you can tell it’s resisting him.  

He gently hands it back to you, his fingers lingering on it a little longer than necessary. “I trust it will serve you well.” 

You take it back, and the moment the wood presses into your palm, something shifts. The silvery veins flicker, pulsing faintly like dying ember. Then, your vision dims. 

A cold, suffocating darkness wraps around you.  

...

A whisper brushes against your ears, faint but urgent as it threads through the shadows. You try to focus on the words, but they’re too quiet, slipping away from you like smoke.

...

The sensation deepens, like a memory - distant, but somehow familiar - just out of reach. You try to grasp it, but it dissolves, slipping back into the cracks of your mind.

Then, as quickly as it came, the vision vanishes.

What the fuck was that?  Your fist clenches around your wand. That wasn’t just a stray thought, it felt too real. Like something you should know. Or maybe something you've forgotten?

You try to chase it through the fog of your mind, but it's already gone. A sharp throbbing pulses in your temples, and you have no choice but to force yourself to let it go. Loosening the grip on your wand, you tuck it back into your sleeve with a shaky breath.

You can't afford to dwell on it now, not when your interview is about to begin.

A rustle of parchment brings you back to the present. A camera flashes your way, followed by a sharp click that echos in the quiet. Rita Skeeter steps forward, scanning you with her sharp, assessing eyes before gesturing you to take a seat in front of her. 

You sit, forcing your heart to settle, but it's hard. This isn't just an interview, it's the worlds first glimpse of you, and you can't afford to let something slip that you shouldn't.

Across the room, Snape and Dumbledore stand a few feet behind her, watching you in silence. The weight of their stares only adds to the pressure - as if they’re wondering the same thing you are right now. 

Can you do this?    

“So, Miss [Last Name], tell us about your family,” she asks. “It’s been said your parents prefer to stay... out of the spotlight. How very unusual for people raising a Triwizard Champion. Surely, they must be terribly proud. Why not step forward to support you?” 

You keep calm, forcing a warm, perfectly rehearsed smile. “Yes, my parents have always been very private people.” The words come easy, but they taste like poison. “They’ve never cared for publicity, and that won’t change now. But of course, they send me their best wishes.” 

The enchanted quill beside her scratches furiously on her notepad, and you try to sneak a peek at what it’s writing, but her voice pulls your attention back.  

“A shame they won’t be attending,” she muses. “One might assume they aren’t quite as supportive as you say. Was it difficult growing up so... unseen?” 

You shrug, keeping yourself neutral. “It was quiet, but I liked it. I had the chance to focus on my magic... it was peaceful.” 

She tilts her head at you, narrowing her eyes. “And yet, despite such an isolated upbringing, you’ve adjusted to Hogwarts life remarkably fast,” she continues. “Some would expect a girl raised in secrecy to be a bit more... reserved? But you seem rather comfortable in the public eye. As if you were always meant for it.” 

You nod, forcing another smile, and your cheeks already hurt from the effort. “People assume isolation means weakness, but it doesn’t. I may not have grown up in the spotlight, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to handle it.”  

You thought that might satisfy her, but she presses on. "So, you've learnt how to manage the pressure... but what about your other responsibilities? Keeping up with your studies, your... relationships?" She raises an eyebrow, and you notice her quill pausing over the notepad.

You almost laugh at her insinuation. When would you have time for a relationship with all this going on? Between the tournament, the press, and trying to keep your own secrets buried, you're barely holding yourself together as it is. Adding romance to the mix? Yeah, not happening.

"I think you're overestimating how much free time I have," you say dryly.

Rita's smile doesn't falter, though. If anything, it grows. "Oh, come on now. A charming, talented young witch like yourself? Surely there's someone whos caught your eye," she finishes with a wink.

"If you're asking whether I've been sneaking off for secret moonlit rendezvous, sorry to disappoint. No tragic love story here."

She hums, clearly unphased by your sarcasm. "Well, that is a shame."

You don't comment further, smiling at her and hoping it's enough to end the line of questioning. Maybe if you play along, she'll finally move on.

But she isn't done. She leans in, lowering her voice just so you can hear her. “One last question, dear. When the cameras are gone, when the castle is silent, when it’s just you – what keeps you awake at night? The pressure of the tournament? Or something else entirely?” 

Your breath catches for the first time as the question catches you off guard. For a moment, all you can see is them. Your parents. Their faces a blur in your mind, as if they're slipping further away with each passing day. Their voices, fading away like echos down an endless corridor. 

This is what you see at night. A warmth of a life that no longer exists.

But you’re not stupid. You know what she’s doing – waiting for you to stumble, to let something real slip. She wants to crack you, and once you show the vulnerability, she’ll twist it into whatever story she pleases. 

You tilt your head, matching her gaze with a sickly sweet smile. “Oh, Miss Skeeter,” you say, “If I told you that, what would be left for you to speculate about?” 

She looks irritated but quickly composes herself, standing up and smoothing down the front of her emerald green robes. The enchanted quill twitches, and you swear you can hear it scratch a little harder against the notepad. 

“Well, that was certainly illuminating,” she says, clapping her hands together. “Now, if our champions would be so kind, let’s gather for the photographs. After all, the world is dying to see its newest competitors!” 

She turns to gather the others, and you stand, relieved that it's finally over. Smoothing out your skirt, you fix your hair as you make your way over to the cameras, moving through the crowd until you reach the others. Fleur is already seated, her elegance in place as she crosses one leg over the other. 

You can’t match her grace, but you take a seat next to her, trying your best to look composed. You straighten your back, wearing the mask of a champion as the photos begin, even if it does feel a little more forced than you'd like. 

When it's finally over, you keep your head high until you’re out of sight, then slip into a quiet alcove just beyond the classroom. Your mind aches from holding your walls up for so long, and you just need a minute to pull yourself together.  

Leaning against the cold stone, you press your fingers against your temples and breathe slowly. The lies crawl under your skin, heavier now that the show is over.

Your parents are dead, and you smiled. Lied. Pretended they were fine. 

"Quite the performer, aren't you?" a voice breaks through the silence, and you already know who it is.

You turn around slowly to find Snape has joined you in the small space, watching you carefully. His usual inscrutable expression in place, but maybe a hint softer now.

You huff, shaking your head, but wince as the motion sends another sharp pulse behind your eyes. “Is that supposed to be a compliment, Sir?” 

“You did well in there,” he admits, ignoring the question. “You handled Skeeter well, deflected without giving her anything real. How very Slytherin of you.” 

You straighten up, trying to ignore the pounding behind your eyes. His praise feels more like an assessment than anything - a confirmation that you can handle yourself just enough. And yet, here he is, still watching you like you’re some fragile little thing.  

“See?” you push off the wall, forcing a smile. “Told you I didn’t need your help,” 

“Is that so?” his gaze sharpens. 

“Yes.” 

His eyes drop, looking down at where your hand grips the stone. You try to unclench it quickly, but it's too late. He’s already noticed.

“You’ve pushed yourself too far,” his voice is lower now, almost accusing. “Again.”  

You want to argue, to insist you're fine, but the pounding behind your eyes is relentless now. You’ve definitely overdone it.

“Get some rest,” he says, and without another word, turns on his heel and walks away.  

You glare at his retreating form, hands curling into fists at your side, annoyed that he's once again just assumed he needs to step in. You can take care of yourself, thank you very much. 

The pressure in your head doesn’t fade, but there’s no time to dwell on it. The first task is in ten days, and you have no time for distractions. With one last deep breath, you leave the alcove and head back to your dorm, forcing yourself to retreat from your mind as much as you can and let it rest.  

But not because Snape told you to. 

It’s been a week since the interview, which leaves only three days until the first task. Every moment feels like a countdown, and the pressure builds with each day. You’ve been trying to prepare as much as you can, going to the lake most evenings to improve your spell work with Jakob. It's decent preparation, and honestly, it's a nice distraction from the nerves gnawing at you constantly.

And, thank god, you’ve managed to avoid any more of the Weasley’s Wondrous Products. For now, at least.  

Standing outside the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom, you roll out the tension in your neck and remind yourself to keep it together. You’ve been doing well these past few days, no slipping up, no spiraling. Just focused and controlled. 

The hallway is mostly empty since you’re early, and you’re glad for it. Quiet moments are rare nowadays, and you hold onto them whenever you can. You adjust your bag on your shoulder, mind wandering back to the tournament and what the first task could be, when you hear footsteps approaching.

You expect a classmate, or maybe Professor Moody. Instead, though, you find yourself face to face with a man you don’t recognise. He looks worn, with tired eyes and a faint scar on his cheek. But there’s something warm about him, like he belongs here... somehow. 

He pauses when he sees you, then offers a small smile. “Hello there.” 

“Hello.” 

He studies you for a moment. “You’re the champion, aren’t you?” 

You raise an eyebrow. “That obvious?” 

“A little,” he admits. “No, I’m just kidding. I saw your picture in The Daily Prophet the other day.” 

You groan. “Oh god, how is it? I haven’t seen it yet.” 

“It’s great, don’t worry,” he chuckles, extending a hand. “Remus Lupin.” 

The name rings a bell - he must be the one you helped Snape brew the Wolfsbane for... before he told you to get lost, all furious at you. “[First Name],” you smile, shaking his hand. 

“I taught here last year, before Professor Moody,” he says. “Though, I doubt my lessons were quite as... energetic as his.” 

You huff. “That’s one way to put it. The man is unhinged.” 

Lupin laughs. “He doesn't miss a thing, I'll say that much.” 

You tilt your head curiously. “You know him?” 

“We’ve crossed paths,” he says vaguely. “How are you holding up with it all?” 

Most people only ask about the tournament because they want the details – what's happening, what’s coming next. They never ask about you. Not really. You shrug, not sure how to answer. “Fine, I think.” 

He gives you a look that says, really? But he doesn’t push. Instead, he simply nods. “I hope you have people looking out for you.” 

Your mind briefly sweeps over the usual faces. The twins who never miss a chance to tease, Jakob and Cedric who've kept things sane even when it feels like everything's spiraling. And, of course, Jade. She's been the one making sure you don't embarrass yourself in the tournament prep, getting you to the right places and making sure you look the part. 

"Yeah, I do," you smile.

He smiles softly back, about to respond, when a door creaks open down the corridor. Moody emerges from his office, his wooden cane thudding against the stone with every step. 

“Lupin,” Moody greets him roughly before snapping his attention to you. “You. Inside. Now.” 

You blink at his abruptness, but at this point, you’re hardly surprised. Moody's never been one for pleasantries. Lupin steps back amused. “Well, I won’t keep you. Good luck, [First Name].” 

“Thanks,” you reply, before slipping into the classroom. 

The door shuts behind you loudly, sealing the silence between you and Moody. He stands behind his desk, sifting through a pile of parchment. 

“You’re early,” he says without looking up. 

“Just taking in the peace while I can,” you reply, tossing your bag on the desk and sitting lazily on your stool. 

He grunts in approval, setting down whatever it is he’s reading. Then he laces his fingers together, his magical eye fixed firmly on you. “Three days,” he says. “Three days ‘til your first task. How are you going to handle it?” 

You roll your shoulders again, unable to settle the tension in them. “I don’t even know what it is yet, Professor.” 

“And that’s an excuse not to have a plan, is it?” he says dryly. 

You grip the desk, feeling yourself getting irritated. “What do you want me to say? That I’ll go in blind and hope for the best?” 

“Hope is a fool's strategy,” he growls. “You can’t rely on what you think you know is coming. Half the time, you won’t know a damn thing. Think. How will you face something when you don’t know what you’re up against?” 

You look away, your thoughts mushing together. Have you really prepared enough? 

He watches you closely, reaching inside his robe for a vial. Taking a sip, he fixes back on you with a sharp look. “What are your strengths?” 

You pause at the question. “I... don’t know.”

You've been so focused on improving your weakness' - shielding, defending yourself, when really, you probably should have thought more about your strengths. Damn it.

“Then find out,” he snaps, leaning in. “Your opponents aren’t going in blind. They’re not standing around, waiting for fate to decide for them. They’ll do whatever it takes to win.” 

His words make you shudder, but you know he’s not trying to scare you. 

“You’re not here to play fair girl,” he continues. "You're here to survive. And if you want to do more than that - if you want to win - then you'd better start thinking like a champion."

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. He makes it sound so simple, like survival is just another lesson to learn.

By the time class starts, you might as well not even be there. The lecture drifts past you, nothing more than background noise as you replay his earlier words over and over until they wrap around your mind like vines, tightening with every second.

What are your strengths?

You've heard rumours that Fleur is part-Veela, which already gives her an advantage. Krum? Well, he's a beast on the field. And Harry... he always has Dumbledore behind him, so you can't see him struggling too much.

And you?

You press your quill against the parchment, realising all too late you've been scribbling the same sentence over and over again.

This overthinking won't help, but you can't seem to stop. As the minutes drag on, your notes remain pitifully bare and one thing becomes clear. Moody is right. You need to figure this out. Fast.

Later that night, after an exhausting day of being unable to focus on any of your classes, you collapse into your bed.

Ugh. Even here, your mind won’t shut up. You roll over, pressing your face into the pillow, but sleep doesn’t come easy. You’re tired and your body aches, but your thoughts just can't stop twisting – about the tournament, everything.  

Eventually, the exhaustion finally drags you under. And for the first time in a while... you dream. 

You’re at home. It’s late, and your wrist aches from the force of the last spell you cast, but you don’t let it show. Across from you, your father lowers his wand, a calculating look in his eye. “Again.”  

You barely have time to react before he moves as a flash of light hurtles towards you, fast and unforgiving. You twist your wand up, deflecting it with a counter curse aimed to break the spell midair. It works, but the impact stings your arm.  

“Better,” he hums.  

The dream feels weird. Something about this feels... wrong.

The force of the last spell is still making your arm tremble, but before you know it, he sends another slashing hex past your cheek, close enough that the heat burns into your skin.  

“Hesitation gets you killed,” he says. “If you want to survive, you end it before it begins.”  

You grit your teeth, the pain sparking the anger inside you. He wants to see ruthlessness? Fine.  

The next spell you cast is sharp, slicing through the air between you. Your father tries to block it, but this time, you don’t give him the chance. You follow it up, pushing another hex, then another, driving him back.  

He smiles, for the first time in a while, satisfied. You don’t stop. Not until he raises a hand at you. “Enough.”  

You don’t lower your wand. You don’t even feel like yourself. The magic is too restless inside you.  

His face shifts to something of... pride? And then -  

You jolt awake, feeling your heart hammering in your chest. For a second, you're still caught between worlds.

Was that a dream?  

...

Or was it a memory? 

You press a hand to your forehead, your fingers shaking. You remember that night with your father. You know you do. But why did it feel so... wrong? 

You shiver, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. It was just stress. Just exhaustion. Your mind is still healing, still trying to regain your lost memories. It must have gotten jumbled somehow.

You close your eyes, forcing yourself to believe it. But deep down, no matter how much you try to convince yourself, you can't ignore the feeling that something isn't right.

Ten days quickly turned into one. The first task is tomorrow, and you still have no idea what it could be.  

You rake a hand through your hair, picking up your pace as you weave through the bustling halls to breakfast. The castle is louder today, filled with excitement and theories about what the champions will face tomorrow.

When you arrive at breakfast, you make your way over to the Slytherin table for once. The Gryffindor table with Fred and George tempts you, but you feel like you owe your house this at least. 

The moment you sit down, Jakob slides a cup of tea in front of you without a word, and you give him a grateful smile before wrapping your hands around it.

“You look like you have not slept,” he says, keeping his voice low. 

“I haven’t,” you reply, taking a slow sip. 

Across the table, a familiar but unwelcome voice cuts through your quiet. “Surprised you’re even sitting with us,” Ivy taunts, sipping her coffee. “Figured you’d be off with your real friends.” 

“You keeping tabs on me, Ivy?” you flash her a deliberate smile. “I’m flattered.”  

She scowls at you but doesn’t push further, turning back to her breakfast with a flip of her hair. 

“Have you been thinking about the task again?” Jakob asks, trying to shift the conversation. 

You sigh. “Yeah, I’ve spent all night trying to figure out what it could be, but-” 

“You are overthinking it,” he interrupts. “It is designed to catch you off guard. No amount of guessing will change that.” 

You hate that he’s right.

“Still,” he adds, taking a bite of his toast. “If I had to guess, I would say it is maybe something psychological. A test of how you can handle fear.” 

“No chance,” another voice chimes in. “They’ll want something big for the first task. Something deadly.” 

You look up, catching the smirks of a group of older Slytherins opposite you, clearly invested in the same speculation as the rest of the school. “Maybe a Kraken?” one of them jokes. “Hope you’ve been practicing your swimming, [Last Name].” 

You glare at them, but they carry on laughing, speculating even more ridiculous theories. You groan, folding your arms and burying your head in them, trying to block them out. They continue, but you barely register it as your mind spins with the uncertainty of the upcoming task.

A gentle hand lands on your back, and Jakob’s touch grounds you as he leans closer. “I am sorry,” he murmurs softly. “You will be fine. I promise.”  

The gentle, reassuring circles he traces on your back with his hand are pretty soothing – even if it does feel like you’re carrying the weight of the world right now.  

You leave breakfast early and head to your first class since you don’t feel like eating much today. The others might be excited for tomorrow, and you get it. But it’s too hard to focus on anything but the fact that you're the one who has to face it.

You meet up with Cedric on the way, and you’re chatting about the recent essay on Everlasting Elixirs. It’s a small distraction from the tournament, enough to take your mind off the pressure for a moment. Until you hear your voice being called from behind. 

“[First Name]!” you turn around to see Harry rushing over to you. 

“Harry?” you glance around the courtyard. People are laughing at him, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s out of breath, his green eyes wide and serious. You checked in on him a few days ago, but that’s all the interaction you’ve had with him so far. 

“I need to tell you something about the first task,” he says, looking at Cedric, then back at you, clearly wanting to speak about this privately. 

You turn to Cedric, “cover for me?” 

“Alright, but don’t be too late. You know how he is,” he says before heading through the courtyard. 

You turn to Harry, who looks as nervous as ever. “What’s up?” 

He glances around before pulling you into a quieter corner. “I saw them," he says in a low voice. "The task – it's dragons.” 

Your brain hardly processes the words. “What?”  

“That’s what we’re up against tomorrow. Hagrid showed me.” His eyes are wide, the same fear reflecting in them that’s now crawling under your skin. “They’ve got them chained up in the forest, one for each of us.” 

You’d prepared for the worst, but not this . You aren’t ready for this. 

Your mouth feels dry as you try to force out the words. “You’re... absolutely sure?” 

“I wish I wasn’t,” Harry swallows, shifting uncomfortably. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do against them, but Krum and Fleur know, so I thought you should too.” 

You nod, pushing down the panic. “Thank you, Harry.” 

Before he can say anything else, a drawling voice interrupts your conversation. “Ah, if it isn't the star of the tournament.” 

You turn to see a blond Slytherin approaching, with two others flanking him. He's younger than you, but carries himself like he owns the place, a smirk plastered on his face. 

“Draco Malfoy,” he introduces himself. “I’ll be shocked if you haven’t heard of me.” 

“Can’t say I have.” You really don’t have time for this. 

He blinks, clearly thrown off, but recovers himself quickly. “Well, that’s tragic. But now you have.” He taps the badge pinned to his robes, which changes between ‘Support [First Name]!’ and ‘Potter stinks!’  

Harry scowls. “Really? This again?” 

But Malfoy ignores him, keeping his attention on you. “I took the liberty of having these made. It’s only right that Slytherins champion gets the support they deserve.” 

Your eyes flicker to the badge. “And the Potter stinks part?” 

He shrugs. “Just a bit of fun,” his smirk sharpens. “The important part is that we’re all behind you. You are going to win, after all.” He unpins the badge and holds it out to you. “Go on, take it. Show some house pride.” 

You take it, looking at the flickering words. “Appreciate the support,” you say, slipping it into your pocket. “Not sure it's my style though.” 

Malfoy snorts, brushing off your comment. “Try not to die in the first task, yeah? Would be a real shame.” Then, with a lazy wave, he strolls away. 

Harry mutters something under his breath before heading in the opposite direction, leaving you alone as you turn towards the dungeons. Your thumb brushes over the badge in the pocket as your mind replays the conversation you just had with Harry. 

Dragons.   

Tomorrow, you’ll be standing face to face with one. 

Your hands shake slightly as you press your knuckles against your forehead, trying to quash the oncoming headache. You barely register the cool draft against your warm skin as you step into the potions classroom. 

Cedric is already here, giving you a questioning look as you take a seat next to him. “Well?” he asks under his breath. 

You don’t answer immediately, still gripping the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline. “The first task... it’s dragons.” 

Cedric blinks, his expression barely shifting, but you can tell the news has hit him just as hard. “You’re sure?” 

You nod stiffly, not able to make out any words. 

The lesson drags. You go through the motions, following Snapes instructions on autopilot while Cedric shoots you occasional glances. He doesn’t say much else, but he doesn’t need to. You’re both thinking the same thing. 

“Our beloved champion looks a little pale today,” Ivy says, brushing past your table. “Nerves finally catching up?” 

You don’t react as she drifts by, picking up a spare stirring rod before heading back to her table behind you. 

“I suppose it makes sense,” she continues. “You must be realising how unprepared you are. Not all of us can luck our way into a tournament meant for actual talent.” 

You let out a deep breath, trying not to react. She’s been more insufferable since you were chosen, but today with your nerves stretched so thin, she’s unbearable. Cedric gives you a look, a silent warning not to rise to it. 

"You must be dreading it,” she muses. “Everyone watching. All those eyes on you, expecting something impressive. But then, nothing. Just you, standing there looking stupid.” 

Your grip on your pestle tightens, crushing the valerian root much finer than necessary. 

“But hey,” she adds mockingly. “At least you’re used to failure.” 

The thread inside you finally snaps, and you spin your head around to see her smirking at your reaction. “Are you ever going to say something useful, or do you just like hearing your own voice that much?” 

Cedric lightly touches your arm in a warning, but you shake him off. 

“Rude,” she hums. “I was just trying to have a conversation.” 

You scoff, “Really? Because-” 

“Miss [Last Name].” 

Snape’s voice cuts through the conversation like a blade, and you don’t need to look to know he’s standing right behind you. You slowly turn to face him, his cold eyes hesitating between you and Ivy.  

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks, his tone as chilling as always.

Clenching your fists tightly, you try to cool off the irritation. “No, Sir.” 

“Then I suggest you focus on your work. I have warned you two enough about these petty squabbles. One more disruption, and you'll be cleaning cauldrons for a week."

Ivy smirks, and you only just resist the urge to throw the handful of crushed valerian root at her stupid face. 

“Yes, Sir,” you mutter, getting back to your potion. 

He lingers a moment to make sure the situation is clear, before sweeping away to help someone else. But as you watch him go, you wonder - does he know?  

You can hear the celebrations from the castle, but you can’t bring yourself to join in on them. Instead, you stand at the edge of the Black Lake, your boots sinking slightly into the damp ground as you throw another stone into the water. It skips once, then twice, before vanishing beneath the surface, rippling outwards and distorting the reflection of the half-moon above. 

You reach down for another stone, but it’s not enough. Nothing feels like enough. The tightness in your chest, the restlessness in your legs – it won’t settle, no matter how many stones you throw. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, curling your fingers around a larger stone, gripping it so hard that your nails dig into it painfully. You draw your arm back, ready to throw it- 

“Is that meant to be therapeutic?” a voice behind you cuts through the quiet, and you jump, the stone slipping from your grasp and landing by your feet. 

Whipping yourself around, you find Snape standing a few feet begin you, his dark robes barely distinguishable from the night itself. His expression is the same as always, cool and composed, but there’s something almost amused in the way he watches you. 

“Do you always sneak up on people like that?” you ask, glaring at him. 

He doesn’t answer, instead he steps closer, looking from you to the water. “You should be inside.” 

You shake your head, turning back to the lake. “I'm not in the mood for celebrations.” 

He doesn’t respond, but he doesn’t leave either. Instead, he walks closer until he’s beside you. You ignore him, reaching down to pick up the stone again and throwing it as hard as you can, the splash loud in the silence between you. 

“Did you know?” you eventually ask, looking up at him. 

Snape arches a brow, “You’ll have to be more specific.” 

“The first task. It’s dragons,” you say, reaching down for a new stone and gripping it tightly. 

“Yes.” 

You laugh, but it’s humourless. Of course he did. “And you didn’t think to tell me?” 

You turn to him, and he’s still looking at you, folding his arms. “I believe you’re intelligent enough to know why I couldn’t.” 

“But Fleur and Krum knew.” 

He lightly taps his fingers against his arm, and by that, you guess he already knew that too. “Do they?” 

“Yes,” you say, crossing your own arms. “They knew. I only found out because Harry told me.” 

“Then perhaps you should be grateful Potter took it upon himself to inform you.” 

You let out a sharp breath, “Grateful?” Your anger feels hotter this time. “You said you’d help me!” you say, raising your voice slightly. “So where was it when I needed it?” 

He just looks at you for a moment, with a maddening calmness that makes you even more angry. “As I recall, you said you didn’t need my help.” 

His words make everything inside you feel like they’re dropping, your own words you said to him last week echoing in your head. “That’s not-” you break off, unfolding your arms. "That’s not the same.” 

“No?” his gaze remains the same, watching you. “You made it quite clear.” 

You’re furious, but it’s only because you know he’s right. You turn away from him, throwing the stone you’ve been gripping so fiercely as hard as you can into the water. 

“Would it have changed anything, knowing earlier?” he asks after a moment. “Would it have spared you from what is coming tomorrow?” 

You want to say yes. You almost say yes. You could have prepared more, thought of a strategy to survive a dragon, but you know it’s a lie. No amount of preparation could prepare you for this. 

“I don’t know if I can do it,” you say as quiet as a whisper, the words slipping out before you can swallow them back. You don’t mean to admit it, especially not to him, and you regret it instantly.  

You don’t move, don’t turn to face him, instead focusing on the soft ripples of the water as a light breeze pushes towards you. He’s so quiet that a part of you thinks he didn’t actually hear you at all, and the wind carried away your confession. But then- 

“You chose this,” he says, but not unkindly. “That choice remains yours, no matter how much you wish to take it back now.” 

Your hands curl into a fist at your sides. “I don’t-” 

“Do not waste our time by lying to yourself,” he interrupts. “Regret is just as natural as fear. But neither will change the fact that you are already in too deep to turn away.” 

He’s right. Why is he always right?

For a long time, you don’t say anything. You don’t know what to say. After a while, he exhales quietly. “Go inside before you freeze to death." 

You roll your eyes, but the bitter wind nipping at your exposed skin makes you realise he has a point. Still, you don’t acknowledge it. “Doubt that’d be the worse way to go,” you mutter quietly. 

“Stop being ridiculous and get inside. Brooding in the cold won’t make you any less unprepared.” 

You throw the rock in your fist one last time before turning to walk past him, but he isn’t done. “You need to be focused. Wallowing in self-pity will not help you survive tomorrow.” 

“Bit late for advice, don’t you think?” you snap, meeting his eyes with a glare before walking past him, not waiting for a response. 

Chapter Text

You wake up before the sun even rises, staring at the canopy of your bed with the kind of exhaustion that settles deep in your bones. Not that you actually slept, that is. Most of the night was spent like this, staring into nothingness, running through thousands of scenarios in your head. None of which ended particularly well for you. 

Dragons.

Fuck.

Why did you enter this stupid competition? 

You sigh, rubbing your tired eyes before dragging yourself out of bed. There’s no point in laying here, pretending like you’ll magically come up with some genius strategy now.

You’re just going to have to wing it.

Which is definitely the most terrible idea you’ve ever had. But at this point, it’s all you’ve got. 

There's a heavy silence in the dorm as you grab your tournament clothes and head for a shower, even though just looking at them makes you want to incendio them out of existence.

You turn the water on to the hottest setting and step under the scorching stream. It stings at first, but you don't move away. Instead, you let it roll over you, scalding away the tension already forming in your muscles and the nerves crawling their way under your skin. Steam quickly fills the air, and you stay there longer than usual, lost in thought.

Maybe if you don’t leave the shower, you won’t have to deal with any of this. It’s not like anyone would come in and drag you out. You could stay here and avoid it all...

As if that would ever actually work.

Eventually, you turn the water off and reach for a towel, taking your time to dry off as if delaying the inevitable will help you here.

It doesn’t. 

The second you pull on the tournament clothes, you feel sick. The robes and jersey are comfortable enough, clearly made for easy movement. But it doesn’t stop you from hating them. The deep green and black are striking, and the silver embroidered serpents on the sleeves catch the light whenever you move. For a second, you almost think they look good. But then you turn around and catch the silver letters of your last name printed across the back, and the robes suddenly feel so oppressive. It makes it all feel too real.

Today, you’ll face a dragon and prove you belong in the tournament... or fail, and crash and burn in front of the whole school. No pressure. 

You pull yourself away from the reflection, needing to stop the destructive trail of thought before it gets out of hand. The dorm is quieter than usual. Some of the girls are still around, chatting together as they finish getting ready. You catch bits of their conversation before they notice you, and the excitement in their voices is clear.

You crouch to grab your shoes from under the bed, but a rustle of movement behind you makes you pause.

“Aw, look at you,” Ivy pouts from her place by the mirror where she’s doing her hair. “All dressed up like a real champion.” 

You ignore her, sitting on the edge of your bed to pull on your boots. 

“They really went all out, didn’t they?” she continues. “Must be nice walking around looking like Slytherins golden girl.” 

Before you can snap back, one of your other roommates, Valeria, sighs loudly. "Oh shut up, Ivy," she says, throwing a pillow in her direction but missing. "Just because you're bitter it doesn't mean the rest of us have to listen to it."

Ivy scowls, but doesn't reply.

Valeria turns back to you, brushing her long dark hair over her shoulder. "Don't listen to her," she says, watching you tighten your laces. "You're going to be great out there."

You can't tell if she really believes that or if she's just saying it to be nice, but you smile, accepting the support for what it is.

“Please,” Ivy laughs. “I’m just saying it’s a shame. All this effort, all this attention... just for her to let us down today.” 

Your fingers tighten around the last lace, and you don’t give her the satisfaction of a reaction. Instead, you stand and push past her without another word, leaving the common room and heading to breakfast. 

The Great Hall is louder than ever this morning, but it all feels a million miles away. You take a seat at the Slytherin table and barely acknowledge the way your housemates light up at your arrival. They chant your name, clapping you on the back, and even shove food in front of you as if their enthusiasm alone will carry you to victory.  

“How cool is it that you get to do this?! You're going to crush it today!” a younger student grins across from you, practically vibrating with excitement. 

You smile and force yourself to nod, but the reality is starting to sink in. Jade notices immediately, and leans closer, lowering her voice so only you can hear. "Hey... you good?"

"Yeah, fine," you lie, brushing off the look she's giving you. She nudges you gently. "You should eat something. Even if it's just a bit of toast. You'll need your strength."

She's right. You should eat. But the thought of it is enough to make your stomach lurch. “I can’t. I’ll throw up.” 

She sighs, resting her chin on her hands. “Oh come on, [First Name]! You're going to be fine, we all know it.” 

You force a smile, but it’s not quite genuine. As the chatter and laughter grows, you find yourself taping your fingers anxiously against the table. The energy is too overwhelming. Your only solace in all this is that they don’t know what you’re about to face, because if they did, you wouldn’t be able to handle their fear on top of your own.  

“Ah, there she is!” a mischievous voice comes behind you, and Fred reaches over your shoulder to pluck a piece of toast straight off your plate. 

Jade shoots him a look. “That’s for her.” 

“It’s fine,” you say. “Not like I was going to eat it anyway.” 

“Don't mind if I do then," Fred grins at you, taking a big bite. 

George leans in beside him, resting a hand on your shoulder. “You’re looking a bit grim this morning, [First Name].” 

Fred waves a hand. “Nah, she looks right at home. Decked out in Slytherins finest, probably already scheming how to wipe the floor with the rest of us.” He smirks. “Bit unsettling, actually.” 

George nods. “Yeah, I dunno if I should be wishing you luck now or watching my back.” 

You roll your eyes but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.  

“Anyway,” Fred continues, finishing the slice of toast. “We come bearing gifts.” 

George straightens up, his eyes twinkling. “Step right up! For a limited time only, we’re proud to offer a special selection of last minute champion aids.” 

Fred pulls out a small, shimmering sweet and dangles it in front of you. “This beauty? Guaranteed to give you an instant burst of energy.” 

“Or an instant nose bleed,” George adds. 

“Tempting,” you say with a small laugh. 

Jade, though, who’s been silently watching next to you, doesn’t find it funny. “Stop it, you two. She’s not taking any of your weird stuff.” 

Fred shrugs. “Hey, we’re just trying to help.” 

“Help?” a low, cold voice interrupts from behind them. “And how exactly would sending Miss [Last Name] to the hospital wing before the task has even begun be of any assistance, hm?” 

Snape’s shadow casts over the twins, and you can't help but bite back a laugh at their panicked faces. 

“Professor Snape,” Fred says, trying to sound casual but failing miserably. “We were just, uh... offering some last minute support.” 

“Yeah, support,” George echos him weakly, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. 

Snape eyes narrow at the items in Freds hands. “Support, is it?” He steps forward, reaching out to take the sweet and a suspicious looking pastry from his grasp. “I believe these belong in the rubbish, don’t you?” 

Fred scowls, opening his mouth to protest, but quickly shuts it when Snape galres at him. 

“Really,” Snape continues. “You’re fortunate I don’t confiscate your entire stock of ‘helpful’ products.” 

Fred and George exchange a quick, nervous glace before quickly standing straighter. “Good luck, [First Name],” Fred says quickly. “You’ll be great.” 

“Yeah, good luck!” George adds. And with that, they quickly scurry away, shooting one last glance at Snape as if they’re afraid they’ll be caught doing something else wrong. 

Snape watches them go, before turning back to you. “Now, if you’re quite finished. It’s time to go.” 

You nod, still smiling from what’s just happened, and Jade gives you a quick squeeze on the arm before you stand. “Good luck!” 

“Thanks,” you mutter, your smile already fading as the wave of nausea starts to rise again. Swallowing hard, hoping to push it down, you step away from the bench and the cheers pick up again as you follow Snape out of the hall, the weight of the Slytherins expectations crushing down on you. 

The silence outside the castle is almost worse than the noise in the Hall. Here, there’s no distractions from your thoughts. Snape walks beside you, his robes grazing your arm with each step. The only sound between you both is the faint whisper of the breeze.

Every step closer to the arena feels like a step closer to your downfall, but you keep your head down and force yourself forward. 

“You’ve eaten, I presume?” he finally asks. 

You shake your head. 

“And I suppose you’ve slept just as well?”  

You don’t bother lying to him, knowing only too well where that gets you. Instead, you just choose to stay quiet. 

“Of course you haven’t,” he sighs.  

“It’s kinda hard to fall asleep when you know there’s a dragon waiting for you when you wake up, you know” you mutter back, crossing your arms. 

He doesn’t reply, so you chance a look over at him. There’s something in his eyes that shows he's not as sure about this as he wants to be. It sends a whole new wave of nerves to your stomach. At least you didn’t eat anything this morning. 

After a few more minutes, you stop walking. “How am I supposed to do this?”  

He comes to a halt just ahead, turning to look at you. For a moment, his mask cracks just enough to show you that he doesn't have the answer either. “You will do it," he says in a sharp tone. "Or you will fail. And I don’t imagine you’ve dragged yourself this far only to humiliate yourself now.” 

You scoff. “That’s not exactly helpful, Sir.”  

“Neither is indulging in self-pity before you’ve even stepped foot in the arena,” he says back coolly, already walking off.  

You take a breath, knowing he’s right. He’s always right.  

"Why are you the one escorting me?" you ask, catching up to him. 

"Would you have preferred McGonagall?" he replies dryly. "I'm sure she would have been delighted to accompany you – though I imagine she'd have spent the entire walk reminding you how untrustworthy you are." 

You huff a quiet laugh. It’s not really funny, but it’s something. "Yeah, that sounds about right." 

"On the contrary," he continues, his voice cool and slightly amused, “she was actually rather eager to be here. Worried you might try something before the task starts. Unfortunately for her,” he adds, glancing at you, “I had to remind her that, despite your... enthusiasm for trouble, you're still my responsibility."  

"Still doesn't explain why you're doing it, though," you argue back. "You hate the tournament, and unless I've missed something, I'm pretty sure you're not exactly fond of me either. So why?" 

He doesn't answer, and you're sure he's just going to ignore you. 

"I may not like the tournament, and my opinion of you is... unchanged," he starts, quietly. "But that doesn't mean I will stand aside and watch you destroy yourself. No matter how much you seem set on doing it." 

"So, what, this is just a Head of House obligation to you?" 

"Precisely.” 

When you eventually arrive at the arena, the Minister's waiting outside. He eyes you with a wariness that’s hard to miss, but doesn't say anything. His suspicion of you is still painfully obvious, but honestly, you couldn’t give a fuck.  

The other champions are already here, and the atmosphere is pretty hollow as you step inside.

Fleur's sitting in the corner on her own, not looking half as elegant as she usually does. Krum's leaning against one of the posts holding the tent up, watching as Rita Skeeter scurries around the judges, her quill scratching furiously as she whispers to them between stolen photos. 

Snape doesn’t say anything to you as he walks past you, heading for Dumbledore and Harry. They’re deep in a quiet conversation about who knows what, and Snape looks down at Harry with the same look he had talking to you on the walk here.

It rubs you the wrong way, and you can’t help but feel a bit offended at the comparison.  

Whatever.  

You start pacing at the back of the tent, forcing your mind to think about anything other than the tournament.  

“Psst!” a voice comes from behind you, and the tent rustles slightly.

You step closer, putting an ear to the fabric. “Hello?” 

“Hey! It's me, Jakob,” he says quietly. “I would rather not let Viktor see me talking to you right now.” 

You smirk and glance over at Krum, who’s still glaring daggers at Rita Skeeter from across the room. Pulling the tents fabric aside, you walk out to join him. “Don’t worry, he’s too distracted to notice anyway.” 

“Good,” he says, relieved. “How are you?” 

“Fine,” you reply, even though you really don’t feel it. You don’t want to talk about it right now. “Are Fred and George here yet?” 

“Last I saw, they are outside the castle... taking bets,” he chuckles. 

You snort, half shaking your head. “Typical. I hope for their sakes they’re betting on me.” 

“Obviously,” he grins. “I made sure of it.” 

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Did you bet on me?” 

He leans closer, his voice a whisper in your ear. “I did. But do not tell Viktor.” 

That makes you laugh, a real laugh, and the nerves in your chest ease just a little bit. “Don’t worry, I’m good at keeping secrets.” 

He smiles, but you can see he’s concerned. “Just... be careful. Ok?” 

You’re about to answer him when you hear the fabric of the tent shifting behind you. The flap of the tent is torn open, and Snape's scowl is immediately visible as he steps through, his eyes narrowing at the two of you. 

“You should be preparing yourself,” Snape says darkly, cutting through the moment. He looks down at you first before sweeping his eyes over Jakob. “Not lingering out here with Durmstrang strays.” 

You blink up at him, caught completely off guard by his words. “Are you serious?” 

Snape doesn’t even look at you, his focus is still solely on Jakob. “Perfectly.” 

Your mouth falls open, but before you can even think about what to say, Jakob's voice breaks in, totally unbothered. “No faith in your champion, professor?” 

“None in her choice of company,” he replies, his voice colder than before.

You can practically feel the tension brewing, but whatever he has against the Durmstrangs can wait.  “Go, Jakob,” you say quietly, not wanting Snape to hear. “I’ll come find you later.” 

He hesitates, his eyes searching yours, and you see the concern flashing in them before he smiles at you. “You will be brilliant,” he says confidently. Then, with one last glare at Snape, he turns and heads towards the stands. 

You let out a breath, the frustration still simmering in you. “That was uncalled for,” you mutter, but Snape, of course, ignores you completely.

“Inside. Now.”

You roll your eyes. There’s no point in arguing with him, especially not right now. Without looking at him, you head back into the tent, where the realisation of what you’re about to do hits you all over again. 

Bagman’s already talking to the other champions by the time you approach, but you can barely hear him over the commotion outside. Everyone coming to watch the task is hurrying past, laughing and chattering loudly, completely oblivious to the danger you and the others are about to face. 

As you get closer, you catch the end of his announcement. “-this bag,” you hear him say, lifting a purple bag and shaking it. “From which you will select a small model of what you’re about to face! There are different... varieties... yes, but your task is simple. Collect the golden egg!” 

He claps his hands together, his enthusiasm for the task completely at odds to how you’re all feeling. “Right then! Ladies first!” 

Fleur steps forward. Her face is a mask of confidence, but you don’t miss the slight tremor in her fingers as she reaches into the bag. A second later, she pulls out a tiny green dragon, and its wings beat furiously against her palm. 

“The Welsh Green!” Bagman announces, grinning as if he’s just won a prize instead of sealing her fate. “And going first, it seems.” 

Fleur gives a sharp nod, cupping her dragon in her hands as she steps back. Her eyes look up to you as your turn comes. Your throat feels dry as you step forward. Bagman shoves the bag towards you with a sinister smile on his face, clearly enjoying this way too much. You breathe deeply before reluctantly plunging your hand inside.

Your fingers brush against something warm and scaley, and before you can wrap your fingers around it, it snaps at you. You yank your arm back, biting down a curse. 

Bagman sighs impatiently, shaking the bag more as if he thinks it’ll calm the dragons inside, but it's only making them more irritable. You glare at him but try to steady yourself before trying again.  

This time, you grab hold of something smooth and firm, feeling the sharp curl of a tail wrap around your fingers. When you pull it out, the tiny dragon lets out an angry squeak, its wings flaring out with aggression. 

Bagman lets out a thrilled whistle. “Ah, the Swedish Short Snout! Beautiful creatures, but don’t let that fool you – nasty bit of fire in ‘em. You’ll be second up!” 

You stare down at the blue dragon in your palm. It’s beady eyes are already locked on yours, and the weight of the number two hanging around its neck feels almost crushing.  

At least you’re not first. 

You don't pay attention to Krum and Harry taking their turns, gripping the dragon tighter as if holding it any harder might somehow prepare you more for what’s coming.  

It doesn’t take long for the first cannon to sound, and the commentator announces Fleur’s name. She hesitates for a second, whispering something to Madame Maxine under her breath. You catch a glimpse of her pale face before the entrance of the tent flutters shut behind her. Cheers erupt outside, but you can’t help feeling worried for her, even though she’s your opponent here. You can only imagine how she's feeling, especially going first, and you hope she makes it through. 

You try to distract yourself as the task goes on, but it’s impossible not to listen. The sharp crackle of fire and the tremor of the ground from the dragons' heavy steps reverberates in your chest. Somewhere out there, Fleur is being hunted by a living, fire-breathing dragon.  

And soon, it’ll be you. 

You loosen the grip on the tiny dragon, and its tail curls around your fingers again mockingly, as if it’s aware of your fear. 

“You need to calm down,” Snape’s voice comes softly next to you. He’s been watching you this whole time, but you don’t have it in you to care. 

“I-,” your voice shakes from the racing of your heart flooding your senses. “She’s been out there for ages.” 

He doesn’t respond right away, glancing towards the opening of the tent, but you can tell he knows it too. He's about to turn back to you when a scream suddenly tears through the arena.

It’s Fleurs scream. It's not a shout of frustration, not a spell. It's an actual scream of pain.

You don’t even realise you’re stepping backwards until your heel bumps into a crate at the edge of the tent. 

“Focus,” Snape’s voice is sharp as he moves closer. “You cannot afford to lose your composure now.” 

You look at him, breathing a little too heavily, but force yourself to calm down. The next few minutes are unbearable. Every second feels like an eternity, and it's impossible to stay still. 

Snape doesn't take his eyes off you, and before you can even think about what you’re doing, you thrust your dragon towards him. He glances between you and the writhing creature in your palm, as if to say, ‘what do you want me to do with it?’ but you just push it out further, desperate. 

“Please,” you beg. “Just for a minute.” 

There’s a pause, and for a moment you think he’s going to refuse. Then, he nods and his fingers brush against yours as he takes the dragon into his own hands without a word. It settles immediately, but its beady little eyes stay locked on you, as if it knows exactly who its target is.  

You turn away from it before the panic can drag you under. Taking a steady breath, you head for the back of the tent, flinging the flap open and stepping outside. 

The sun blinds you, and it's heat clings to your skin, making you sweat more than you already are. But you don’t care. You can’t think about that right now. 

You see the trees just beyond the clearing, close enough to reach. It almost feels inviting, and for a moment, the idea of disappearing into them feels like the only way out. You seriously consider running into the forest before anyone can stop you. 

But you can’t. You know there’s no escaping this. 

So, you stand there, forcing yourself to breathe and push the fear deep down so it can’t control you. You need to pull it together. If you go out like this, you’re dead. But the more you focus on spells, on anything that might possibly help you here, the more your mind goes blank. You can’t do this.  

You’re so fucked. 

After a few minutes, you can’t stand the restlessness and waiting around any longer.

Sighing, you go back into the tent, ready to take the damn dragon back from Snape. But before you can reach him, the entrance of the tent flies open. Fleur stumbles in, and it feels like time stops all together. 

Everyone gasps at the sight, including you, unable to take their eyes from her. The graceful, unshakable Fleur Delacour is barely standing, her usually pristine robes are torn and scorched. Blood pours from a deep gash in her arm, dripping to the floor in thick, steady drops. One of her legs is burnt raw, the skin red and blistered, still oozing with searing heat. 

She clutches the golden egg in her trembling arms like it’s her lifeline, and her glassy eyes are distant as she stumbles forward, barely keeping her balance. 

Madame Pomfrey and Madame Maxine rush forward, guiding her to the nearest chair and fussing over her injuries. Fleur tries to hold onto her composure, but as soon as Pomfrey presses a slave to her burns, she screams, flinching violently against her touch. 

... and then she passes out. 

You freeze in place, watching as more mediwitches rush in to help her. The sight is enough to make everything inside you drop. In a matter of minutes, that might be you. 

Every rational part of you wants to run. To hide. To never come back to this stupid arena. But that’s not an option, is it? 

Running your hands over your face, you look away from Fleurs unconscious form and take your dragon from Snape’s hands. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You can’t. If you see the fear in their eyes, it’ll crack you open all over again. 

Stay composed. Stay focused.  

“Next up, [First Name] [Last Name]!” The commentator announces from outside the tent. 

You barely hear the noise of the crowd outside over the blood rushing in your ears. Your stomach turns, and it suddenly feels like your legs might give way under you any second. The tent feels too small, the air is too thick - 

Snape is beside you in an instant, his voice low but urgent. “Steady,” he says, holding your free arm. “Breathe.” 

You can’t. 

“You will get yourself killed like this,” he snaps, his grip tightening. “Look at me.” Somehow, you manage to lift your head, meeting his dark eyes. “You will breathe,” he says firmly. 

You try.  

It’s shaky and uneven at first. Your throat feels way too tight, and your chest feels as though its caving in. But slowly, painfully, you pull in a breath.  

The tent is still too warm, but your vision starts to clear and the shaking in your hand starts to ease a bit. Snape still watches you carefully, like he’s assessing whether you’re about to fall apart again. You manage to take another deep breath, and after a moment, he steps back, letting you move away from him.

You just need to get this over with now. 

Your dragon shifts restlessly in your palm, its tiny form growing feistier with each step you take towards the entrance of the tent. It claws and bites at your fingers now, and your hand is wet from all the blood. Little bastard. 

From the corner of your eye, you catch Harry approaching, but you can't look at him, already knowing what you'll see in his face. And if he's saying anything, his voice is (thankfully) lost in the roaring of the crowd.

The arena comes into view as you slip out of the tent and step into the sunlight, and the sight of it hits you with a force. The rocky terrain stretches out before you, jagged and unforgiving. You can see the damage Fleur’s dragon caused – the scorched ground, the deep gauges in the earth, and.... is that blood?  

The crowd is totally deafening now, and your eyes are drawn to a cluster of silver and green in the stands. Your housemates are cheering louder than the rest, shouting your name and encouragements, but it's doing nothing to calm you down. How are they celebrating when they know what you’re about to face? 

Your eyes scan the rest of the crowd, searching for any familiar faces, but instead you find yourself under the powerful eyes of the judges. Dumbledore, for once, looks so serious. Concerned, even. But it's the Minister's narrowed eyes that hold your attention the longest. He's not just watching, he's studying you, as if he's only waiting for you to slip up and confirm whatever doubts he has about you.

The dragon in your hand squirms again, hissing at you, bringing your attention back to the task. It’s still tiny, but you know its power is only building by the second. 

You can't put this off any longer. It's time.

Your boots crunch against the dirt as you approach a rather tall bit of terrain, just in front of where the judges sit above. The climb is rough, especially with the dragon still nibbling on one of your hands, but your grip with the other is steady. 

Every move feels deliberate as you scale the rock, and when you reach the top, you carefully place the dragon on the surface. Its small body shifts, but its eyes never leave you. At this point, your heart’s beating so fast it genuinely feels like it might break free any second.  

Sliding back down the rock, you awkwardly land on your feet and stumble before catching yourself. You take a few long steps away from the dragon, putting some distance between you. The further you get, the more it sinks in that this is really happening. 

You’re really about to do this. 

And holy hell, you’re terrified. 

You grab your wand from inside your robes, clutching it for dear life. The dragon still wriggles on the rock, its tiny claws scraping at the surface waiting for you to get started. You point your wand at it, but before you start the show, something compels you to look back at the tent. 

Snape's there in the opening, watching you. You can’t read his expression from this far away, but you know his eyes are fixed on you, tracking your every move. You can’t tell if it comforts you or makes you feel even worse - not that it matters right now.

Turning back to the dragon, you take a deep breath, closing your eyes before whispering the incantation. 

“Engorgio.”    

You let a few seconds pass before opening your eyes. And when you do, you wish you hadn’t. 

The dragon’s already growing, and it’s almost twice the size now. The blue shimmery scales snap and stretch into place, the leathery wings shooting out with a powerful force. Before long, it's towering over you - far, far bigger than you ever expected it to be. The rock's even starting to crumble from the weight of it. 

You’re almost blinded by the scales reflecting in the sun, using your arm to shield your eyes so can keep it in view. You can’t take your eyes off it - you stare up, your shallow breaths catching painfully in your throat. It doesn't take its eyes off you either, the slits of its yellow eyes locking onto you as if you're the only thing that matters.  

You’re rooted to the spot, still trying to process what the fuck is happening.  

And then, it roars. Its mouth reveals rows of sharp teeth, and the sound is so powerful it almost knocks you straight off your feet.  

Your heart skips a beat before you bolt.  

Your boots pound against the rocky ground while your thoughts blur into a mush of panic – mainly half-formed spells and hexes you might be able to use if you can put them together quick enough. 

Diving behind the nearest rock, you grip your wand tighter, the wood slippery from all the blood that still stains your palm.  

Shit. Fuck.  What the hell do you do now?  

You can hear the dragon closing in behind you, and you don’t have much time to turn in place before it shoots a wave of searing blue fire your way. You’re lucky the rock is here, or you’d literally be a pile of ash right now. 

You wait it out, shielding your face from the intense heat as it only just manages to hold up against the flames. As soon as the fire stops, you know you don’t have much time. You need to move.  

You risk a peek around the rock, seeing the dragon weaving through the rocks, sniffing the air like it’s hunting you. 

And then, something catches your eye. The golden egg sits on the tallest rock in the clearing, glittering in the sunlight like a cruel beacon of hope. And just your luck – the dragon stops just in front of it, curling its body around it protectively.  

Great.  

You can't afford to sit here and stay hidden any longer. It'll find you eventually - you need to do something. Holding your breath, you dart out from behind the rock, staying low and moving fast. The dragon's attention is still fixated on the egg, letting you get into a better position without being spotted.  

You crouch, breathing hard and trying to steady yourself before you move again. At least from here you’re closer to the egg, though, still not quite close enough. 

You try to map out your next move. You can see a way... but it’s risky.  

Fuck it. 

You sprint across the arena, knowing this is probably the stupidest decision you’ve made so far but it’s the only one you have. The dragons' claws scrape along the stone, a warning, but you don’t stop. 

Throwing yourself onto a low rock, you scramble up the uneven surface, your boots slipping while you try to grab anything you can. You almost lose your balance completely, but manage to kick your legs into a foothold just in time.  

A deep growl comes from in front of you, and you look up just in time to see the dragon rear back, its massive claw already aiming straight for you. Panic takes over as you shove your wand up, ready to cast the first spell you can think of. 

But you're too slow. 

A split second later, the claw slams into your side. There's no time to even register the pain before the impact sends you flying across the arena. 

The crowd boos as you land and hit the ground hard, but you couldn’t care less about them. The world is blurring around you dangerously fast - the pain exploding around your side. You can’t even manage out a scream. There’s no air in your lungs, just agony and a deafening ring in your ears.  

For a moment, you think this might be how it all ends.  

But you grit your teeth, pushing yourself up with your shaky arms. Blood is already pouring from the deep gashes in your side, but somehow you manage to get back on your feet. You cast a quick healing spell to slow the bleeding just enough so you won’t pass out. It’s not great, but it’ll do.  

The dragon’s still above you, its massive wings half-spread as it watches you, almost mockingly. It doesn’t lunge at you again though, not yet. Maybe it thinks you’ve already lost.  

Ignoring the pain in your ribs, you raise your wand and point it straight at the dragons head, your mind racing for the right spell. 

Come on. Don't freeze up now.  

With a flick of your wand, you send a string of hexes straight at it, hoping to knock it away from the rock so you can move in and steal the egg. Your spells hit the thick, shimmering scales, and for a terrifying moment, you think it’s deflecting them.

But then it flinches, ever so slightly. It takes a step back from the rock, letting out another warning growl as it shakes its head. 

It’s not afraid of you, but it can definitely feel the sting of your hexes. You throw more stronger, slightly aggressive ones, knowing it won’t hurt the dragon, but it's enough to make it move. 

This time, the dragon's pissed. It snarls at you, stomping a massive foot against the ground so hard that it knocks you over again. It looks like it’s retreating, but then you realise-  

Shit.   

Its chest expands, and you barely have enough time to move before it breathes another deadly wave of blue fire your way. You roll yourself to the side, hitting the ground hard as the flames scorch the spot where you were just laying seconds ago.  

You don’t stop to think. You can’t.  

Scrambling to your feet and ignoring the way your body screams in protest, you sprint as fast as you can to the tallest rock – the one with the egg. Your hands scrape against the jagged surface as you climb, your fingers slipping with every desperate grip, shredding your skin even more. But you have no choice but to power through it. 

Just as you’re pulling yourself up onto the rock, shakily getting to your feet, your heart stops. 

You look up, and the dragon is right there. Its enormous head hovers just inches away from yours, the heat from its breath washing over your face.   

You can’t move. You can’t even breathe.  

There’s absolute havoc coming from the crowd, a mixture of people shouting and screaming, but you don’t dare look away. For the first time in your life, true terror takes over you.   

And then... something whispers. 

It's not in your ears, it comes from somewhere deep in your mind. It's foreign, distant, and impossible to follow. 

You can't understand it. You can't even make sense of the words, of the voice, but as if you're reacting to it, your wand suddenly feels heavier in your hand. Like it's pulling you in. 

And then, a silence consumes you. 

Something dark and misty starts to pour from the tip of your wand, thickening the air around you. You watch, horrified, as it spreads. In an instant, everything - everything  - goes dark. An abyss swallows the arena in a heartbeat. The sky, the crowd, the rocks... are all gone.   

What the fuck? Did that just come from you?  

No, this can’t be happening. 

You stumble around, trying to steady yourself, but it feels like you're floating around in nothingness. Your heart's racing so loudly now that you can barely hear your own thoughts as you try to make some kind of sense of the emptiness around you.  

You even try to call out, but the words die before they make a sound. 

The only thing you hear is the dragon’s claws scraping against the rocks again, almost like it’s fumbling around and dazed just as much as you are. It lets out a low, almost pained growl, but you can't tell where it is anymore. 

You can't tell where anything is. 

Crouching down on the rock, you force your free hand out in front of you, fingers trembling as they search the space in the black void. The egg is here somewhere, you were so close. Sliding your hand along the rough surface, moving carefully, you try not to lose your balance in the overwhelming darkness. 

After what feels like forever, your fingers grab hold of something smooth – something round.   

It’s the egg. It has to be. 

Relief hits you so hard you almost drop the damn thing, so you take a moment to sit there, catching your breath. It doesn’t last long, because the next thought his you just as hard - how the hell are you going to get out of here?   

You clutch the egg like your life depends on it – which it does – but it’s hard with all the blood and sweat still covering your fingers. Carefully, you find the edge of the rock with the hand holding your wand, trying to inch your way down it.  

You're almost there when your boot slips. 

You try desperately to grab onto something, but with the egg in one hand and your wand in the other, it's impossible. You crash to the ground, the egg still gripped against your chest, your wand flying from your grip. 

You can feel the wound in your side reopening as your robes become wet with a gushing warmth, but that's the least of your worries now. 

The darkness has vanished -  because why wouldn't it?  - and the world snaps back into life. 

The sun blinds you all over again as you lay there on the ground, disoriented. The crowd goes crazy when they see you have the egg, but it’s quickly smothered out by something far worse.  

A bloodcurdling screech fills the arena, silencing everything. The dragon can see you again, and it's seething at the sight of you holding the egg. It thrashes furiously, beating its wings, sending a gust of wind and dust flying in your direction. 

It’s preparing to strike. 

Your breath comes in a ragged gasp as you scramble to your feet, snatching your wand from the dirt. There's no more time to think. No time to plan. You just need to run. 

The ground shakes under your feet as the dragon chases after you, its roars making your blood turn to ice. You weave through the rocks, ignoring the fire burning your lungs and the way your side screams in protest at the movements.  

Every step feels too slow. but through all the dust you can see the tent, a blur of fabric in your rapidly darkening vision. 

You're so close. 

Just as you think you might make it, a snarl rips through the air behind you, followed by another earsplitting sound. Heat scorches your skin before you can even notice what’s happening.  

And then comes the pain. 

A wave of blistering blue fire collides with your back like a tidal wave, and you barely manage to scream before you're thrown forward, flying through the air, limp and helpless.  

The world tilts violently around you, but you don't hit the floor. 

Strong arms catch you as you collapse, and everything spins even more as you're pulled against a solid chest. The roaring of the crowd fades, taken over by the thundering of your own pulse in your ears, joined by the frantic heartbeat of the person holding you. 

Their grip stays, steadying you as you sob - desperately trying to push back the darkness threatening to take you. Then, a sharp but strained voice whispers in your ear. A real one this time.   

"I've got you."

Chapter Text

Severus despises every wretched second of this farce. The Triwizard Tournament. Nothing more than a ridiculous spectacle in his eyes. A foolish parade of near-death experiences disguised as school tradition.

And yet here he is, forced to bear witness to it.

But he isn’t here for the tournament itself. No, he has absolutely no interest in whatever display of bravery Potter or Krum will summon, nor whatever brand of theatrics Delacour will see fit to unleash. He’s here for you.

But not because he particularly wants to be.

Despite your insufferable secrecy and lies – the infuriating act of entering the tournament and then having the audacity to deny it to his face – you are a Slytherin. His Slytherin. And whether he likes it or not, it means something. Even if it didn't, he couldn't escape Dumbledore's ever insistence that he keep an eye on you, as if he can possibly ignore the mess you've tangled yourself in.

He's always suspected you were hiding something. Whether you knew it yourself was a different matter entirely. But now, after what he's just seen in the arena, there’s no longer any doubt.   

The spell from your wand was no ordinary incantation, no desperate wave of your wand. It was dark. The Minister surely felt it too, leaving Severus very little time to get you out of here before people start demanding answers you aren't in any condition to give.  

Fudge will probe. He’ll probably take your wand and demand an explanation that you either won’t or can’t give to him. And if he suspects for even a moment that it was intentional, then Gods help you. The consequences could extend beyond the Tournament. Beyond Hogwarts, even.  

Severus knows firsthand what happens to those caught wielding dangerous magic in front of the wrong people. The way a single moment can brand you forever.

He has no idea what he's going to do when he gets you out, but for now, that’s his priority.  

His attention snaps back onto the arena. Your dragon lets out a snarl as its massive body shifts its tail, sweeping through the dust and wreckage of the battlefield. And in the middle of it all, there you are, running towards him with the egg clutched so tightly in your arms he half expects it to crack. 

Foolish girl.    

He knew you’d do well. You always exceed his expectations, whether academically or in sheer audacity. Not that he’d ever tell you that. 

But now, you’re slowing.  

You stagger, and the egg nearly slips from your grip. He can see the exhaustion in your steps, the blood soaking through your clothes, your body betraying you. If you collapse now, there will be nothing he can do. 

Move, damn you.   

And then, as if things couldn’t get any worse, the fire consumes you.  

It happens too fast, and he barely has any time to react before your body hurls through the air and then collides with his own. The impact sends him stumbling back, and - damn it all - his arms move instinctively, catching you before you hit the ground too hard.  

“I’ve got you,” the words come out before he can stop them, before he can shove them back down to where they belong. 

He grips you tighter, feeling your sobs against his chest. He tries to ignore the searing heat from your back. Tries to ignore the racing of his own heart and the way he tightens his grip even further.   

You mutter something against his robes that sounds rather like a string of curses, which, frankly, he prefers. If you have enough strength to swear at him, you have the strength to stay awake and make it out of here.

Madame Pomfrey rushes over, crouching down to try and peel you off him. "Severus, let go. She needs immediate care." 

“No,” he warns. “I will handle this.”  

“This isn’t up for discussion!” Pomfrey snaps, threateningly. “She is burned, and you will let me treat her!" 

He doesn't let go. Instead, he stands you up, shifting your weight so you're more securely pressed against him. Your knees falter under the strain, and you lean heavily against him.

"Severus," Pomfrey's voice is darker now. "If you do not put her down this instant-" 

“I said I will handle this!” his hisses, leaving no room for argument. “She comes with me.”  

Everyone saw your spell. The darkness that consumed the arena, and if they come asking questions now, when you’re bleeding, in pain, barely here at all – you're in no position to answer properly.  

He needs to get you out. Now.  

Pomfrey hesitates, and several nearby mediwitches pause what they’re doing to look over, exchanging uncertain glances. 

“Do not test me, Severus," she says, looking almost ready to fight him. "Or I swear on every bone in my body-" 

"Enough!" Dumbledore's voice cuts through the tension in the tent as he bursts inside, his eyes sweeping over the sight of you against Severus’ chest. He sees the burn, the blood, and the barely restrained urgency in Severus’ stance. 

He understands.   

“Take her,” Dumbledore says firmly, his eyes full of a worry Severus rarely sees. “Ensure she is stable.”  

Pomfrey glares at him but reluctantly steps aside. He wastes no time in steadying you against his side as he turns, dragging you out of the tent before anyone else can try and stop him. 

You groan in protest, and he feels you trying to pull away from him, weakly, but your strength fails you. He feels your fingers wrap around his sleeve, clutching onto him as your legs almost give out. The dungeons aren't far, but he suspects you won't remain conscious for much longer. 

“ ...It... hurts..."  

"Yes, I imagine it does," he mutters. "Now keep moving."  

Your steps are sluggish, but for once, you do as you’re told. A rarity.  

By the time he reaches his office, you’re practically dead weight against him. He shoves the door open and kicks it closed behind him, hauling you over to his chair where he all but throws you in it. Blood seeps from the deep claw marks along your side. Burns blister beneath what remains of your tournament clothes, and the protective enchantments woven into the fabric are barely keeping them from being any worse.  

This is a problem. A dangerous problem. And for the first time in a long time, he's doesn't know how to fix it.

He makes his way over to the shelves in one fluid motion, letting his fingers skim over the vials with precision, searching for the right ones. A burn salve, blood replenishing potions. Things to keep you conscious.

Behind him, you let out a ragged breath as you move weakly against the worn leather. “...I think - I’m... dying.”  

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” he snaps, not even bothering to turn around. “If you were dying, you'd hardly be whining about it." 

He scans the labels one more time, pulling out a few more vials with an unsteady hand.  

Ridiculous.   

You’re reckless. Infuriating beyond measure. And yet here he is, gathering potions to help fix you after your idiotic decisions got you into this mess.   

He turns back to you, and damn it, you’re even paler than before. You’re laying in his chair awkwardly, eyes half closed and your head barely staying upright.  

His ignores the way his heart drops just a little.   

“Let me look,” he says, leaving no room for discussion as he sets the vials down on his desk and kneels in front of you.  

“Wha-? No,” you rasp, moving slightly as if you could somehow hide your wounds from him.  

Absolutely insufferable.   

“Miss [Last Name], this is not a request.” His patience is fraying further, and it’s starting to show in his tone. “Either you let me heal you, or you bleed out all over my chair. Which would you prefer?”  

For a moment, you don’t move at all. Then, begrudgingly, your fingers loosen on the fabric, letting your ruined robes slip just enough for him to see.  

The damage is worse than he expected.   

Four jagged slashes tear through your side, deep enough that blood still pools against his chair beneath you. For a moment, the sight sends something cold through him. He’d expected injuries, after seeing what happened to Delacour, but this... this is nearly fatal if he doesn’t act quickly.   

He doesn’t hesitate before lifting his wand and tracing it just above the wounds, channelling his magic into you with a practiced control. The second it touches you, you jerk violently. “Fucking hell-!”   

“Stop moving,” he snaps, holding you still with a firm grip on your arm.  

But you don’t listen, of course. You tense up, barely holding back more curses through your gritted teeth as he carefully begins knitting your torn flesh back together. Your body fights to stay rigid, but he can feel the way you’re shaking against the pain.   

“You could at least – fuck - pretend to be gentle,” you stutter between breaths.  

“And you could at least pretend to have some semblance of restraint,” he shoots back, tracing his wand over the last gash. It isn’t perfect, but it's the best he can do, given the situation. 

“It will take time to heal fully, but you’ll live.” He says curtly, standing up. “Now, lean forward” he gestures to the desk.  

“What?”  

“Your back,” he says, his voice hardening. “Unless you want the Minister to come and find you like this – half dead, barely standing, and confirming every suspicion he already has about you?”  

You let out a barely stifled groan, but, for perhaps the first time, you don’t argue back. Instead, he watches you push yourself up with a wince and brace yourself against the dark wood with trembling arms.    

Good. He doesn’t have time for your defiance.

The burn is a different matter entirely, and the damage, again, is worse than he thought. A wave of his wand severs the charred remains of your robes from your blistered skin, and the moment the fabric peels away, you flinch again. “ Shit-! How bad... is it?”  

“Bad,” he says, reaching for the salve in front of you. “Now focus. This will hurt.”  

He dips his fingers into the cooling ointment and presses it against your raw skin with as much care as he can allow. Your back arches at the first touch as you suck in a trembling breath, barely biting back another curse. Definitely aimed at him this time.   

He really should start taking away House Points for this.  

“Hold still,” he orders, though his patience wears thinner with every twitch of your body. He needs to keep you conscious. If you pass out now, he won’t get the truth, and Fudge will not bother asking for it.  

And so, he smothers another coat of the salve down your spine, cutting through your desperate breathing with something more sharper. “Whatever you did out there,” his voice dipping lower, “you will tell me. Before the Minister tears it from you himself.”  

You don’t respond at first, too busy shuddering between clenched teeth.  

“I need an answer. Now,” he says firmly, working the salve firmly into the worse of your burns. “They will be here any second, and I can promise you ‘I don’t know’ will not suffice.”  

“I- I don’t know,” you gasp.  

“Try again.”  

“I mean it,” you hiss. “I- I don’t know what it was,” your voice is raw, cracking with every word. “I didn’t cast anything... I swear.”  

Lies.

He narrows his eyes, not believing your drivel for a second. Every instinct is pushing him to pry further, to force the truth from you. But before he can speak again, your body suddenly sags against the desk, and his hand shoots out, catching you around your waist before he can think better of it. The movement is automatic, driven by reflex honed from years of catching potion bottles before they shatter.  

He curses through his teeth as you sag further into his hold, and your wand slips from your sleeve with a clatter as your back falls against his chest.   

“No. No, stay awake,” his grip tightens, and your head tilts back slightly, the top of it nearly brushing beneath his jaw.   

Reckless girl. Utterly infuriating.   

“Stop trying to slip away from me.” He snaps, his lips barely an inch from your ear. “Do you hear me? You need to stay conscious.”  

You don’t respond, but he can feel you struggling against the darkness. 

“Listen to me,” he warns sharply. “If you pass out now, the Minister will not give you a chance to explain yourself, and you will not have the luxury of defending yourself. You have to stay with me. Do you understand?”  

Your head tips back again, and you shift weakly in his grip. But it’s not enough.  

“Turn around,” he orders, is voice hard with impatience, and something else.  

You try, but it's a weak attempt. Your body is too uncooperative. 

He sighs, then moves you carefully – one arm still firm around your waist as he turns you just enough to ease you back into his chair. The moment he lets go, you slump, barely holding yourself up. But your eyes flutter open, briefly, and it's just enough for him to see the faint awareness you still have. You're still awake, for now. 

His mind races as he watches you, a dozen questions vying for dominance over the simmering panic he refuses to acknowledge. The spell. The damned spell. He felt it, something raw and barely contained. Something that had no business coming from you.   

He turns away, frustrated, running a hand through his hair, when his eyes catch your discarded wand laying just next to his foot. His jaw clenches at the sight. He’s suspected for months, but this? This confirms everything.  

He reaches down and just as his fingers brush against the wood, he feels a twinge of something stir inside him. The sensation is not unlike the one he felt when he first brought you to Hogwarts – when he’d taken your wand. Nor when Ollivander couldn’t name its core. Every answer he needs, about your wand, your magic, the Dark Lords apparent return, you have them.  

He looks at you again, your broken body still slumped in his chair.   

He could pry the truth from your mind right now.   

It would be so easy in your weakened state to tear through the layers of your deceptions and half truths. To lay your secrets bare to him.  

But what would it cost?  

You’re not some nameless enemy. Not a spy to be unmasked, a foe to be crushed beneath his will. It’s you. A girl who, despite her careless and rebellious habits, is still a student. His student.  

He grips your wand tighter as his eyes catch his other hand.   

Blood - yours , staining into the creases of his palm, smeared across his fingers from where he caught you. It seeps into the lines of his skin, clings under his nails...   

No.  

There’s already too much of your blood on his hands. He will not take more. Not like this.  

What kind of man would it make him?  

Legilimency is not a gentle art. It is an intrusion - a blade slipped between the ribs of the mind. He has seen what happens to those whos thoughts have been torn apart. Seen what is left of a person when their thoughts become fragmented, incoherent... unrecoverable.

And worse. He has seen what is left when something else seeps into the cracks.  

He shakes his head, moving to brace himself against the wall. His fingers press into the stone, head dipping forward as he squeezes his eyes shut. He cannot afford to lose control. Not like this.  

He takes a deep breath. Then, as if the thoughts hadn’t appeared at all, he slips your wand into his robes. You’re fragile, but alive. He’s made his decision, and – Merlin help him - he’ll deal with whatever comes next.  

As if right on cue, a knock on his door - an order - throws him back into the situation.  

He barely has time to straighten before the door swings open and Cornelius Fudge hurries in, his ridiculous lime-green bowler hat perched crookedly on his head as if he’d thrown it on in a hurry. Behind him, Bagman clasps his hands together, still clearly flushed with excitement from the tournament and looking as if this is nothing more than a casual enquiry.  

Then come the others, Dumbledore, Madame Maxine, and finally, the wretched Karkaroff. He despises the man and the smug little glint in his eye as he sweeps his gaze over the room – over you, barely upright in the chair.  

“Well,” Karkaroff drawls, hands folding behind his back. “I cannot say I am surprised. The apple never falls far from the tree, after all.”  

Severus feels his fingers twitch at his sides, but Dumbledore steps in before he can do anything. “Enough,” he says quietly, his eyes focused on your slumped form and pale complexion.  

“Severus,” he says, moving closer to him. “How is she?”  

He opens his mouth to reply, but your voice cuts through before he can say anything. “I didn’t-”  

“Didn’t what?” Fudge interrupts, his impatience bleeding through as he finally adjusts his absurd hat. “Didn’t cast an illegal spell? Because we all saw it, young lady. An entire arena reduced to darkness. Very advanced magic. And very dangerous, if I may say.”  

“It wasn’t... dangerous,” you rasp, breathing unsteady.  

“Not dangerous?!” Bagman lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, my dear, you had the entire audience on edge! No one could see a thing! Fantastic theatrics, mind you, but-”  

“Reckless,” Karkaroff finishes smoothly. “Tell me, girl, who taught you that spell? I cannot see it a part of Hogwart’s curriculum.”  

Severus watches as you try to pull yourself up, wincing under the weight of all their stares. Still ever the fiery girl he knows you to be - but he knows you can't fight this alone. Not in this state. 

“She panicked,” his voice slices through the conversation. He steps forward, feeling your unsteadiness behind him and the way you’re barely holding yourself together. But it isn’t the immediate concern right now. “The spell was not intentional,” he continues. “It was merely a result of heightened stress in a high-risk situation. Unless, of course, the Ministry has taken to prosecuting frightened students for magic they cannot even recall casting?”  

Fudge purses his lips. “Intentional or not, Severus, this is concerning. Her parents were-”  

“Irrelevant,” he snaps, cutting him off before he can say it. He knew this would be brought up. “She is a student of this school. Not her family.”  

“That remains to be seen,” Fudge mutters, his patience finally snapping as he strides over to you. "Dark magic in the tournament – it's an utter disgrace! I demand your wand, girl. Now!”  

Severus isn’t expecting you to do much. He assumes you’ll crumble under the pressure and let them squabble over your fate – something he won’t let happen. But then your lips part, and your voice comes out, weak but venomous.  

“I don’t... have it,” you say, scowling at him and sitting up as best you can with quiet groan.  

Foolish girl. Even half-conscious, you insist on provoking the Minister rather than conserving your strength.  

“Don’t have it?” Fudges eyes narrow. “Or don’t want to give it up?”  

“No,” you say, your voice trembling at first. “I don’t know where... it is.” Then, just as he thinks you cannot possibly make this any worse, your lips curl into something dangerously close to a smile. “If you want... you can search me.”  

For a second, the whole room freezes, and Fudge looks like he’s restraining himself, trying to decide if he should step any further.

Then, in an instant, it’s gone.  

“If you think that sort of attitude will prevent further investigation, you underestimate the seriousness of this situation!” He sneers, then, he moves in on you in two purposeful strides. His hand shoots out, his fingers twisting into the front of your robes, dragging you up just enough to make you gasp. 

Severus barely suppresses the urge to step forward and intervene, but he forces himself to wait. He needs them to see you don’t have it. So, reluctantly, he watches as Fudge rifles through your pockets, rough and impatient, his hands patting down the folds of your ruined tournament clothes.  

“Cornelius-” Dumbledore warns, stepping closer. But Fudge doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask. He simply takes.   

And Severus can see the moment your defiance falters, just slightly.   

“I told you.” You say breathlessly, trying to pull away from him, but he grips the front of your robes tighter. “I don’t... have it.”  

“Cornelius!” Dumbledore warns again, not as gentle this time.  

To Severus’ disbelief, he still doesn’t stop. The Ministers impatience has boiled into something uglier now, something entitled, and his hands are rougher against you as he searches. Severus can feel his own hand tightening around his wand, ready to act.   

But Dumbledore beats him to it. It’s not dramatic, but it doesn’t need to be. Dumbledore simply steps forward past the others and lays a firm hand on Fudge’s shoulder. “That is quite enough,” he says. Quiet but final.  

The Minister's fingers twitch against the front of your robes before he jerks himself away. Severus watches as his mouth opens, then closes again, like his words have failed him. Like his own anger has startled him.  

The idiotic fool.  

“She is a student at this school,” Dumbledore reminds him, still gripping his shoulder firmly, as if unsure if he’ll try it again. “Not a prisoner.”  

“Albus, if she has nothing to hide, then-,” Fudge stutters as he tries to make up some kind of defence. His eyes go from you to Dumbledore, as if trying to convince himself the whole thing was justified.  

Severus steps forward before Dumbledore can respond. “If she had a wand,” he says, masking the fury in his voice. “She would have used it by now.” His lips curl, just a little. “On you, most likely.”  

Fudge just stares back at him, his face blotchy from his outburst. He looks as though he wants to argue, to try and gain back some shred of authority after you humiliated him. 

“She doesn’t have it,” Dumbledore says, his fingers finally leaving his shoulder. “And if she did, I would question the act of attempting to wrestle it from her in this manner.”  

“This isn’t over.” Fudge spits, glaring down at you.   

“No,” Dumbledore agrees. “It isn’t.”  

“Well,” Fudge sneers, adjusting the cuffs of his robe. “She may not be a prisoner, no, but she is certainly a liability. Keep an eye on her Dumbledore. You wouldn’t want a scandal, would you?” He says sharply, before striding towards the door and leaving. 

Severus doesn’t spare him another glance. Instead, his attention focuses back on you. You’re glaring at the door, your eyes half closed and filled with fire. The altercation with Fudge has sparked just enough adrenaline to keep you fighting.  

Good.    

The tension in the office lingers, until bagman, ever the imbecile, claps his hands together with a forced cheer. “Excellent! Well then, no harm done! Exciting first ask, eh? Shall we?”  

Severus only just resists the urge to sneer. Typical. Leave it to Bagman to act as though nothing of consequence just transpired.   

Madame Maxine, who has been silently observing until now, suddenly steps forward, her presence impossible to ignore in the small space. “She is still injured.”  

“She will be fine,” Severus assures her, impatiently. He will see to that once they leave.  

Her eyes linger on you for a moment, before looking to Dumbledore expectantly. When he doesn’t say anything, she leaves with a sigh.   

“Very well,” Dumbledore says at last. “I believe we are done here.”  

One by one, they turn and leave his office. Karkoff is the last to leave, his eyes still on you before he finally steps out, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.  

Severus welcomes the silence, closing his eyes for a moment as he presses his fingers to the bridge of his nose. He can still feel the tension curling in his chest at the chaos that just unfolded.

But at least, for now, you're still here.

He opens his eyes and turns to you. You haven’t moved, sitting awkwardly in his chair breathing raggedly. But you’re alert, watching him and following his every movement.  

It irks him.  

Because even after everything, after almost collapsing in front of the minister and the other judges, you are still withholding the truth from him. The secret is there, behind your eyes, taunting him. Yet, he can’t help but feel relieved that you managed to slip through their grasp with nothing but a few accusations and some deathly glares.  

“So...,” your quiet voice pulls him back into the moment. “Did I win?”  

An incredulous scoff escapes him before he can stop it. “Are you completely incapable of taking anything seriously?” he snaps, stepping towards you. “You were nearly dragged away by the Minister himself for magic that, let me remind you, you still refuse to explain.”  

You shrug, or at least attempt to. The movement is slow and pained and does nothing to ease his tension. “He didn’t take me though.” There’s something unsure under the weakness in your voice. “So... I guess that’s it, then?”  

He stares at you, utterly bewildered.   

“No, that is not it,” his voice drops low. “Not even remotely.”  

He’s about to press you further when he notices it. The slight unsteadiness in your breathing, the way your already pale skin drains of what little colour remains.  

“You’re pale,” he says sharply.  

“Well, yeah. Blood loss will do that, Sir,” you reply. The words are dry, and laced with something that would probably be amusement if you weren’t on the verge of passing out. 

Without another word, he grabs the blood replenishing potion from his desk and shoves it at you. “Drink this before you collapse again."  

You eye the vial warily but take it from him, and he notices how cold your fingers are as they brush his, but he says nothing as you drink it. Slowly, some of the colour creeps back into your cheeks, but then your brows furrow, like you’ve just remembered something.  

“Wait,” you say, sitting up a bit more. “Where is my wand then?”  

For a moment he considers telling you that he has it. That he picked it up when you blacked out briefly. But he doesn’t. Instead, he folds his arms, testing you. “You tell me.”  

He watches you shift in place, checking the area around his chair and desk, searching for something that isn’t there. Then, your eyes snap back to his. “Did you take it?”  

“Would it matter if I did?”  

“Yes. It’s mine.”  

“Then perhaps you should have held onto it more tightly.”  

The frustration in your eyes is almost immediate, and for a moment it looks like you’re going to demand it back. He doesn’t give you the chance, though. “You’re going to the hospital wing,” he says, already moving towards you to force the issue.  

You groan, slumping further into his chair. “Can’t I just stay here? I’m too tired.”  

“No.”  

You let out a loud sigh, tilting your head back before pushing yourself up. You refuse his assistance, of course, and the sheer stubbornness would be almost impressive if it weren’t so idiotic. You manage to stand, barely, swaying for a second before catching yourself against the desk. He doesn’t bother moving to help you, though. He simply watches.  

“Fine,” you mutter, breathless again from the effort of standing up. “But if I die on the way there, it’s your fault.”   

He fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Yes, because all of this is clearly my fault.”  

You scowl at him, a sure sign you’re recovering, at least enough to argue with him.   

The walk to the hospital wing is excruciatingly slow. Each step you take is a battle you refuse to admit to, and Severus keeps his pace beside you, close enough to intervene if necessary, but making no move to assist. He can still feel your frustration. The anger at him for not returning your wand, the irritation at your injuries, and just the entire situation. You don’t voice it, but he sees it in the way you walk and by the occasional glance over at him.   

By the time you reach the doors, you’re barely holding yourself upright. He steps forward, pushing them open for you, and the way you glare at him for the gesture almost makes him scoff. Even now, your pride still outweighs sense.  

Madame Pomfrey barely looks his way as you shuffle in, rushing over to help you to the nearest bed. He follows close behind, arms crossed as you lower yourself onto the bed with a barely concealed wince. Pomfrey moves behind you in an instant, picking back whatever’s left of your tattered robes to see your burn.  

“Nasty burn she’s got here,” she says, clearly addressing him. “I can see you’ve already had your hand in it though, Severus. What did you use?”  

“A salve of my own making,” he replies simply. She doesn’t need to know more than that.  

She frowns, clearly not satisfied. “I would’ve preferred you let me handle it. But it seems it’s done the job for now,” she says, moving to nearby cabinet and pulling out a fresh set of hospital robes. “Honestly, these lot are lucky Dumbledore pushed for those protective enchantments on the robes. These burns are a nightmare.”  

Severus watches you shift on the bed as if you’re trying to act like nothing’s wrong, but he sees right through you. You’re not thinking about your injuries at all. You’re thinking about your wand.  

Good. You should be worried about it. Because he has no intention of returning it.  

“Alright dear, let's get you out of these nasty robes,” she says to you, before looking at him with hard eyes. “Severus, I think it’s best if you leave now. I’ll handle the rest from here.”  

His eyes narrow briefly as they land on yours, taking in the tired, accusing look you’re sending his way. As if any of this is his doing. He’s done what was necessary, bringing you here. He doesn’t owe you anything – and he certainly doesn’t owe you your wand. 

He stays a moment longer than needed, then turns away, knowing there’s nothing he can say that would make any difference. The door closes behind him with a quiet creak, and he doesn’t look back.  

The walk to his office feels empty, every step heavier than the last. As he moves down the corridors, the thoughts of you slumped in the hospital wing, exhausted and angry, sticks with him. The way you still held onto your pride, even when your own body is betraying you, is almost impressive. Almost. 

By the time he reaches his office, the tension is still coiled so tightly around him. He lets out a raw sigh, bracing his back against the closed door, pressing his fingers to his temples.  

What an absolute disaster.  

He moves towards his desk, intending to pour himself a much needed firewhisky. But there, the reminder of you hits him all over again, staring back at him from the chair. The unmistakable stain of your blood now dried, is a grim reminder of how close things came to spiralling out of control.  

He waves his wand at the mess, vanishing the blood. But the memory of the scene still lingers with him - the Minister's hands on you, the way you still refuse to admit what happened. 

Grabbing the half empty bottle of firewhisky from a drawer in his desk, he lowers himself into the chair and pours himself a generous amount, letting the alcohol burn in his throat as he leans back. His his fingers trace the rim of the glass as he looks absently around the room. 

Before he realises it, his other hand is sliding into the his robes, pulling out your wand.  

He knows this wand. He’s held it before. But this time, it feels different, like he’s holding it for the first time. He turns it over between his fingers, examining the wood, searching for any lingering traces of magic. Any sign of what you did out there. 

But there’s nothing.  

He mutters a soft incantation, one designed to reveal the remnants of magic left behind in a wand after it’s been used. But, again, there's nothing. No trace. No mark.  

Frustrated, he sets the wand on his desk, his fingers ghosting over the wood for just a second longer.  

Why isn’t there anything? Why can’t he see it? He’s never been unable to track a spell before.

The minutes go by, and Severus is getting more agitated by the second. He doesn’t even notice Dumbledore joining him again in the office, alone this time.  

“I see you're no closer to an answer than when we began,” Dumbledore says, walking towards him slowly. 

Severus doesn’t look up at first, his fingers still resting near your wand as though it will suddenly reveal its secrets if he stares at it hard enough. No, he doesn’t have any answers. Just more of the same maddening lack of clarity.  

He picks up the wand, gesturing for Dumbledore to take it. “There's nothing, Albus. There is no trace of what she did. No signature. No lingering magic. It’s as if the spell never happened.” 

Dumbledore moves closer, eyeing the wand in his hands before taking it. “And yet, we all saw it.” 

“Saw it, yes. But nobody understands it. Do not tell me you aren’t concerned.” 

Dumbledore carefully turns it over in his fingers as he had done. “Ollivander said it was loyal to her,” he muses, reminiscing the events of the wand weighing. “Unusually so.” 

Severus sneers. “He also couldn’t name the damn core.” 

“A rarity, indeed.” Dumbledore agrees, lost in thought as his fingers trail along the wood. 

“You see it, don’t you?” Severus leans forward, his voice tinged with fury. “She lied to me, and it’s not the first time. She’s hiding something.” 

“Perhaps,” Dumbledore acknowledges quietly. “Or perhaps she is just as lost as we are.” 

Severus curls his hand into a fist against the desk. He shouldn’t care. Not about this, about you. 

“How is she?” Dumbledore asks softly. 

Severus exhales, rubbing his temple as if trying to dispel the headache behind his eyes. “I left her in the hospital wing. It was close,” he says. “I barely stopped her bleeding to death before Fudge barged in,” he sneers. “Perfect timing, as always.” 

Dumbledore nods, but he looks troubled. “Cornelius was not particularly... patient. Especially after we left.” 

“You stood there and let him put his hands on her,” Severus snaps back. “You barely stopped him before he went too far.” 

"She provoked him,” Dumbledore reminds him. “And you know as well as I do that Cornelius does not handle being challenged well.” 

“She was barely conscious, Albus,” he shakes his head, letting a humourless laugh escape him. “And yet, she still showed more dignity than he did.” 

Dumbledore watches him for a moment before speaking again. “Cornelius believes she’s a threat. That she’s only following in the footsteps of her parents.” 

A cold silence looms in the office. Severus knows your parents' past will never leave you, that it will always haunt you no matter how much you fight back. But something in hearing it aloud in this moment makes it feel so much more dangerous. 

“She isn’t like them,” the words slip out, quieter than he intended. 

“No, she is not,” Dumbledore agrees. “But Cornelius doesn’t see it that way. He wanted to take further action this afternoon, but I persuaded him to hold off – for now.” 

Severus’ eyes narrow. “For now?” 

“His patience is not endless, Severus,” Dumbledore says, his expression grim. “If another incident occurs, if we do not find out what she’s capable of soon... he will not be so easy to hold back next time.” 

His mind has already worked through all the implications, but now they come back at full force. If Fudge decides you’re too dangerous, what will he do? Will he remove you from Hogwarts? Push for something worse? 

“No,” he mutters quietly, though unsure if it’s in response to Dumbledore or his own thoughts. “We pull her from the tournament.” 

Dumbledore shakes his head. “You know we can’t do that, Severus.” 

“If we do nothing, we risk another incident, Albus,” he snaps, pushing himself to his feet as the chair scrapes loudly against the stone. “She’s unstable, whether by her own hand or something else. She is a danger to herself.” 

Dumbledore is quiet for a moment, his calmness an enraging contrast to Severus’ inner storm. “And yet, the tournament may be precisely what she needs.” 

Severus just stares at him, shaking his head in disbelief. “You will have her pushed to her limits for the sake of, what? Discovery?” 

“For the sake of breaking down whatever walls hold her memories captive,” Dumbledore corrects him gently. “If she cannot recall them on her own, then perhaps the pressure of survival will force them to the surface.” 

“She’s too stubborn for her own good. She would rather suffer in silence than ask for help. She-” he cuts himself off. 

Dumbledore watches him carefully before giving the faintest smile. “That reminds me of a young Slytherin I once knew.” 

Severus stiffens, looking up at him. He knows exactly who he means. And he knows the stinging truth of it. 

He sees himself in you sometimes. The way you hold yourself when provoked, the way you retreat into silence when pressed for answers. The way you keep your troubles locked away, as though admitting weakness would be worse than the pain itself. 

It drives him mad. Because he knows it doesn’t work. 

“And what if the tournament doesn’t bring them to the surface?” Severus asks, hesitating for just a second for another terrible thought to creep in. “What if it only shatters her?” 

Dumbledore turns away from him, deep in thought. Clearly, he hadn’t thought of the possibility. Or he just doesn’t care. 

“Then we can only hope it strengthens her,” he says calmly. “But regardless, you must let her know she is not alone with this, Severus. She will need support, whether she knows it or not.” 

He scoffs under his breath. As if you’ll ever admit to needing anyone. 

Back in the hospital wing, you’re trying to relax, but you just can’t. Your mind keeps wandering back to Snape and your wand. Will he hand it over to the Minister? Will you ever see it again? Or will they snap it, expelling you from Hogwarts at the same time?  

Damn it. 

“Just take it easy for now,” Pomfrey says as she finishes bandaging up your back. “I’ll check on you in a bit. You need to rest, and I’ll not have you running off before I’m sure you’re properly mended.” 

She gives you a final look, concern and sternness following her warning, before she moves away to tend to Fleur in the bed opposite you, her arm wrapped in a thick bandage. 

You lean back in the bed, careful not to press too much against the burn, looking around the room. Fleur is sleeping peacefully, and next to her, you spot someone watching you. 

Krum - you think? Half of his face is flushed red and covered in bandages, with one dark eye visible, and totally focused on you. He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t look away, almost waiting for something. If he’s expecting an explanation, he’s going to be disappointed. 

A movement catches your eye, and a few beds down, Harry’s laying back, his round glasses slightly askew and dirty. He’s watching you too. 

The sight almost makes you laugh. It’s a bit ridiculous, really. All four of you torn up in some way by your dragons. What kind of fucked up tournament is this? 

“What happened to you?” you ask, your voice still raspy and dry, but the silence is too painfully awkward.  

Harry shifts in his bed a bit, wincing a little at the movement. “The dragons tail caught me while I was flying. Hit me hard enough that I went spinning and the spikes got my chest.” He gestures to his bandaged torso. “Just some scratches, really.” 

You narrow your eyes, looking at him. He’s taking it far better than the serious Harry you’ve come to know from your brief conversations. “That’s a lot more than just scratches.” 

He shrugs, but you catch the way he’s moving carefully, as if breathing too deeply might hurt. Smart he realised he could fly, though. Figures. The professors definitely tipped him off about that. 

“Why did Snape drag you out of the tent?” he asks. 

And there it is. You were expecting something, but not from the other champions. Not yet. They didn’t see what happened to you in the arena, but they definitely saw you collapse... into Snape. The reminder is a little embarrassing. 

You don’t let it show though, forcing a response. “Because I was half dead?” 

He doesn’t look convinced, neither does Krum, but he doesn't ask you more. Maybe he’s too tired to care, or he knows he’s not getting anything out of you. Either way, the damage is already done. 

You can feel it, the weight of your decisions settling over you like a curse. You entered this tournament to try and prove something. To make people stop looking at you like you’re a mystery. And yet, somehow, you’ve only made it worse. 

Fantastic. 

You lay back further as best you can in the bed, closing your eyes from the exhaustion, but your mind won’t shut up. About Snape, about your wand. About the spell. 

You replay it in your head for the first time, the heat of the arena, the dragons breath grazing at your skin as you came face to face with it. Then that whisper, distant, but very much there. It wasn’t your own thoughts, nothing you could recognise. But it was there. A shadow in the back of your mind, threading through your panic. 

Your wand had been in your hand, but you hadn’t cast anything. One second, you were bracing yourself for the worst, and the next, an unknown darkness poured out of your wand and swallowed everything. 

And the worst thing, it wasn’t the first time. 

The first whisper, the one after Ollivander held your wand, was easy to brush off as just stress and your Occlumency faltering. But now it’s happened twice... 

You breathe slowly, forcing yourself to think rationally. 

You didn’t lie to Snape, not really. You don’t know why it happened, or what it was. He doesn’t believe you, obviously, but what else could you say? That you hear things in your head? That your wand seems to have a mind of its own now, too? 

He’d surely tell the Minister then, and you’d be taken away to Merlin knows where, locked up forever. Probably deemed insane. 

No. That can’t happen. You need to figure this out yourself, whatever it is.  

A soft clink of glass pulls you from your restless haze, and you open an eye to see Pomfrey next to you, setting a small vial on the table beside your bed. The purple liquid inside swirls calmingly - Dreamless sleep. 

“You need proper rest, dear,” she says, kindly. “I can see you twitching from the other side of the wing.” 

You stare at the vial. And for a second, the idea of knocking yourself into oblivion sounds appealing. No whispers, no stares, no thinking about stupid Snape and the fact he has your wand. 

“Thanks,” you smile up at Pomfrey, and she leaves it with you as she whisks away to give one to the others. 

But you can’t take it now. Now when you’re so unsure about what’s coming next. The Minister could walk through the door any second, and if you let yourself slip into a dreamless sleep, you'll be vulnerable in ways you can’t afford to be. When her back is turned, you slowly reach for the vial and slip it into the pocket of your robes. You’ll let her think you’ve taken it, but you’ll save it for later, when you don’t feel like the world is caving in on you. 

The hours go by painfully as you lay there, briefly going in and out of sleep. The ache from your injuries is still there, a dull throb beneath your bandages, but nothing too unbearable.  

More importantly, though, you’re starving, and the hospital food isn't great.

You stare up at the clock and notice it's almost dinner time. Maybe you could try to sneak off to the Great Hall? It's not far, and you could definitely use a change of scenery. You look around, making sure Pomfrey is distracted with one of the others before pushing yourself out of your bed. As you bend down to put your boots on, the room spins for a second, forcing you to steady yourself on the bedside table. 

You can do this. 

But, as if right on cue, she turns around just as you start to walk towards the doors, her eyes pinning you in place. “And where do you think you’re going?” 

You plaster on your most innocent smile. “I was just going to the Great Hall,” you say. “I haven’t eaten at all today, and it’s almost dinner time.” 

She moves to look behind you at the plate of untouched stale bread and soup there. “You’ve been given food already,” she says, nodding towards it. 

“But I didn’t really feel like eating earlier. I do now, but... it’s gone cold.” 

She folds her arms. “You need rest, not a stroll through the castle.” 

“I feel fine,” you insist quickly. “Please. If I don’t eat something soon, I’ll be in here for a whole new reason.” You gesture towards your rumbling stomach, proving your point. 

“I don’t like it,” she replies, sighing. “But if you insist on leaving, you are to go straight there and come right back. No detours or unnecessary interactions.” 

You nod quickly, inching towards the door before she can change her mind. “Of course. Straight there and back. Thanks!” 

You can’t believe that actually worked. 

“Don’t make me come looking for you!” she shouts just as you’re slipping out of the door, and the thought of finally getting something to eat fuels your steps as you walk, making the journey to the Great Hall easier than you thought it would be.

The smell of food instantly hits you as you walk in, and for a blissful second, everything else fades away. You’re just about to make a dash for the Slytherin table when all hell breaks loose. Your housemates scramble to their feet as they see you, and before you can brace yourself, they rush towards you, only to come to a stop as they reach you. 

You must look worse than you thought, stood here in your hospital robes and bandages. 

“Merlins beard,” Adrian, one of the boys in your year, starts, looking at you with wide eyes. “You’re actually still standing.” 

“Erm... yeah?” you frown. “Isn’t that a good thing?”  

“Of course it is, [First Name]!“ a familiar voice cuts in, and Jade is already pushing through the crowd to you. She's cradling your golden egg in her arms - the very thing you almost died for.

How had you forgotten about it?

“Professor Snape told me to give this to you,” she says, excitedly. “Figured you’d want it back.” 

Oh, so Snape had your egg too? What else of yours does he want? 

You take it from her, but it doesn’t last long in your arms before it’s snatched away. 

“Hey-!” 

“Bloody hell,” one of the older Slytherins say, turning it over in his hands. “It’s heavier than it looks.” 

“Be careful with it,” you warn, but don’t bother trying to wrestle it back. You head straight for the table, deciding to finally get something to eat while they’re all distracted with it.  

The ache in your back flares again when you sit down, but you brush it off. The smell of food is making you more hungry, and you’ll be damned if you’re whisked off to the hospital wing again before you can eat anything. 

Jade appears next to you, resting her arms on the table as she watches the others fight over the egg at the end of the table. “They’re acting like they won it themselves,” she laughs. 

“If it means I can eat in peace, they can have it,” you say, reaching for a plate and filling it with a bit of everything. 

“Are you sure you’re well enough to be here?" she asks. "You look exhausted." 

“I’m fine,” you reply through a mouthful of bread. “Better now I’m eating something.” 

She doesn’t look too convinced, but you don’t care. “What’s the deal with Snape?” she asks after a minute. 

You pause mid-bite, looking back at her. “What about him?” 

“He looked pissed when he gave me the egg. Wouldn’t even let me ask how you were, just shoved it at me and told me to give it to you next time I saw you,” she says, glancing around to make sure nobody’s listening. 

You swallow your bite, poking at a bit of carrot. “Yeah, well. He's Snape. When isn't he pissed?"

Jade snorts. "Fair point. But this felt... different. People have been saying he's looked furious since the task. Like, furious furious. I thought he'd be glad one of his Slytherins didn't get killed in the arena," she looks back at the others as one of them yells something about the egg, before turning back to you, leaning closer. "Is it because of the spell you cast? Because everyone has been going crazy about it! In a good way... mostly. How did you do it?" she asks, her eyes lighting up.

You shrug, shoving another bite of food into your mouth. “I dunno, really,” you hesitate, just for a second, saying the first lie that comes to mind. “I... tried to cast Obscuro, but it blacked out the arena instead. No clue why it happened like that.” You’re getting good at lying through your teeth, and you don’t know if that’s a good thing or not. 

Her eyes widen, and it's clear she’s far more easier to convince than Snape. “Wait, seriously? That’s mental! Is-"

“What are you doing here?” 

You turn to the voice beside you, and there he is. Snape stands at your side, arms folded, looking down at you with that infuriatingly unimpressed stare. The one he gives you when you’re in trouble. 

Here we go.

“Just wanted something to eat, Sir,” you say, innocently twirling your fork. “Unless you’d rather I die of starvation?” Jade nudges you, but you ignore it.  

“Hospital food not up to your standards?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm. 

“Not really. Thought I’d treat myself after the day I’ve had,” you reply, shoving another spoonful of veg in your mouth. 

For a second, you swear you can see the faint twitching of the corner of his mouth. But just as quickly, his face hardens again. “Miss Voss," he says, glancing over at Jade. "Take her back to the hospital wing. Make sure she gets there in one piece.” 

Jade practically leaps to her feet beside you, clearly eager to follow his orders before you can make things worse. You glare at him for a moment before giving in, sighing and dropping your fork onto your plate, pushing yourself up carefully from the table as your back threatens to betray you again. 

You want to demand your wand back before you leave, but you can’t exactly do it here with everyone watching. And you bet he knows it, too.

Fine, he wins. For now. 

On your way out, Jade snatches your egg back off the crowd before handing it to you. “You should open it in the common room when you’re feeling better,” she says, practically buzzing with curiosity.  

“I doubt I’ll be allowed out any time soon now Snape’s seen me,” you say, adjusting your grip on the egg. You can already picture him telling Pomfrey to keep you locked up in the Hospital Wing for as long as possible.

“Just make sure you’re well enough before coming back, yeah?” she says, giving you a small, understanding smile. 

You smile back, but don’t answer. The truth is, getting out of the hospital wing again feels like a battle for another day. Right now, just walking feels like more of a challenge than it did earlier. By the time you reach the main corridor, the ache has worsened into something sharper, biting at you with every step. You try not to show it, but Jade notices anyway, looping an arm around yours to steady you and keeps up a slow pace beside you. 

“Maybe Snape’s got a point,” she says, half jokingly. “You look about two seconds from keeling over.” 

You’d roll your eyes at her if you had the energy, but you don’t. You appreciate her steadiness though, and now, you just want to get back to the hospital wing without drawing any more attention to yourself. 

Once you make it back safely, you wave goodbye to Jade, promising to find her before opening the egg. As you sink back onto your bed, the exhaustion hits you full on.  

You clutch the egg tightly, running your fingers over its cool, smooth surface. Whatever’s inside, it holds the next piece of this stupid tournaments puzzle. But you couldn’t care less about that right now. It’s not what’s keeping your mind spinning. Keeping you awake and restless. 

You need your wand. What’s Snape waiting for? Why won’t he hand it over? He can’t have given it to the Minister, or else you’d have been dragged out of the school by now. He definitely still has it. But what’s he doing with it? 

If he won’t give it back willingly, you’ll find a way to take it. One way or another. 

Chapter Text

It’s been a long two days.  

Too long.  

Being stuck in the hospital wing with nothing to do left you with far too much time alone with your thoughts. The silence, the stillness, the memories of the task and its aftermath playing on repeat in your head... and none of it helped your grueling recovery. 

With your mind still fractured and pieces still barely held together by what occlumency you could still manage, it was exhausting. You used to be able control yourself so well, and now it’s cracking you open in the worst moments, letting your emotions bleed through when you least want them to.

Frustration. Anger. Vulnerability. You hated it. 

But at least you had Fleur to make it a little easier. She had been good company to you in the last few days, something you hadn’t expected. When your mind refused to settle in the late evenings and the memories of everything crashed down on you, you noticed she was awake too.  

On the first night, she moved from her bed opposite yours to the one beside you, and you chatted endlessly, filling the silence with stories from both of you. She talked to you about her home, her family, and the most interesting of all - her Veela heritage. She told you how it shaped her life, and how it made people judge her before they knew her.  

You knew that feeling all too well. You wanted to tell her more, about the pieces of your mind you were struggling to hold together, about your real family - not the made up one. But you didn’t - you couldn’t. So, instead, you gave her glimpses of your life, things that didn’t mean much on their own, but enough to keep her talking. 

Maybe it was the exhaustion, or maybe it was just Fleur, but for a little while, you didn’t feel so alone in it all. 

It didn’t change the frustration of being trapped in here longer than necessary, though. 

After your trip to the Great Hall on the first evening, Pomfrey forbade you from leaving again. And you knew why. You could just picture Snape, sweeping into the hospital wing when you’d finally dozed off, insisting that you be kept under lock and key. As if you couldn’t handle yourself. As if you hadn't just survived a dragon. 

But there had been no use arguing with her. She didn't budge, not even a little.

So, you’d spent your time confined to the bed, rotting in your own thoughts, until Fleur’s soothing voice pulled you out of your own head again. 

Krum had left on the first night. The injuries to his face were severe, but Karkoff had stormed into the hospital wing the same evening and demanded to take him back to the Durmstrang quarters. Pomfrey protested, of course, insisting that he needed proper rest, proper treatment, and monitoring overnight at the very least. But Karkoff heard none of it - waving her off with angry gestures and muttered words in a language you couldn't understand.

He hovered over Krum like a storm cloud, hissing in his ear, and whatever he said must have worked, because the next thing you knew, they were gone. Fleur watched it too, but she didn't say anything.

Harry, on the other hand, had been up and walking on the second day, healing quickly from his injuries.

You and Fleur weren't so lucky though. You had to stay since the burns needed treatment and reapplication of the salve every few hours to make sure they healed properly.

But today, finally, the waiting is over. It took a lot of convincing to get Madame Pomfrey to sign off on your releases, but with Fleur backing you up, you're both clear to go this morning. 

“You’re not to overwork yourselves, is that understood?” Madame Pomfrey says to you both, arms crossed and looking as though she’s already regretting her decision to let you leave. 

“Yes, ma’am,” you say together. 

She narrows her eyes, but instead of saying anything else, she sighs and picks up a neatly stacked pile of parchment from her trolley. 

“Professor Snape left this for you,” she says, handing it to you. “He was quite insistent that you catch up on everything you’ve missed.” 

You frown, shifting the weight of the stack. It’s heavier than it looks, and double the amount of assignments. Of course he wouldn't pass up the opportunity to make your life even more miserable. It seems having your wand isn’t enough for him. 

Fleur looks at the papers, smirking. “He must ‘ave missed you terribly.” 

“Yeah,” you snort. “I’m sure he was heartbroken.” 

Pomfrey clears her throat. “I expect you to take it easy, both of you,” she says, glancing at Fleur then back to you. “And that means not overworking yourself with assignments either. If I see you back here because of stress-induced exhaustion, I'll be having words with Professor Snape myself.” 

The very idea nearly makes you laugh. The thought of Pomfrey scolding Snape is almost enough to make the pile of work in your arms seem a little less unbearable. Almost. 

“Understood,” you say with a smile. 

“Go on then,” she waves you both off, “And remember – rest.” 

You nod, and as you and Fleur step out into your new freedom, she tilts her head towards the stack of parchment in your arms, still amused. 

“So, you ‘ave been given a mountain of work as a welcome back gift, hmm?” 

You laugh, adjusting your grip on the papers. “Apparently, almost dying isn’t a valid excuse for missing assignments. Who knew?” 

Fleur smiles. “Ah, but it eez Snape. I am not surprised.” 

You shake your head. “Of course not, bet he loves the opportunity to give me extra work.” 

“At least you are free now,” she says, nudging your arm lightly. “No more laying in bed all day.” 

“You say that like it was relaxing. I’m pretty sure Pomfrey would’ve tied me to the bed if she could.” 

She laughs, a soft, melodic sound. "Well, do not let Snape’s assignments get you down. I would ‘ate to see you back in there because you collapsed on top of your essays." 

You roll your eyes. "No promises." 

She shakes her head, but she looks at you softly. "Rest when you need to, d’accord? I will see you later." 

"You too," you smile, watching as she strides gracefully down the corridor. She doesn’t know about the whole spell thing yet. And all you can do is hope that when she does, she'll still see you the same. Still see the girl who she chose to call a friend, even if it was only for a brief time during your recovery together. 

When she’s gone, you sigh, glancing down at the stack of work in your arms before turning in the direction of the Slytherin common room. 

Great. Freedom. But at what cost? 

You head to your dorm before your first class starts, and the corridors of Hogwarts feel weirdly different now.  A group of Gryffindors near the entrance hall lower their heads and talk quietly as you pass, and you don’t need to hear them to know what they’re saying.  

You can feel it. The sideways glances, their skeptical looks, and the way they huddle together as if your presence alone is something to be wary of.

You don’t give them the satisfaction of a reaction, though, walking ahead without even looking at them, pushing the war going on inside your head to a place where it’s less noticeable. After everything – the dragon, the burn, the minister, this should be the moment things go back to normal. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but you can’t lie. You can already feel yourself struggling to keep it together. 

Then, just as it all feels a little too much, a familiar voice joins you at your side. “There you are!” Jade practically materialises at your side, bouncing as she picks up your pace. “Took you bloody long enough to get out of the hospital wing.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Pomfery wasn’t exactly keep on letting me go after my trip to the Great Hall." The tension inside you loosens a little now she's here with you.

“Well, I hope you’re feeling better,” she says, grinning at you, “because we’re throwing a party tonight. For you.” 

“A party?”  

“Obviously. You just survived a dragon and gave everyone a show! So, we’re celebrating. Everyone wants to see you open the egg too." 

The thought of a party makes you feel a bit sick. It’s not that you don’t want to go, you do , but after days of nothing but the four walls of the hospital wing and your own thoughts, the idea of being the centre of attention again is... a lot. Still, it’s not like you haven’t been stared at already. You can still feel all the eyes on you as you walk through the corridors, and at least at the party it would be for a good reason. 

“Don’t overthink it,” Jade says, stopping you mid step. “You deserve some fun after the hell you’ve been through.” 

You breathe in, considering it. She’s right, you do deserve this. After everything, you deserve some normalcy - one night with your housemates and not worrying about what comes next. 

“Alright, fuck it,” you grin. 

“That’s the spirit!” she says, linking arms with you as you both carry on your walk to the common room, chatting about the party. 

When you arrive, she pushes the door open for you, and you part ways for the day to head to your dorm and get ready for your first class back which starts in fifteen minutes. You drop the stack of parchment onto your bed, shaking your head at the ridiculous workload Snape has given you – he's acting like you’ve been doing nothing these past two days. But, obviously, recovering from a dragon attack isn’t enough for him. 

You turn to the mirror next to your bed, looking at yourself for a moment before tugging your tshirt over your head. It’s the first time you’ve seen your body since the task, and the sight of it in your reflection you makes you shiver. 

The claw marks across your ribs and side, once deep and raging, have faded into thin, silvery lines. You admire them for a moment, and you hate to admit it, but Snape has done an incredible job with healing them. 

Your back, though, is a different story.

You turn to get a better look at the burn trailing down your spine. Most of it looks pretty healed, the worst of it hidden under a thin bandage at the top of your spine, with slightly discoloured patches of skin poking out. 

You sigh, tugging on a fresh blouse. There’s no time to dwell on it, and no time to let yourself feel weak. You need to get to class, back to normal. Or whatever counts as normal now. Moving quickly, you put the rest of your uniform on, fiddling with your tie until it feels right. Then you grab your bag from the floor, stuffing all the parchments from your bed inside. With one last check that you've got everything - quills, textbooks, no wand...

You huff, annoyed, but you know you can't do anything about it yet. With a final look in the mirror, you take a deep breath and head for the door. 

It feels like ages since you stepped foot in the greenhouses. You’re a little late, but when Professor Sprout sees you wince as you take your seat at the back, she doesn’t say a word. She let’s you off the hook with a small, understanding nod. 

“Ah, the dark one returns!” Fred announces, grinning as if he’s been waiting his whole life for this moment. He places the weird looking plant he’s clutching down on your shared workbench, throwing his arms up in fear. “Should I be worried? You’re not about to hex me into the void, are you?” 

You roll your eyes, already fighting back a smile. “Nice to see you too, idiot.” 

“Oh no, don’t you ‘nice to see you’ me!” he says, backing away like you might curse him. “Last time I saw you, you were disappearing into a black abyss of your own making! Me and George thought for sure you’d joined some kind of dark cult or something.” 

“A cult?” you repeat, raising an eyebrow. “Really?” You pause, then tilt your head and cross your arms, giving him a sweet smile. “And what about you, Fred? How were your little bets?” 

Fred’s grin falls for a second but then clears his throat. “Bets?” What bets?” he says, a little too quickly. 

Guilty.  

“You know, the bets you and George were making about the tournament while I was fighting for my life. Surely you didn’t just watch the whole thing for free?” 

Fred coughs, shifting on his feet. “Well, uh, we may have... talked about it, but-” 

“Weasley! [Last Name]!” Professor Sprouts voice shouts across the greenhouse, and she shoots you both a stern look from across the room. “Unless you’re planning on wagering bets in my class, I suggest you focus on your work instead of scheming!” 

You giggle behind your hand, then quickly duck your head, pretending to focus on your work. As soon as Sprout turns away, Fred carries on, fiddling with the plants' leaves. “We were just having some fun, you know. Nothing too serious,” he looks at you again, “you know we’re always on your side,” he winks, trying to brush it all off with his usual charm. 

“Unbelievable,” you say, flicking some soil at him. “I was almost burnt alive, and you didn’t come and visit me in the hospital wing either.” 

“We did try to visit, I’ll have you know,” he says, looking all offended. “Multiple times, in fact. But Pomfrey’s worse than a sodding guard dog! Wouldn’t let anyone in.” 

“Really?” 

“Cross my heart,” he says, drawing an X over his chest. “We even brought you a get well soon gift, a bouquet of invisible flowers. They're absolutely lovely, you'll just have to take our word for it.” 

You laugh a little too loud, and Sprout shoots you another warning look. “How thoughtful,” you say quietly, leaning on your hand to cover your grin. 

“Yeah, she wasn’t having any of it. Jakob was there too.” 

“Jakob?” 

Fred nods. “Yeah, saw him lingering around a few times, looking all concerned. Poor bloke got turned away just like us.” 

The thought of Jakob going out of his way to check on you is... sweet. You’ll have to find him later. 

Class drags on, and you half focus on the task finding that working through the soil offers a bit of peace to your still overactive mind. It keeps your hands busy, at least, even if your mind refuses to settle. Fred keeps talking – about what, who knows – but his voice is a welcome distraction. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, [First Name]?” he asks at the end of class, watching you sweep bits of soil from the workbench. 

“Yeah... I’m fine,” you reply, looking over at him as you brush off your hands. Fred Weasley, the notorious troublemaker, is staring at you like he’s actually concerned and expects an honest answer. It’s a little creepy, to be honest. 

“I know you’re tough,” he says quietly. “But that first task was a lot to go through, you know? I mean, we all saw you get clawed by a bloody dragon and almost roasted alive. No matter how tough you are, that’s gotta mess with your head. You don’t need to pretend like it doesn’t, y’know?” 

The words feel weird coming from Fred’s mouth, his mischievous side completely gone and replaced by this all so serious one. You barely recognise him. 

But he’s right, it was a lot.  

It’s been easy to ignore the whole near-death experience, shoving it to the back of your mind. There just hasn’t been time to process it, not with everything else that came after. Snape, your wand, the Minister, the spell. It was one thing after another, so quickly, and it left you no time to feel any of it. 

And you’re not sure how to deal with it yet. So, you don’t. 

You force a smile, brushing off his concern. “Wow Fred, when did you get all soft on me? Next thing I know, you’ll be reading self help books and giving me life advice.” 

“I do give excellent life advice, actually,” he replies, his expression not changing. 

“Oh, I bet,” you say, heading out of the greenhouse with him, but he’s still watching you. “But seriously, Fred, I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” he says, dropping the conversation. “But if you ever wanna talk, you know where to find me,” he says, slinging an arm around you. “Preferably near food, though. I give better advice when I’m well fed.” 

“I’d love to take you up on that,” you laugh, “but unfortunately, I have a mountain of work to get through before tonight. Snape made sure I don’t enjoy my new freedom too much.” 

Fred winces dramatically. “Oof. Of course he did, the man thrives off making people suffer.” 

“Tell me about it,” you grumble. 

“And yet, here you are, just walking off to do it like a good little Slytherin,” he tuts. “Where’s your rebellious spirit gone? Did it go up in flames from the dragon?” 

“Buried under two days' worth of potions essays,” you say, shooting him a glare. 

“Brutal,” he sighs, as if it pains him. “Alright, come on then. To the library we go.” 

“What?” 

“The library,” he repeats, already steering you towards the staircase. “You said you’ve got work to do, and I, being the absolutely selfless and excellent friend that I am, will offer my company.” 

“You mean you’ll sit there and distract me.” 

“Rude,” he gasps, reaching for his chest as if you’ve wounded him. “What’s happening tonight, anyway?” he asks, side eyeing you. 

“Oh yeah, there’s a party in the common room tonight,” you tell him, realising you forgot to mention it earlier.

Fred stops dead in his tracks, and someone almost crashes into the back of you as you stop in the middle of the corridor too. “A Slytherin party?” he whistles. 

“Yeah. Apparently they're throwing it for me,” you say with a laugh. 

“Wait...” he narrows his eyes. “This is your first Slytherin party, right?” 

“Yeah, why?” you say, continuing your walk beside him to the library. 

“Oh, you have no idea what you’re in for.” 

“What’s that supposed to mean?” you raise an eyebrow.

“Slytherin parties are insane. Like, borderline ritualistic,” he shakes his head, laughing. “If someone doesn’t end up hexed, cursed, or mysteriously missing by the morning, then something has gone terribly wrong.” 

You stare at him, convinced he’s exaggerating. “Shut up, Fred. You’re messing with me.” 

“Swear on my life,” he says, raising both his hands. 

“It can’t be that bad,” you shrug, “besides. They want me to open my egg.” 

His eyes widen. “The golden egg?” 

“The very one.” 

He rubs his hands together like he’s just heard the most delicious piece of gossip. “Oh, this just got interesting. Let me guess, they’re expecting a big, dramatic reveal?” 

You sigh but can’t help the smile plastered on your face as you push open the library doors. “I have no idea,” you admit. “But they’ve been waiting for it. Gotta give them what they want, you know?” 

“And yet, here you are, prioritising school work like a responsible little student.” 

“What can I say? I enjoy not failing my classes,” you say, slumping yourself down at an empty table. 

Fred slides in across from you. “Right then, you work, and I’ll keep you entertained. Think of me as your personal study companion – the handsome, distracting kind.” 

You laugh, pulling the pile of parchments free from your bag. “This is going to be a disaster.”  

The rest of your day is spent rushing around and getting ready for the party that evening. Between working through the mountain of assignments and preparations, you barely had time to catch up with Jakob at lunch. It was rushed, but at least you managed to ask if he’d come tonight, and he said yes. A few of his Durmstrang friends had been invited too. 

Now, as the evening arrives, you’re staring at your reflection in the mirror. Realising all too late you have nothing to wear. 

Perfect. 

You can’t show up in your usual school robes, can you? No, absolutely not. And your casual clothes are... probably too casual. You groan, rifling through your trunk, pulling out some options, but they’re not great. Then, as your hand brushes over one of your old, black oversized tshirts that you usually sleep in, an idea comes to you. 

It could work... and you know the perfect person to ask. 

You grab the tshirt and rush out of the common room, winding down the corridors to the Hufflepuff common room, hoping Cedric will be there. If anyone can turn this old rag into something decent, it’s him. You’ve seen what he can do – just last week in potions you accidently snapped your stirring rod and he barely blinked before transfiguring his quill into a perfect replacement, all before Snape could even notice.  

But when you reach the entrance, you start to doubt yourself. You’ve never been to Hufflepuff territory before... would he think you’re being ridiculous? You almost turn back, but before you can talk yourself out of it, you force yourself to knock. Cedric's cool. He won't mind. Plus, this is the only idea you've got.

A few seconds later, the door swings opens, and a small first year stands in the opening, looking at you with wide eyes. 

“Umm... hi,” you say, forcing a smile. “Is Cedric here?” 

“[First Name]?” Cedrics voice calls from beyond the door, and a second later he appears, nudging the first year aside. “Didn’t expect to see you here. What’s up?” 

You tilt your head at the first year, who’s still gawking behind Cedric, joined by a few of his friends. “What’s up with them?” you ask. 

“Oh...,” Cedric says, joining you out in the corridor, closing the door behind him. “Well, um, they’re a bit spooked, you know? The first task... what you did.” 

“Right,” you say, nodding. Of course. “That makes sense.” 

“Yeah...,” he says, his eyes softening as he scratches the back of his neck. “You okay, though? You took a pretty nasty hit out there.” 

“Yeah, I’m okay,” you assure him. “Although,” you continue, leading the conversation away, “I was hoping for a peaceful first day of freedom, but Snape had other ideas. Handed me a stack of essays to get done before next class.” 

Cedric chuckles. “I thought he might. Potions hasn’t been the same without you.” 

“You missed me?” 

“Absolutely,” he says, grinning. “But mostly because Ivy hasn’t shut up about you since the task. If I have to hear her say one more time how you must have cheated or how ‘any other real Slytherin would’ve handled the task better,’ I might lose it.” 

“Sounds like Ivy,” you laugh, knowing you’re in for a treat when you see her again. “But enough about her... I actually came here to ask you for a favour.” 

“And here I was, thinking you finally came to visit me for my charming company,” he smirks 

“That too,” you grin. “But mostly, I need your help with something a little more practical.” 

“Alright,” he says, folding his arms curiously. “Hit me.” 

You hold the tshirt out to him. “I have nothing to wear to a party in the common room tonight. I was hoping, well, more like begging, you to transfigure this into something... less sleepwear?” 

Cedric glances between you and the tshirt, then laughs. “You want me to turn this into a dress?” 

“Yes,” you reply, desperately. “I have no other options, and I’m kinda panicking here.” 

Still laughing at you, he takes the tshirt from you, looking over it with a critical eye. “Not a lot to work with. No promises, but I’ll do my best.” 

He lays it out on the stone floor, rolling his shoulders out before grabbing his wand from his pocket. You watch, hopeful, as the fabric begins to change shape. The oversize shape cinches in, the hem creeps upwards, and the neckline softens into something more elegant. 

He picks it up, looking over it before handing it to you. “There. One less thing for you to panic about.” 

You hold it up, admiring the neckline and the way the bodice hugs the fabric just right. “Cedric, this is amazing!” 

He shrugs, “Just needed someone who knows what they’re doing.” 

You press the dress to your body, and a sinking realisation settles in you. “Wait, isn’t it... a bit short?” 

He looks at you, offended. “Are you criticizing my craftmanship?” he reaches to take it back, but you slap his hands away. 

“No, no. Not at all. It’s totally fine. I mean, it’s a party, right?” You say, though more to try and convince yourself than him. 

“Exactly,” he agrees. “I’m sure you’ll pull it off. Just be careful, though, yeah? The last thing we need is Snape punishing us with extra work in potions.” 

“I’ll be on my best behaviour,” you swear. 

“Doubt it,” he calls after you, laughing as you turn away. “Have fun!” 

“Thanks again Ced!” you call over your shoulder before heading back to the common room, dress in hand and panic officially averted. 

Back in your dorm, you change quickly, pulling the dress on. It fits better than you expected, hugging your figure in just the right way. And it’s not too harsh on your back either. The burns feel fine against the new silky fabric, and you don't even care that the bandages peek out of the top.  

You tug at the hem to try and pull it down, but it doesn’t move much.

Oh well. 

Looking in the mirror, you can’t deny it looks great. Better than great, even. You mess with your hair a bit, having to do it by hand for a change since you still don’t have your damn wand back to fix it properly. You should’ve confronted him today, but his stupid assignments made you completely forget.  

Or you’re avoiding him. Whichever is easier to believe. 

Shaking off the thoughts, determined to enjoy the night and not think about any of that for now, you head to your trunk, pulling out the egg and the hidden bottle of firewhisky tucked away in there that you’d smuggled in when you first arrived.

You hesitate for a moment. Should you? Madame Pomfrey would throw a fit if she knew you were drinking, nevermind partying. You can practically hear her lecturing you about recovery, resting, and responsibility - but then think, fuck it, before taking a deep swig, feeling the burn ticking down your throat. 

The party is in full swing by the time you arrive in the common moon.  

Someone’s enchanted a gramophone to blast music in the corner, though it’s nearly drowned out by the wild energy of your housemates. Everyone’s either dancing, laughing, or shouting loudly at eachother. 

Between the crowd, you spot Jade next to the fireplace, engaged in a very animated conversation with another Durmstrang, her dark curls bouncing as she makes some wild movements with her arms. Jakob slouches beside her, laughing along, his features lighting up in the firelight. 

Making your way through the swarm of intoxicated people isn’t easy, especially with your egg in tow. People stop to greet you, and someone even tries to pull you into a game of exploding snap, but you politely decline and carry on trying to weave through it all. 

“Finally! Do you know how long we’ve been waiting for you?” Jade says, hopping up off the sofa. 

Jakob smirks, looking up at you from his seat, running his eyes over your dress. “Decided to make a grand entrance, did you?” 

You smile, lifting the egg so they can see. “Figured I should give the people what they want.” 

Jade’s eyes immediately drop to your dress, as if she didn’t notice it when you walked in. “Forget the egg, look at you!” she grabs your hand, spinning you slightly to get the full effect. “You look incredible!” 

“Yeah, can you believe this was an old T-shirt an hour ago?” you laugh. “Cedric transfigured it for me.” 

“Woah, really?” she asks. “You know you could’ve asked me, right? I’d have lent you something... but then again,” she says, eyeing it, “Cedric’s got good taste.” 

Jakob tils his head at you, slowly taking you in. “She is right,” he muses, lifting a drink to his lips. “You look... good.” 

He says it so casually, but there’s something in his tone that makes your stomach flutter. Jade must notice because she gives you a knowing wink before pushing a drink into your hands. “Here,” she says, clinking her glass against yours. “Before we get to the egg, you need to loosen up a little!” 

The firewhisky burns down your throat again, spreading through your chest as you settle onto the sofa beside Jakob. For a moment, you forget the egg as you let yourself sink into the chaos around you. 

And chaos is the only way to describe it. 

Across the room, a group of boys are dueling - not seriously, but the kind that's bound to end up getting someone hexed into next week. Sparks fly in the air, and you hear someone yelp as a jinx sends them stumbling into the drinks table. But instead of stopping, they cheer. 

Near the stairs of the dorms, a few of the guys in your year are having a drinking contest, downing shots of something that glows green. A crowd has gathered around them, chanting for them to keep going. One of them slams their glass down victoriously, while the other sways before passing out on the first step. 

Jade sighs as she watches, shaking her head. “Happens every time.” 

You give a her a look. “You’re head girl, shouldn’t you be, like... stopping this?” 

She laughs, taking a sip of her drink. “And ruin the fun? Please, I’m not that bad.” 

You laugh, not expecting that kind of answer from her, but it’s nice to see her letting loose. “Fred wasn’t joking,” you say, watching a younger student enchanting a chair to float as their friend jumps onto it, barely keeping his balance as he soars towards the ceiling. “You lot are actually insane.” 

Jade just grins at you. “Now you’re getting it.” 

She finishes off her drink before reaching for your hand again. “Alright, come on,” she says, tugging you up from the sofa. 

“What?” 

“Dancing,” she says, and she’s clearly borderline drunk already. “You, me, now.” 

“I don’t-,” you hesitate, looking to Jakob for help, but he only laughs at you. 

“Oh no, you’re not backing out.” She pulls you towards the centre of the room, pushing another drink into your hands as she twirls you into the crowd. “You’re celebrating, [First Name]. You deserve this!” 

The music is so loud it feels like your ears might split, and the bass thuds so deep it’s making the floor vibrate under your feet as you try to keep up with her. At first, you’re a little awkward, but Jade refuses to let you hold back. She dances effortlessly around you, and with the help of a few more drinks in your system, you start to match her wild energy. 

You take another swig of your drink – why the hell not? Jade is right. You beat the first task, and it’s a damn good reason to celebrate. 

Jade accidently spins into someone, knocking their drink straight to the floor, and you both barely manage an apology through your fits of laughing before she grabs your wrist and tugs you across the room.  

“Come on,” she giggles, dragging you towards a battered old cauldron shoved against the wall. The liquid inside is a neon green colour, and it smells even worse than it looks.  

“What the fuck is that?” you ask, eyeing the way it bubbles. 

Jade shrugs, “I dunno, actually. But it’s tradition to have at least one drink from it.” 

“That’s a terrible tradition,” you laugh. 

“Maybe,” she grins, already scooping out a cup for you. “But you’re doing it.” 

You give her a look, but you can tell she won’t back down with this. So, with a sigh, you take a sip – and instantly regret it, coughing as the concoction sears at your throat. “Holy shit,” you gasp, holding your chest. “You’re gonna kill someone with this.” 

“Is it really a party if someone doesn’t die?” she chuckles. 

You’re still coughing from the drink, and Jade is barely holding in her laughter. “Alright, alright,” she says, brushing off the last of her laughing fit and steering you away. “Shall we?” 

“Shall we...?” you ask, setting your drink on the table. “Shall we poison more people with that death potion?” 

“Tempting,” Jade giggles. “But no, the egg, obviously!” 

Jade grabs the egg and chucks it at you, and everyone starts to crowd around you both to see what will happen. 

“Alright, fine,” you say, only just catching the egg in your unsteady hands. “Let’s see what all the fuss is about.” 

The crowd around you watches, everyone’s eyes locked on the egg in your hands as your fingers hover over the metal clasp. You twist it slowly, and the egg cracks open effortlessly, casting a warm glow over your face. 

For a second, nothing happens. 

But then, a sound of pure agony rips through the room – an inhuman wail silences everything, even cutting out the music, and it’s so loud that it feels like it’s rattling your skull. Everyone rushes to cover their ears, and the sound of shattered glass from people dropping their drinks is quickly drowned out by the screeching.  

“Shit-!” Your head spins, and the alcohol running through your veins isn’t helping at all. You can’t even hear yourself think. Your fingers fumble to try and close it, but before you can, the egg slips from your hands. 

Before it can hit the ground, Jakob catches it mid air with one hand, his other quickly snapping the egg closed. The second it shuts, the screaming cuts off, leaving behind a heavy, ringing silence. 

Nobody says or moves for a moment. And then, for some absurd reason... people start laughing. 

“That was horrible!” someone calls out, shaking their head. 

“What the fuck is that even supposed to be saying?” someone else laughs. 

You’re still in shock, blinking down at the spot where the egg almost shattered, your vision doubling as the floor seems to wobble beneath you. 

"Honestly," Ivy says from somewhere off to your right, her usual bite stinging through, "I couldn't tell if that noise came from the egg or you."

More people laugh, but you don't even look at her. Jakob, who's still by your side, offers the egg back to you. “Try not to drop it this time, yeah?” he says in a teasing tone.

You huff, snatching it from him, but you can't help the sinking feeling you get looking down at it. Everyone finds it funny, but how the fuck are you supposed to get anything from that? 

It wasn’t a clue, it was just... noise. You have no idea what you were expecting, but it sure as hell wasn’t that. 

You take a deep breath, shoving the egg onto the sofa and reaching for your death drink instead. If the stupid thing isn't going to make sense, then you might as well forget about it for tonight. Tilting your head back, you down the green liquid, and it does the job to numb the edges of your thoughts a little more. Even if it does taste vile. 

But just as you lower the glass, you notice Jakob is still watching you with a raised eyebrow, “I think that is enough,” he says, prying the cup from your fingers. 

“Hey,” you scowl. “I wasn’t done with that.” 

He ignores you, taking your hand. “Come on lightweight,” he says, guiding you through the crowd that’s come back to life, music blaring louder than ever. “You need some air.” 

“Did you just call me a lightweight?” you reply, swaying slightly. 

“If the shoe fits,” he smirks. 

You open your mouth to argue back, but he’s already steering you towards the exit with a gentle hand on your back, careful to avoid the burns. He takes your hand when you make it into the corridor, smiling at you before pulling you down the halls to the courtyard. The evening breeze is a blessed change from the heat of the common room, and you can feel the world spinning a little slower now. 

“Better?” Jakob asks, leaning against the wall. 

You sigh, rubbing your head. The damn egg has given you a headache already. “I still don't know what the hell that was supposed to mean,” you say, then looking at him. “Did you know it was going to do that? Did you see Krum open his?” 

Jakob shakes his head. “No,” he says, pushing off the wall. “He kept it to himself. Did not let anyone near it.” 

You frown. That make sense, you suppose. You can’t see Krum as the sharing type, but it also means you’re completely in the dark here. 

“Are you alright?” Jakob asks. 

“Yeah,” you reply, giving him a small smile, not wanting him to see the storm inside you. “I guess you were right, too much to drink.” 

“Not that,” he says, shifting closer. “You took a bad burn in the arena. I was... worried about you.” You turn to face him, almost losing your balance in the process. “Woah, careful,” he says, guiding you to the stone wall and helping you sit down. 

“Thanks,” you say quietly. “I heard you tried to visit me and Pomfrey turned you away.” 

He nods, and you notice his cheeks going a bit red. 

“That was sweet,” you smile. 

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t say it like that.” 

“Like what?” you tease. 

“Like I am a sentimental idiot.” 

You grin. “But you are a sentimental idiot.” 

He shakes his head, but doesn’t argue, and instead gently wraps an arm around your shoulder. 

“But seriously, what happened out there?” he asks. “That spell-” he hesitates, “That was something else.” 

You don’t know how to reply to him, because you still have no idea how the hell it happened. Instead, you look down, feeling the effects of all the drinks you’ve had tonight swirling around in your head, and for a split second, the ground feels like it’s tilting beneath you again. You grip the wall, letting the rough surface dig into your palms.

“I don’t know, Jakob,” you admit, your voice almost lost in the cool air. “It just... happened.” 

He stares at you for a moment, then gently shakes his head. “That is not very comforting, you know.” 

You give him a soft laugh, but it’s weak. Distant. Your fingers find the hem of your dress, twisting the fabric through your fingers. Jakob notices and shifts a little closer, moving his arm around you a little more comfortably. “Alright,” he says, smiling. “I cannot fix all the weird and magical stuff going on in your brain, but I do know some other things you might find interesting.” 

You glance up at him, curious. “And what’s that?” 

He grins, leaning in a little, as if he's sharing the biggest secret ever. “Viktor almost lost his eye during the task. I am sure you already know that, though.” 

You nod, remembering his face red and bandaged in the hospital wing. But you never did find out what happened after Karkoff came in, raving at Pomfrey to let him take Viktor and dragging him away. 

Jakob grins even more, as if reading your thoughts. “What you did not see was what happened right after. Karkoff hauled Krum out of the hospital wing, looking like he was about to strangle him right then and there.” 

“What happened?” 

“Let’s just say, Karkoff was not too pleased with Viktors performance. He was furious about how close he came to losing that eye. They had a shouting match right there in the hallway. Karkoff almost hexed everyone in sight.” 

“Sounds like things are a bit tense over there at the Durmstrang ship,” you laugh. 

“Just a little,” he smirks. “Karkoff is not exactly easy to deal with. And Viktor? He is not the kind of guy to sit there and take it. They have always clashed, but after that task... I am worried for the next one. Karkoff is constantly reminding us how important it is that he wins.” 

“Important for who?” you ask, not liking the sound of that. 

“Karkoff’s been betting on him since the beginning. He wants Viktor to win more than Viktor does.” 

“What?" your eyes widen. "That’s... fucked up." 

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Welcome to Durmstrang.” 

Before you can say anything else, Jakobs head turns snaps to the corridor behind you. 

“What’s wrong?” you ask quietly, but he quickly turns around with a finger to his lips. 

“I know you’re out hereeee!” a singing voice echos down the corridor. “Naughty, naughty students, sneaking about where they shouldn’t beeeee!”  

“Uh oh,” you whisper. “It’s Peeves.” 

“Peeves?” Jakob asks. 

“Yeah... we need to go,” you say, grabbing his hand. “Like, right now.” 

You hop off the wall, and just as you do, Peeves comes floating around the corner, smiling sinisterly down at you both. He twirls around in the air in front of you, clasping his hands together like he’s just caught his prey. “Well, looky what we have here!” he sings, spinning upside down. “Two little night lurkers, hand in hand, up to NO GOOD!” 

“Brilliant,” you groan, feeling your head spin even more. 

“What should I do? Should I scream? Should I shout? Should I call the old bag Filchy out?” Peeves giggles, clearly delighted in your misery.  

“Run,” Jakob whispers, barely giving you time to process it before he yanks you forward. Without thinking, you bolt down the corridor, practically being dragged by Jakob as he leads the way, with Peeves cackling after you. 

“OH NO YOU DON’T!” Peeves howls, zooming after you both. “Flee little troublemakers! Flee! Peevesy loves a good chase!” 

Jakob tugs you down another hallway as Peeves glides behind you. “Hurry up!” he calls over his shoulder, still gripping your hand. 

Your already dizzy head spins even more as you sprint down the corridors, the cold dungeon air pulling at your hair as it rushes past you. The cruel mixture of the alcohol and adrenaline is doing nothing to help you, and you feel almost weightless. Like your body can barely keep up with how fast you’re moving. 

Jakob grips your hand tighter, leading you around a sharp corner, and you trip, crashing into his back, but he steadies you just in time. 

“I told you you are a lightweight,” he teases, supporting you as you almost fall on nothing again. 

“You dragged me into this!” you shoot back, laughing, but your words are a little slurred. 

Peeves catches up with you in your brief stop, and he floats behind you giggling wildly. “Ooooh, what fun, what fun indeed! Shall I lock the doors? Shall I make them bleed? Snuff out the lights? Or summon dear Snape, to see your plight?” 

That stops you dead in your tracks. “You wouldn’t.” 

“Wouldn’t I?” he says, tilting his head. 

You open your mouth to reply, but it’s too late. Peeves is already taking a deep, exaggerated breath. “OH, PROFESSOR SNAAPE! NAUGHTY STUDENTS IN THE DUNGEONS! DRUNK AS CAN BE! OH, WHAT WILL HE DO NOW? OH, WHAT WILL HE SEE?

Your blood turns ice cold. “Stop-!” you reach out for him, but he’s already soaring away, laughing like a maniac as he disappears around the corner. For a moment, you’re both silent, frozen to the spot and looking wide eyed at eachother.  And the next, for some insane reason, a laugh escapes you.

“Are you really laughing?” Jakob asks, looking a little pale. 

You clamp your free hand around your mouth, trying to hold it back. But you can’t. The absurdity of the situation is too much. The way Peeves just randomly found you. His stupid little songs. The way Snape is probably going to find out you’re out here after curfew in this state. 

You’re both fucked - and it’s hilarious. 

Jakob stares at you like you’ve lost the plot, and then, laughs himself. “You really are drunk.” 

“Maybe a little,” you laugh again. 

“You know Snape is probably on his way right now?”  

“Right...,” you’re thinking about what to do next when a hear a shrill come from down the corridor. It's Peeves, and he’s coming back. “Shit, move-” 

But just as you turn, you come face to face with him . 

His dark eyes have already taken everything in. You. Jakob. The faint smell of alcohol clinging to you. And the most damning of all, Jakob’s finger's entwined with yours. 

You try to pull away your hand, but he’s already seen.  

“How touching,” Snape mutters icily. 

You swallow hard, trying to suppress another laugh. Fuck, what’s wrong with you?  

Before anything else can be said, Peeves’ irritating, gleeful wail echos down the corridor again. “Oh, you found them, you did!” Peeves bursts into view. “Drunk and disgusting, what a sight! Shall I fetch Dumbledore? Or maybe-” 

Snape glares past you at Peeves who floats behind you now. “Silence.” 

Peeves stops mid-loop, hanging upside down in the air, looking offended. “Oh,” he croons. “Someone’s in a foul mood.” He swoops closer to him, grinning. “Not interrupting a moment, am I?” 

“Silence!” Snape snaps again. “Or so help me, I will personally see to it that you are exorcised from the castle, Peeves!” 

“EXORCISED? Me?! The beloved, CHARMING, handsome Peeves?!” he shrieks, swirling closer to you. “Now that’s just cruel, Professor Snape. Think of all the chaos the students would cause without me!” 

You press your lips together really hard, trying desperately not to laugh, but between the haze in your head and the stupid voice of Peeves, a quiet snort escapes you. 

Snape’s head snaps towards you, his eyes blazing into yours with a heat that stops you cold. 

Oh shit.  

Peeves gasps next to you, “Oooooh! Did little miss tipsy just giggle?” he says gleefully, leering at you. “Drunk and giggling at Professor Snape? Ohohohoh, that’s brave!” 

Snape waves his wand sharply towards him, and an invisible force sends him spinning down the corridor. “Alright, alright! I’m going, I’m going!” he cries. Just before he disappears into the wall, he pops his head back out. “Have fun, kiddieeeees!” he sings, giving you both a wicked smirk before finally vanishing. 

The silence Peeves leaves behind is heavy, or maybe it’s just your head, because the second he’s gone, the world tilts slightly to the left. 

“You two have caused enough disruption for one night,” Snape says coldly, looking back at the both of you now. “I will escort Miss [Last Name] back to her common room. You,” he sneers at Jakob, “may go. I’m sure you have better things to be doing.” 

You look at Jakob, and he's clearly reluctant. “I’m okay, Jakob,” you say, trying to convince him, but you’re not doing a good job.  

“Are you sure?” he says, glaring back at Snape.  

You nod, too fast, and the movement sends your stomach lurching. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“Go. Now.” Snape cuts in, his face a mask of fury. 

Jakob clearly doesn't want to go, but in the end he accepts his defeat. As he disappears down the corridor, you start to feel a sickening sense of dread. You’re royally screwed. Two days ago, you were so close to being kicked out of Hogwarts. Now here you are again, teetering on that same edge. It’s ridiculous... yet kind of hilarious. 

The walk back to the dungeons is awkward. You drag your feet along the floor slightly as the effects of whatever was in that cauldron make themselves more known. Without Jakob by your side to steady you, you’re a swaying mess, and before you know it, you’re stumbling over your boots, catching yourself against the wall just in time. 

“You’re drunk,” Snape says, disapprovingly. 

“No, I’m not,” you protest, but the way your words come out tell him everything he needs to know. 

He gives you the look – the one that tells you that he knows you’re lying. The one he’s given you so many times this week alone. 

You almost trip again, and he lets out an impatient sigh as if the very act of tolerating you pains him. “That’s enough,” he growls, not waiting for you to argue before grabbing your arm firmly, his cool fingers wrapping around your bare arm. “I am not letting you walk around the castle after curfew in this state.” 

“I’m perfectly capable, professor,” you say, trying to pull your arm away, but it's a wasted effort. 

“You almost died two days ago, need I remind you,” Snape counters. “And now you’re walking around drunk and-” he gestures to your outfit, the dress that barely covers you “- this isn’t helping your case.” 

You roll your eyes as he all but hauls you into his classroom, and his presence is impossible to ignore as he lingers at the door. You trail your fingers along the workbenches as you move around the classroom, still sluggish from the alcohol, and barely processing the way his dark eyes are tracing your every step.  

The dreamlike haze softens, making his words feel distant and unimportant. 

“Idiotic,” he mutters, frustrated as he watches you move. “Running through the halls after curfew, intoxicated, and with a Durmstrang of all people. What on earth are you playing at?” 

You turn back to him, leaning against his desk, running your fingers across the smooth surface. The sensation almost feels hypnotic, and under the weight of his stare, something bold and foolish stirs inside you. Something that probably wouldn’t have surfaced if you were sober. 

“Are you jealous, sir?” you ask, grinning at him. “You seem so bothered about what I do. Are you worried about me having fun for once? Or is it the Durmstrang thing that’s getting to you?” 

He’s still hovering in the doorway, leaning against the closed door with his arms crossed. “Jealous?” he echos, his tone almost amused, but not in a way that feels safe. “Do you even hear yourself?” he shakes his head. “You, of all people, are not my concern, Miss [Last Name].” 

“Really?” you push him, hopping onto his desk. “Because for someone who doesn’t care, you always seem to be there when I need saving.” 

Snape uncrosses his arms, and you can see his fingers twitching at his sides. “Get off my desk.” 

You swing your legs, ignoring him. “Why? Does it bother you?” 

He breathes slowly, as if summoning patience from some long-depleted reserve. “It irritates me,” he corrects you. “Much like your insistence on testing my limits.” 

“Oh, come on, Professor. You’re practically my guardian,” you giggle. “This makes it... what? The third time you’ve saved me now? That has to be a record.” 

His expression darkens, but he doesn’t move. “A record I have no intention of continuing.” 

“Hmm, we’ll see about that,” as you say the words, your eyes drop to the side of you, where a stack of half graded essays sit– his meticulous, spidery writing scrawled across the pages.  

But what catches your attention isn’t his work. No, it’s the slightly crumpled copy of the Daily Prophet half buried beneath it. Curious, you reach out, dragging it closer with a shaky hand. The front page is a few weeks old, but the image is familiar. 

It’s you. From the champions photoshoot after the wand weighing, sitting beside Fleur, with Krum and Harry behind you, all dressed in your school robes. You look so put together here, a stark contrast to how you were actually feeling that day. You’re caught mid-motion in the photo, and as it begins to zoom in on you, your smile looks bright and effortless in a way that feels so foreign now.

The picture loops, catching you over and over again, making something inside you twist. It’s weird seeing yourself like that, even if it was all put on for show. 

“Put that back,” Snape snaps, already moving closer and bringing you out of your head.

"Huh, first time seeing this,” you admit. “Didn’t turn out too bad I suppose." Snape follows your gaze but gives nothing away. “I didn’t know you kept up with the latest gossip, Professor,” you tease, watching him move closer.

“I don’t,” he replies, reaching out to snatch it from you, but you move the paper away from him just in time.  

“Could’ve fooled me,” you smirk. 

He exhales through his nose, clearly unamused, snatching at it again and taking it from you. “Are you quite finished?” he says, folding the paper with precise movements and tucking it away back under the stack of essays, as if it might erase the fact you saw it. 

But you did see it, and you can’t help yourself.  

“You know,” you say, leaning forward slightly. “If you wanted a picture of me, you could’ve just asked.” 

His eyes snap up to yours, unamused and dangerous. “Careful,” he warns. “That mouth of yours is going to land you in detention.” 

You laugh. “Oh please, if you start handing out detentions for students having fun, you might as well lock up the entire common room. You know there’s a party happening there tonight, don’t you?” 

“They are not bothering me like you are.” 

“So, I’m special?” you ask, tilting your head. 

“You,” he says, quietly, “have no idea how far you're pushing.” 

His words send a shiver down your spine. Not from fear, but from something else entirely.  

Only now do you realise how close he is. Close enough for you to see the finer details on him – the sharp lines of his face, the tension in his jaw, the way his dark eyes are roaming over you. You watch him carefully, and for a second, something shifts. Small, but noticeable. His breathing slows, and his eyes look down, as if he’s only now just realising the same thing as you. 

The space, or lack thereof, between you. 

His expression shutters instantly, like a door slamming closed. Then, he moves away. A deliberate retreat, rebuilding the barrier that had slipped somewhere in the silence. “Should I be concerned?” he asks, standing back at the door. “Is this... some cry for help?” 

Is he serious?

"What?" you almost laugh. "Can't I have a drink without it being a whole psychological crisis now?"

“You’ve just barely survived the first task,” he starts, solemnly. “Barely survived being taken by the Minister for magic you still won’t explain,” his eyes look over you, probably taking in the faint sway in your body as you try to keep up with his words. “And now, you’re drunk. Running through the halls. Acting like... this,” he pauses, then goes quieter. “Towards me.” 

You can feel your heartbeat quicken, but you can’t tell if it's because of his words or the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing too much of you. Does he have a point? He’s the only one who looks at you, who really looks at you. Not with admiration, but with something more... unsettling. 

“If I wanted help, Professor, I’d hardly go looking for it in the dungeons,” you reply, forcing a smile and trying to brush off whatever it is you’re feeling, but it’s hard when your head is still swimming. 

“That,” he says darkly, “is exactly what concerns me.” 

You’ve felt uneasy a few times tonight, but nothing compares to this. Not the egg, not Jakob asking you about the task, not being chased by Peeves. Because suddenly, it feels like he’s gotten too close without ever moving an inch. 

You hop off the desk, moving towards the door, needing to get away from him before he unravels you even more. He moves away to let you pass, and you hesitate as your fingers brush against the handle. You should leave. Let this conversation die before it digs into places you’d rather keep buried. But the alcohol in your system is still ravaging your better judgement, making you feel bolder. And if you don’t ask now, you never will. Not after this. 

You turn back to face him, and he’s still staring at you halfway down the classroom. “Can I have my wand?”  

“No.” 

“No?” 

“You are in no state to have it,” he says flatly. “And even if you were, I wouldn’t return it. Not until you start giving me some real answers.” 

Your fingers tighten around the handle, your anger overtaking whatever mood the alcohol is trying to force. “That’s not fair.” 

“Fair?” he says, his tone almost mockingly. “You are asking me to return something that could very well get yourself killed while you stumble through the castle like a fool.” 

“It’s my wand,” you snap. “Or do you take all of your students wands when they get into trouble?” 

“Not all of my students insist on making my job this difficult,” he replies, and you can see his patience with you fading. 

You cross your arms. “So, what? You’re holding it hostage?” 

“I am keeping it safe,” he corrects. “And whether you like it or not, I am keeping you safe.” 

“That’s rich,” you scoff.  

He moves closer, hesitant after the last time, but it’s enough to make you feel the pull in the air between you. “You think I enjoy this?” he asks. “You think I find any satisfaction in keeping a foolish, arrogant child from running headfirst into their own destruction?” 

His words should sting. Maybe tomorrow, when the alcohol has burned off and the reality of this situation settles in, they will. But right now, you just smile at him. “And yet, you keep doing it.” 

He pauses, obviously thinking his last words would make you fall apart, not expecting you to bite back again. “Not by choice.” 

Your smile fades, and for the first time tonight, you realise the alcohol isn’t making you bold. It’s making you stupid. And Snape, with that expression, is seeing right through it. 

“Fine,” you mutter, feeling the sudden urge to get out. “Keep it.”  

You can’t stand here any longer - can't stand the way he looks at you. Like he's pulling you apart without touching a thing. You turn back to the door, pulling it open. Snape doesn’t stop you. He doesn’t say another word. But as you stumble into the corridor, you can still feel his unwavering eyes on your back as you walk away. 

The corridor feels colder, or maybe it's just you. You don't really know. Everything is a mess and none of it makes sense. He should've given you detention. He always gives detention. And tonight, he dragged you away, drunk. You started... whatever that was, and then demanded your wand back like a complete idiot. 

And he did nothing.

Chapter Text

Something stirs.  

Not in front of you, not even behind. It lingers just outside your reach.

You can feel it. It’s watching. Waiting.   

The whispers grow louder, seeping into every crack in your head. You almost catch the words, but every time you try, they vanish. Replaced with something else.

A shadow - a face, maybe? Not a complete one, just half-formed shapes in the dark. But you can faintly make out a pair of eyes that you might know.

Or do you? The closer you try to get, the more it all blurs into a senseless haze. 

And then, everything dissolves.   

You wake up, bolting upright and gasping for breath. Your sheets are soaked, clinging to your skin, your hands shaking as they clutch at the fabric. There's a hollow ache in your chest, a deep emptiness. Almost like something has been stolen from you.  

You stay there for a moment, trying to remember even a shred of the dream, but it’s already gone. The last week has been the same – each time the dreams surface, they're harder to hold onto, fading too fast. It’s not every night, but when they do come, they’re more intense. You’ve tried to ignore it, telling yourself it’s just stress from the first task. A few days ago, you even caved and took the dreamless sleep you smuggled from the hospital wing. And it had worked perfectly – no dreams, no whispers, just blissful darkness. Empty and quiet.  

But that was days ago, and whatever peace it gave you had long worn off. You can't go through another night of this - you’re already becoming a ghost of yourself from the lack of sleep. You drift through classes, barely just keeping up, and you’re utterly fed up with it all.  

With the rest of the castle mostly asleep, you take the chance to sneak through the quiet of the common room and the corridors, careful not to be caught. Madame Pomfrey is still awake when you push open the doors to the hospital wing, halfway through sorting some vials.  

“Is everything okay, Miss [Last Name]?” she says, setting a bottle down.  

You nod, still hazy from your nightmare. “Just having trouble sleeping.”  

Her face softens a little, and you can tell she’s expecting you to elaborate.  

“It’s... the dragon,” you lie, rubbing your head. “I keep dreaming about it. The task... the fire. The burn.”  

She studies you for a moment, maybe too long, but she eventually gives in. She walks to a nearby cabinet and carefully pulls out a small vial of dreamless sleep and hands it to you. “Don’t rely on it,” she warns you gently. “It helps, for a little while. But it won’t solve the problem.”  

“Thank you,” you nod, a little embarrassed, half turning away from her.  

“If it gets worse,” she adds, “perhaps Professor Snape can help you. He’s good with all that mind stuff.”  

As if. You haven't spoken to him since the night of the party. You can't remember exactly what you said to him, but you know it was bad, and you’ve spent the week wishing you could erase it from time entirely. Especially because he’s not said a word about it.  

You leave the hospital wing, clutching the dreamless sleep like it’s your lifeline. The remnants of the last week spiralling around in your head. It’s been a rough one, probably the hardest since you got here.  

Half the school seems to think you’re dangerous, and the other half looks at you like you’re some kind of mystery. People talk when they think you can’t hear, about what happened in the arena, about the way the air seemed to change around you. Rumours that you’ve been practicing dark magic has spread, and a few first years actually ran away when they saw you outside the Great Hall a few days ago.  

You shove the reminder far to the back of your mind as you settle back into bed, downing the dreamless sleep. You just need to get through tomorrow - then it's the weekend and you can have well needed break from all the pressure of classes. It kicks in fast, one minute you’re curled up, staring out of the window of your dorm, and the next you're woken by the sound of your alarm.  

You’ve managed to survive the week without your wand – just about. You’ve got lucky during most of your classes, but Defence Against the Dark Arts has been the hardest to get through. Moody hasn’t set many practical lessons, and you’ve been getting by, doing your best to pretend you aren't completely useless without the one thing that makes you a witch.  

But today, your luck is running dry.  

“Wands out,” Moody growls, stomping to the front of the room. “Time for some practical work.”  

You freeze in your seat, shifting a little. Angelina notices and gives you a questioning look, but you just shake your head at her. It’s fine. He won’t notice. You keep your head down as the other students rise, pushing chairs back to give more space. He looks your way, and you make a show of pretending to look through your bag even though you already know it’s not there.  

“[Last Name],” your name snaps through the air like a whip, and you look up to find him staring at you. His real eye narrowed, the other fixed twitching. “Well?”  

You open your mouth to reply but hesitate. You could lie, tell him it’s lost. Maybe tell him it’s broken. But his magical eye is spinning wildly again and you don’t know what he can see. You don’t want to find out the hard way and risk lying to him.  

“I don’t have it, Sir,” you say quietly.  

He doesn’t look satisfied with that answer at all. His eye narrows even more, and the silence hangs too long when everyone stares at you. “Up,” he says suddenly. “With me.”  

“Sir?” you ask, uncertain.  

“I said up,” he doesn’t sound angry, but he’s not patient either. “We’ll talk over here.”  

People chatter quietly as you stand, and a few students turn to watch. Moody doesn’t care, he just waves you towards the far corner of the room behind a bookshelf stacked with old books and tomes.  

“Now,” he says, crossing his arms and looming far too close for comfort. “Try again. Why don’t you have your wand?”  

“I just don’t,” you try him.  

“Not good enough,” his voice cuts through your excuse and you find yourself wincing under the pressure.  

“Professor Snape has it,” you admit with a sigh.  

“Snape?” he asks, lifting an eyebrow.  

“Yeah, he took it.”  

There’s a long pause as he runs his tongue over his teeth, his expression somewhere between grim and curious. “And he hasn’t given it back?”   

“No,” you say quietly, shaking your head.  

“Why not?” he presses.  

“Well...” you start, fiddling with the sleeve of your robe, “you know. The first task...” Moody doesn’t even blink, just stares at you, urging you to carry on. “The spell,” you sigh, looking down. “He didn’t like it... so he took my wand.”  

Moody leans back at your confession, but it doesn’t ease your discomfort. If anything, it feels worse now. Like he’s really watching you now.   

“That wasn’t some textbook incantation, was it?” he says slowly. “Wasn’t anything we’ve ever taught in this school, either. Do you know what it was?”  

“No,” you answer truthfully. “It just – happened.”  

He studies you hard, as if trying to strip away every thought you're hiding, but you try your best to stay focused and hold his gaze. Not daring to look away again.

“Dark magic doesn’t just happen, [Last Name],” he says, his tone somewhat darker than earlier. “It comes from somewhere, doesn’t it?”  

You swallow hard. You know it didn’t come from you, but it must've come from somewhere. “I panicked,” you say, keeping your voice even. “It wasn’t planned.”  

“And that’s the first thing your magic reached for?” he asks.  

You don’t answer. Because how are you supposed to answer to that? So instead, you shrug. “Like I said, I don’t know what happened. Just that he took my wand after.”  

He makes a low, unimpressed sound, and you hate how unnerving it is. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you.” He says finally, stepping back and giving you space again. “I don’t like uncertainties in my classroom.”  

He turns away, barking at a pair of Hufflepuffs who’ve managed to set the curtains on fire somehow. Then, turns back to you with one final comment. “And don’t think Snape’s protection makes you untouchable. If you’re dabbling in something you shouldn’t be,” he adds, low and slow, “I will find out.”  

You don’t say anything. The words hang in the air like a thick fog, sticking to you even after he’s gone.   

Dabbling.    

Like you chose this. Like you even know what’s going on.  

By the time potions rolls around, you slouch into your usual seat in the dungeons. Your head feels so crowded but empty at the same time, and your eyes ache with the pressure of a headache that’s been clawing at you since your talk with Moody.  

Snape drifts into the room, slamming the door closed behind him, but you don’t look at him.  

“Instructions are on the board,” he says, flat and uninterested. “You have until the end of class to complete this. You should all be capable of doing this by now. If not-” his eyes scan across the room, but you can feel a slight pause as they pass over you, “-then perhaps you’ve wasted your education so far.”  

Cedric slips into the seat next to you, carrying all the ingredients you’ll need for the Draught of Living Death Snape expects you to make today. “Hey,” he says, glancing at you with a frown as he sets the cauldron up. “You alright?”  

“Yeah,” you lie, reaching for the syrup of hellebore and pouring it into the cauldron, only to realise you’ve done it too soon. “Shit- no, sorry. That goes in after the moonstone.”  

He looks at you, watching you try to salvage the already destroyed mix, and gently rests a hand on your wrist before you can make it any worse. “It’s alright, don’t worry. We’ve got time.”  

You give him a smile, but you feel too tense to appreciate it properly. You’re tired. Your brain feels like mush. And honestly, you just can’t be bothered. Everything’s off today, like you’re walking through water instead of air.  

Cedric remakes the potion, adding the moonstone until it turns pink, then adds the syrup again. You stir counter clockwise, then clockwise, watching it turn into the colour of mud. You suddenly feel Snape’s presence behind you, and you curse quietly under your breath knowing he’s just seen you fuck it up again.  

“Five points from Slytherin for failing to read,” he says quietly, right behind you. “Stewed Mandrake before stirring, not after. I expected more from you, Miss [Last Name].”  

You bite your cheek, trying to stop them burning up, keeping your eyes fixed on the mess of the cauldron.  

"Don’t let him get to you,” Cedric whispers after he's walked away. “I'll sort it out.”  

You nod, but it doesn’t help. Because Snape’s not wrong. You’re screwing everything up today, and it’s not just this. You can’t sleep. Can’t think. And now you’ve got Moody – an ex auror who thinks you’re on the dark side - on your back.  

The rest of the class crawls by. You sit back and let Cedric salvage whatever he can of your work and try to act like you’re actually doing something when Snape moves past your bench. When the bell rings, he bottles up your potion and, thankfully, it's not looking too terrible. Everyone starts to pack up, and you're half way through shoving your things carelessly into your bag when you hear it -  

“Miss [Last Name]. Stay behind.”  

You feel everything inside you drop. You’ve managed to evade him this past week – a masterclass in tactical evasion. You’ve barely looked his way in class, keeping your head down, answered when called on – which was rarely – but never volunteered. You slipped out the moment the bell rang each day, gathering your things quickly so he never even had the chance to call you.  

But now, you’ve messed up the damn potion. Now he has a reason.  

Cedric is the last to leave, giving you a sympathetic look before he disappears and closes the door. The silence left behind is almost suffocating.  

“Come here,” Snape says in a low voice.  

You drag your feet forward, and when you reach his desk, you can’t meet his eyes. Remembering the last time you were this close, swinging your legs on this very desk and taunting him...  

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he says, pulling you out of the awkward memory.  

“No. I’ve been... busy,” you reply, forcing the words out.

He ignores your blatant lie. “Your work is slipping. You’re distracted. And now, a potion you should be able to brew in your sleep turns into a mess under your nose. Would you care to explain?”   

You don't answer.   

“This isn’t the first time you’ve lost control lately, is it?” he continues. “Just last week you were here in quite a state-”  

“Please don’t bring that up,” you groan, feeling your cheeks heat up. “I- I’m sorry for whatever stupid shit I said.”  

“You don’t remember?”   

“Not really,” you sigh, leaning against the desk behind you. “My head’s a mess, especially since the first task.”   

“Well, that explains your performance,” he says eventually. “But not your silence. You haven’t said anything. Why?”  

You wish the answer was so simple, but how can you admit to him that asking for help feels like you’re failing? That you thought you could handle it yourself, that hopefully it would all just pass. Or that you could push through it like you always do. You’re tired of running from it all – from him.  

“I can’t sleep,” you admit, quietly. “And I don’t know why. I'm having weird dreams that I never remember when I wake up.” You don’t feel ready to tell him about the nightmares and the voices just yet. “It’s stupid, I know. But now Moody’s breathing down my neck now too.”  

That gets a sharper reaction from him. “Why?”  

“I’ve been avoiding the practicals, but today he noticed. I... I had to tell him I didn’t have my wand.” He doesn’t say anything, so you carry on. “I told him you have it. Now he thinks I’m dabbling in something dark and you’re covering for me.”  

He narrows his eyes at you. “You were advised that I would not return it until I receive some real answers, were you not?”  

“Yeah,” you mutter. “You know being a witch without a wand is harder than it sounds, right?”  

“This isn’t a joke,” he says quietly. “You’re not just slipping. And I’m asking you now...” his eyes narrow slightly. “Are you ready to tell me what’s going on? Or are you happy to start preparing yourself for your new life as a permanently wandless witch?”  

You turn away from him a little, your eyes falling on nothing in particular as you try to figure out what to say next. You could dodge him again, shrug him off and make another joke. But your mind is a battlefield, and you still have nothing to tell him because you don’t know what’s going on.

When you finally turn back, his eyes haven't moved from you.  

“I don’t know,” you say. “I swear I don’t. I’ve been trying to figure it out... but my head’s such a mess. I can barely think straight."  

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you. Not in the testing way he usually does, but like he’s actually taking in what you're saying. “You do realise I’ve offered help,” he says finally, rising from his chair. “With whatever's going on in your mind.”  

“I know,” you say softly.  

“You’ve refused every time.”  

“I know. ”  

“And now here we are. Wandless, with Alastor Moody convinced you’re brewing up something dark in the dungeons with me.”  

You smile faintly. “He said he’d figure it out. Whatever I’m supposedly ‘hiding’.”  

He makes a displeased sound through his nose. “Moody isn't someone you want as an enemy, and I won’t protect you blindly.” He pauses, enough to let the weight of his words sink in. “So, I’ll offer it again. Do you want my help?”  

You meet his eyes again. They aren’t as cold as they were when you first met him, or maybe you’re just too exhausted to keep shying away from them. “Okay.”  

There’s a pause, and you notice the slight change in his expression. Like your answer surprised him. He masks it quickly, retreating behind his own walls, but you saw it. Just for a second.  

“Sunday,” he says, back to his usual clipped precision. “After lunch. My office.”  

“Yeah, okay,” you reply, turning away to pick up your bag off your workbench. You don't want to accept his help, but it feels like you don't have a choice anymore. “See you then,” you say before leaving, not looking back.  

The castle is quieter today since it's a Saturday and everyone’s out doing their own thing, enjoying their free time. You, on the other hand, are tired of feeling so useless, and after another rough night, you’re determined to at least try to find some sort of answer to the wreckage in your head.

The library is usually your go to place for comfort, but today it just feels lonely. You find yourself drifting to the back and eventually settle into a corner near the restricted section. You sift through the books, pulling one from the shelf titled Dreams and The Inner Eye and sit down at the table.   

You assume the dreams must be linked to your broken occlumency somehow, and this sounds like it might be an interesting read. But as you flick through the pages you quickly realise you’re wasting your time. You scan over the section about dreams but none of it makes sense. It’s all just vague theories about subconscious fears and unfulfilled desires – what a load of rubbish.   

The more you read, the more frustrated you get. You slam the book closed, earning a sharp look from Madam Pince. You give her an apologetic smile and get up to move behind a shelf, pushing the book back and pulling out another – Occlumency and the Mind .   

This one sounds more useful. Scanning through the pages, it just seems to be more of the same nonsense as the last one, though. Terms you don’t understand. Techniques that sound like they’re written for someone with a more put together brain than yours.  

“Stupid,” you mutter, pushing it back into it’s place.  

You glance around, half hoping someone will just appear and hand you all the answers. It’s ridiculous, but you’d do anything for even a hint.  

And then the thought comes to you. Why not?   

You look towards the restricted section. It’s only a few aisles away, locked off by a simple rope, and looks way too inviting. You bet there’s an answer in there somewhere... but how will you get in? Madam Pince is guarding the section like a dragon hoarding spellbooks, and you don’t have a note from a teacher.  

Which leaves you with only one option – time to cause some chaos.  

You scan the library for something you can use as a distraction, and your eyes land on a tall, unstable looking shelf two aisles over. There’s an obvious wobble to it, and if someone so much as brushes past it the wrong way it’ll definitely fall over.  

A group of Hufflepuffs sit next to it, one in particular you know from class – and he’s clumsy as hell. Perfect.  

You casually walk over and pull out a few of the heavy looking books, balancing them closer to the edge. One nudge, and this whole section will go down like a game of wizard Jenga.  

Then, you wait. Pretending to browse a shelf nearby, trailing the spines like you’re so academically focused in whatever you’re doing. Just as the Hufflepuff drifts past you with an arm full of books, you pretend to stumble and lightly shove him into the back of the bookcase with a half muttered “oops, sorry!”   

He loses his balance, letting out a startled cry. “Hey-!”  

He falls into the bookcase, toppling over with it and sending all the books he was carrying, as well as the ones on the bookcase, flying into the air. A cloud of dust fills the space around you, and somewhere across the library Madam Pince screams like it's the end of the world.

You don’t stick around, slipping away from the disaster you just created. Ducking under the rope, you hide behind a tall shelf in the Restricted Section, your heart hammering, feeling a little guilty - even if it was funny. You didn’t mean for him to fall with the bookcase.  

When you’re sure you haven't been seen, you scan the titles in the mind section quickly – Conscious Defence and Magical Trauma, The Mind Unmade, Fractured Barriers of the Magical Psyche. You grab them all, crouching down to flip through them.  

Most of it is full of too many words and packed with diagrams that look like they’re written in another language. But as you look over The Mind Unmade, a section catches your eye. It’s titled: Trauma Induced Fragmentation.   

You scan the paragraph. ‘

In cases of magical interference, high stress trauma, or defensive mental collapse, memories may become obscured, broken, or even sealed. Fragments often resurface through repeated emotional triggers-’   

“You!”  

You almost jump out of your skin, spinning around to a tall figure that blocks the end of the aisle – one of the Seventh year Gryffindor prefects.   

Great.  

“I saw you shove him,” he says, arms folded and full of the smug tone some Gryffindors seem to be born with. “You think I won’t tell?”  

As if right on cue, Madam Pince's shrill voice echoes through the library – furious. “Who is responsible for this?!”  

You slam the book shut and quickly shove the others back on the shelf, tucking the one you’re reading under your robes and out of sight. Not waiting around, you rush past the Gryffindor, giving him a smile on the way past as you dodge his grip, sprinting out and around the corner – and smack directly into the same Hufflepuff you pushed earlier.  

“You again?” he blurts out, then looks over at Madam Pince. “It was her! She pushed me!” he yells, his eyes going wide as he spots the prefect rounding the corner after you.  

Shit.   

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, dodging around him. “Truly sorry. I’ll make it up to you!”  

“Stop her at once!” Pince screeches, rushing over.    

You bolt out, past the outraged gasps of the Ravenclaws at the tables near you, Pince charging after you like a bat out of hell. You duck around a bookshelf and leap over someone's satchel, almost tripping.  

Finally – miraculously – you burst through the doors and into the corridor, breathless. But you did it. You feel for the book under your robes as you rush down the hallways, making sure it’s still there. You might be banned from the library for life now... but at least you may be on the right track to finally having some answers.  

That night, after a long afternoon of keeping to the common room and hiding away from the prefects, you draw the curtains around your bed and lie on your stomach, pulling out the book again.  

Since you don’t have your wand, the only light you have is a candle you stole from downstairs earlier. It’s dim, but you’ve set it up next to your bed so it gives off just enough light that you can still read. It’s a difficult book to make sense of, written in a tone that assumes you know more than you do. But you skim, skim and skim again until the section you found in the library pops out again. You follow it on from where you left off.  

‘Fragments often resurface through repeated emotional triggers – such as fear, stress, or moments of intense emotional vulnerability. These triggers can cause sudden flashes of forgotten events, often leaving the individual confused, out of control, and in extreme cases, disconnected from the reality of the memory.”   

You stare at the page, reading over it again - slower this time. That’s it... it has to be. At the wand weighing when you had the first weird vision, you were pushing yourself too hard. Too fast. And the first task? You were terrified. It all makes sense. Those moments, the flashes of... whatever it was.

Your eyes drift back to the text, and the certainty falters a little. There’s nothing about dreams. Nothing about voices. Nothing about wands having a mind of their own.   

The candle eventually burns out, and your eyes start to sting, so you push the book under your pillow for now. You’ll have time to read a little more tomorrow before your meeting with Snape.  

The next morning, you wake up barely in time to make it for lunch after another restless night. You quickly tuck the book into your bag, get dressed, and head out of the door. In the Great Hall, you hide away at the end of the Slytherin table, noticing two Gryffindor prefects talking to each other beside their table, occasionally glancing over at the Slytherins.   

You bet they're still after whoever caused a scene in the library yesterday, and you aren’t sticking around long enough to get caught.  

Sneaking a few sandwiches, you get up and leave, eating them outside while you read over the book again. There’s still nothing on dreams, but there’s an article on emotions you find interesting: Griefs Role in Occlumency Fracture

Grief, particularly the sudden loss of loved ones, can shatter the most resilient defences. Occlumency, while designed to protect the mind from external influence, is not immune to internal collapse. In fact, many documented cases of Occlumens losing control of their shields begins not with magical attacks, but with emotional ones.   

Grief is not a single emotion. It is a storm – a convergence of sorrow, anger, regret, and yearning. When this storm becomes too great, the mind’s natural instinct to protect can fracture under the weight of unresolved trauma.   

Hm. That makes sense too, you suppose. It’s only been five months now since the World Cup. Since you found out with no warning, no goodbyes, that your parents were gone. The book trembles slightly in your hands, and you force it shut, shoving it back into your bag as you finish off the rest of your sandwich. Making your way back inside the castle, you walk slowly down the corridors to the dungeons. 

Could it really just be a mix of everything? The trauma to your head, the tournament, the grief?  

When you arrive at Snape’s office, your fist hovers at your side. You don't know why you're suddenly feeling nervous. Maybe it's the thought of him seeing something you're not ready for. Pushing it away for now, you raise your hand to knock, but before you touch the wood the door swings open on its own. Snape stands in the doorway, arms crossed.

“You’re on time. Miraculous,” he says dryly, stepping aside to let you in.  

“Good afternoon to you too, Professor,” you mutter, making your way inside.  

“Are you ready for this?” he asks quietly, closing the door.

You nod. “Yeah, I think so.”  

“Very well,” he says, moving over to a door at the side of his office. “I thought we’d do this somewhere more... comfortable.”  

You frown. “What’s in there?”  

He glances over his shoulder at you before tugging the door open. “My quarters.”  

Your stomach drops. “Is that... even allowed?”   

“If you'd rather sit on the cold stone floor of my office while I attempt to untangle your mind, by all means stay,” he replies, disappearing inside.  

You huff, partly a laugh, partly nerves, before following him inside – not really knowing what to expect.   

It’s warmer in here, and also... calmer. A small sitting area is arranged around a low table, with a deep green leather sofa and a pair of armchairs in the same colour. A soft, thick rug with faint emerald threading rests in front of the fire, and shelves of old books line the black walls. They look old and frail, but interesting. It makes you wonder about the kind of stuff he reads in his spare time.  

You stay in the doorway, taking it all in. “Huh... this is actually nice,” you say, almost surprised. “Not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t this.”  

He raises an eyebrow at you from across the room. “Disappointed?”  

You smile a little, closing the door behind you and moving further inside. “No. Just, there’s no jars of animal bits, no ominous bubbling cauldron. Bit of a let down, honestly.”  

“Forgive me for not curating my living space to meet the morbid imaginations of my students,” he replies, unamused.  

“I like it. Maybe a bit too cozy, though. I’m starting to think you might be human after all, Sir,” you grin.  

“Watch it,” he warns, moving over to the middle of the room. “Sit,” he says simply, gesturing to the rug. “You’ll need to be relaxed for this.”  

You set your bag down, lowering yourself onto the rug, crossing your legs as you settle next to the fire. The heat warms you almost instantly, but it doesn’t do much to calm your nerves. When you look up at him, he’s standing in front of you, looking down at you with his arms crossed over his chest like he’s working something out.   

“This won't be particularly pleasant. You may feel some pressure or discomfort.” His tone is firm. “You’ll know when it’s happening. Try not to resist it.”   

You give a short nod. “I know,” you say.  

“You know?"

“Yeah, it's not the first time someone will be in my head. My father used to do it every so often," you admit, remembering the times he subtly tried but you always knew he was there.  

Snape regards you in silence, and you press on before you lose the nerve.

“He didn’t like that I didn’t approve of his views. I thought the whole death eater thing was ridiculous - told him once at dinner and got the silent treatment for a week," you laugh at the memory. "So, he started doing these casual little mind checks. Just to make sure I wasn't being treacherous, as he put it."

“That is a rather invasive form of discipline,” he says, studying you.  

You shrug it off. “It’s just how he was. He cared, just in his own psychotic way.” Snape doesn’t comment, so you go on. “I taught myself to block him out, to make him see things I’d made up instead of real things. It helped me keep things hidden when I needed to,” your voice goes quieter, only just realising how much you’re saying. “It was a hard skill to master, but I got so good at it that I could trick him. Even managed to sneak into his office and steal a few books and other stuff. He never found out.”  

“Charming,” he says, almost amused. “So, your occlumency began as an act of survival, and evolved into-”  

“The art of lying and deceiving?” you offer, grinning up at him.   

“That’s not a talent worth boasting about," he says, unimpressed.

“Isn’t it?”  

“No.” The word is final as moves closer, kneeling in front of you. “Now, I’ll need to touch you for this to work best. It will allow for a clearer-”  

“Touch me?” you interrupt, feeling your heart skip a beat.  

He narrows his eyes just a bit. “Your head, Miss [Last Name].”  

“Right,” you say quickly, a half laugh escaping you before you can stop it. “Obviously.”  

“Mm.” He positions himself more comfortably, settling himself opposite you in the firelight.   

There’s a slow calm in the way he moves, as if everything he does is on purpose. You watch him for a moment longer than you probably should, noticing how the glow of the fire softens the lines of his face. How his hair catches in the light, glinting faintly.

You’ve never really looked at him like this. Or maybe you have but you’re only now just letting yourself notice.  

You shift slightly, suddenly very aware of your closeness.  

“Close your eyes,” he instructs, his voice lower now. “Try to breathe normally. We'll keep it simple for now. I need to see how your mind reacts to me being in there."

You close your eyes, and for a few seconds there’s only the calming sound of the fire beside you and the steady rhythm of your breathing. You hear him move closer, then his fingers press gently against your temples, warm and firm.   

The moment the connection forms, you feel it, and your heart jumps again. It’s the familiar pressure you’ve felt before when your father did this, but it feels more gentle this time. Like a soft current pulling at the edges of your thoughts rather than a storm ravaging through them.

Memories begin to resurface, the more recent ones at first.

You're at lunch with Jade, laughing over something stupid – probably the Durmstrang boy who she likes so much but won’t admit her feelings for. Her cheeks are flushed, and she's trying to hide it behind her drink.

The memory shifts night of the party. You're opening the egg and everyone's laughing. Then, Jakob drags you out, and you sit on the wall together with his arm around you. He's telling you about all the recent drama.

The scene changes to the library this time. You're still with Jakob, giggling at him while he scribbles furiously on his parchment, studying hard while you sit there doing nothing.   

But then the memory takes a sharp turn. You have no control over it. 

You’re still in the library, but it's different now. You’ve just shoved the Hufflepuff boy just a little too hard into the bookcase, wincing as you mutter the half-hearted apology and bolt over to the restricted section.  

You can feel your heartbeat start to pick up – you don’t want him to see this. You really don't want him to see this. But you can’t seem to break the connection. You try to pull away from the memory, but it only becomes clearer.

You're in the restricted section now, dragging the books from the shelves and frantically flipping through the pages. Now, someone's accusing you of pushing him, telling you they’re going to snitch. The sound of Madame Pince scream cuts through the memory, cut off by the panicked laugh you let out as you dodge the prefect and hide the book under your robes.

No-   

You jerk away from his hands, letting out a sharp gasp as you open your eyes. The connection breaks instantly, and the room rushes back. Snape drops his hands, but his eyes don’t leave yours. You don’t have to ask to know he just saw that.  

“I should’ve known that little incident was you,” he says sharply, sounding annoyed. “Madam Pince has been in hysterics all morning, raving about a Slytherin upending half her library. Shelves knocked over, books everywhere. Theft,” he arches a brow. “She asked me to find out who the culprit is.”  

Brilliant. You've basically just ratted yourself out, but you try your best to play it off. “Sounds serious.”  

“Do not insult my intelligence,” he says, giving you a long look.  

“Okay, fine,” you admit with a sigh. “But in my defence, I was only trying to get some answers. Just... in a slightly less authorised way.”  

“Ah, yes. Because breaking into the restricted section with questionable tactics is somehow more acceptable?”  

You try to bite back a smile. “It worked, didn’t it?”  

His mouth twitches, almost a smirk, but it doesn't quite make it. “Your recklessness is going to catch up with you one day.”  

“Not if I’m fast enough,” you shoot back, trying to lighten the mood.  

He looks at you for another moment, not taking it. “Should I expect to witness more if your creative problem solving as we continue?”  

“Depends how deep you go.”  

He lets out a short breath, more of an exhale than a sigh. “I’ll take that as a yes.”  

You shrug. “You’ve already seen one crime. Might as well commit now.”  

He shakes his head, and with that, he reaches for your face again as you close your eyes, still smiling as he dives back into the mess of your mind. The pressure builds faster this time. It’s not harsh, just very insistent. You can feel him push further, testing how deep your mind will let him go.  

A voice – your mother’s, calling your name from far away. A flash of robes. Laughter echoing in a kitchen you haven’t seen in a while.   

The picture distorts, showing a flash of robes - blue, maybe? Then, the stars, the night sky, you lounging on the roof of your home as your mother shouts up at you to come down.  

More memories of her slip past so quickly you can’t even take them in.   

Then, the corridors of Hogwarts. You see yourself a few months ago, running through them, probably late to class. Faces blur into the scene and conversations loop.   

Another jump.   

Now you’re back at home again, arguing with your father about something, but the words are too dulled out to make sense of. Your mother desperately throws herself between you both as he gets angrier, she's pleading. But you're not backing down.   

Another ripple of memories suddenly flash by again, but you're too slow to catch any of them. Snape tries to guide you through them all, but it feels like a storm. The memories won’t stay still. They’re so jumbled, and you wonder if he’s struggling against them too. 

Then, finally, he pulls at one that you manage to make stick. It’s a memory you’ve been trying to grasp for a while now, and here, it feels so real. Like it’s happening all over again.   

The door of your room is torn apart, wood splitting in all directions. You’re standing there in the room, frozen, and in the doorway stands a tall dark figure. It’s him – Snape.   

The next thing you know, he’s moved away from the door, and you rush past him. You can feel the emotions from that night take over again, fear flooding you as you try to push it deep into the walls of your mind.   

You’re racing for the stairs, hearing him come after you. You risk a glance back, and the look in his eyes almost makes your heart stop. Like he’s coming for you, determined to catch you. Whatever it takes.   

And then, suddenly, the pressure is gone and you’re back in the present, slightly disoriented as you snap your eyes open. Snape still kneels in front of you, but this time he’s the one who broke the connection.  

“What happened?” you ask, your voice trembling a little. “Why did you stop?”  

“It’s hardly worth revisiting yourself falling down the stairs, is it?” he says, giving you a look that says he’s already moved on.  

“What does it matter? I wanted to see what happened next,” you say, confused on why he’s being weird about it.  

He’s clearly annoyed by your insistence. “It matters because it’s not something you need to relive. Your mind has enough to deal with. We do not need to dredge up every little detail, do we?”  

You sit there, still processing all the images that flooded your head, only now noticing how fast your heart is racing.   His dark eyes scan your face again before he stands, turning his back on you and moving away. You stay on the rug, not sure whether to move or get up, still trying to make sense of what just happened.

After a long silence, you ask him something else. Something that you've been wondering for a while now. “What did you see when you first looked in my head? You said you had no choice, but you never told me what you actually saw in there."

He turns back to you, his eyes darker now. As if it’s something he’d rather not share. “I didn’t see much,” he admits. “But I saw enough to figure out who you were.” He takes a step closer. “I saw fragments of your recent memories. Likely from the days just before your parents...,” he trails off, but you know what he means. “But beyond that, your mind was too scattered.”   

“So, you just... knew who I was from that?” you ask.

He nods once. “It was not exactly a clean process. But yes, it was enough for me to know your identity. You do not hide yourself as well as you think.” He pauses, giving you a pointed look. “I didn’t pry further. At the time, I wasn’t even certain I could trust what I saw.”  

“Why not?”  

“Because what I saw in your mind was... incomplete,” he begins, hesitant, as if choosing his words carefully. “It didn’t align with usual patterns. It seemed too chaotic to be real.” His eyes drift briefly to the fire, before returning to you. “I have seen minds torn apart from people who have suffered loss and trauma. Yours felt different. Almost like a jigsaw with too many missing pieces.”  

You frown, trying to make sense of it all. “So... what you’re trying to say is,” you murmur, half laughing. “I’m basically a lost cause.”  

“No,” he says firmly. “You’re a difficult cause. But not a lost one. We’ll work on it. Slowly. Your mind seems to accept me, which is a promising start. But that’s enough for today. I won’t risk breaking what little is left holding you together.”  

You nod, standing slowly and stretching out the stiffness in your legs. “Alright. Well, thanks,” you say quietly, gathering your bag and slinging it over your shoulder.   

He makes his way to the door, and you follow, but before he opens it, he holds his hand out to you. To which you respond with a puzzled look.

“The book.”  

You freeze, looking at him with a forced innocence. “What book?”  

He gives you a rather disapproving look, and you groan, digging in your bag to pull it out. “Do I have to?”  

“Unless you’d rather I escort you to Madam Pince myself,” he says flatly.  

He plucks the book from your hands, turning it over to read the spine. “The Mind Unmade,” he reads. “Hm. Did you find anything useful in it?”  

You cross your arms, annoyed. “I did actually. And now you’ve ruined all my chances of getting any answers. So, thanks for that, Sir.”  

He looks back to you. “Yes, how inconsiderate of me to stop your unlawful acquisition of school property.”  

You roll your eyes. “Unlawful. Please.”  

He ignores you, carefully setting the book on a nearby shelf. “You’ll get your answers. Just not through thievery and structural damage to the library.”  

You can’t help but laugh, and he gives you one final look – one that hovers somewhere on the line of exhausted tolerance. “Tomorrow, we’ll try it again. Seven o’clock. Not a minute later.”   

“Got it,” you flash him a sweet smile. “I might even be early, just for you.”  

He gives you a look that's purely him – unimpressed but a little bit entertained. “Out.”  

The next evening, you’re back in front of the fire on the same soft rug with your knees pulled up loosely to your chest as you watch Snape moving around the room. It still feels strange to be here, but stranger still that you don’t mind it.  

“So, how is this supposed to help with my dreams?” you ask as he’s lowering himself in front of you.  

“Well, it depends. Do you remember anything at all from them?”  

“Not really. I just wake up in a mess and can't remember any of it, no matter how hard I try.” You pause, thinking for a moment. “But there was one I remember from a few weeks ago. My father was in it.”  

“Your father?” 

“Yeah,” you reply. “But he wasn’t like I remember. He was mean. Actually, it was a little disturbing. I don’t remember him ever being like that.”  

“What happened?” he asks, his gaze sharpening on you.

You lean forward a little, trying to remember the details. “I think he was teaching me how to fight,” you begin. “He was casting spells at me, and I’d have to counter them to keep up. I barely had time to think.”  

Snape’s eyes narrow, though it’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. “And?"

“Well, I’m not sure exactly. He almost got me with a slashing hex and it burned my skin a bit. It didn’t really make any sense. He’d never done that – but in the dream, it felt like that was the lesson. To be ruthless.”  

He stays quiet for a moment, his eyes never leaving yours as he processes your words. “And what did you do?”  

You shuffle a little, not getting why this is so important. “I did what he told me to. I fought back, sent some hexes at him. At first, he blocked them, but I kept going. Eventually he told me to stop, but my magic felt out of control. Like I was pushing too hard.”  

His expression hardens. “That’s quite a vivid dream. And you say it isn’t how your father ever acted?”  

“No,” you reply quickly. “It wasn’t him. And it wasn’t me, either.”  

“It could be a false memory,” he says, watching you. “Or it could be something your mind has twisted and buried. If it’s something you don't want to face, it might have turned into something darker than it ever was. The mind is not to be underestimated.”  

You sit in silence for a moment, mulling over what he’s just said, then sigh. “How do we fix it then?”  

“We’ll try again like yesterday, but a little differently this time.”  

You straighten up a little, preparing yourself. “Different how?"  

“This time, I’ll try to anchor you. It seems focusing on one thing at a time works, so I'll do that again instead of trying to sort through everything at once. If I slow it down, it should give us time to look at them properly before they slip away again.”  

“Sounds lovely,” you snort softly. “Picking apart my trauma in slow motion.”  

“If you’d prefer the dreams, be my guest,” he drawls.  

“Alright, fine. Let’s get it over with,” you say, shuffling closer to him. You close your eyes, feeling his familiar hands on your face, before he gets right into it.  

This time, his approach is slower and more controlled. You can feel him pulling you towards single threads in your mind, guiding you along instead of wading through the whole tangled mess. He's even more careful this time, too. As if he's watching for any sign of weakness, knowing just when to apply more pressure and when to ease off.

You start to feel yourself slipping, and the connection starts to fade briefly. But he's already there, pulling you back and keeping you on track in a subtle way. You can feel the shift in how he handles you - how he always knows when to step in. His presence in your mind is too easy. The way he manipulates it, almost effortlessly.

It scares you. When did you start trusting him this much? When did you allow him in so willingly? The thought lingers, but you quickly push it aside before he can catch it.

When you come back, the fire is burned lower and your whole body feels exhausted. Snape sits back with a quiet sigh, looking over you. “Better.”  

“That’s it?” you ask. You hope it is since you feel like your head might explode from the pressure, but part of you doesn't really want it to end. 

“For now,” he replies. “Though we didn’t uncover anything new, you were able to let me lead you and hold the focus. That’s what matters.”  

You nod slowly, rubbing the headache between your eyes. 

“This won’t be a quick fix. But we’re closer than we were,” he says, pulling himself up. “I’ll let you know when we try again. Your mind needs to rest for now.”  

You push yourself up as well, feeling a little stiff from sitting still for too long. Snape moves over to the door, opening it for you as you approach. 

"Wait," he says, and you pause at the door. He walks over to his desk, rummaging for a few seconds before he returns - with your wand. "I suppose," he says, inspecting it for a moment, "if Moody's on your back - and now mine - I should give this back to you."

Your eyes widen slightly. You weren't expecting him to give it back so soon. "Really?" 

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he mutters, his voice low and sharp. “It is not a reward.” He walks towards you, holding the wand close before extending it out to you. “If I so much as hear of you using it in any way that raises suspicion, I’ll take it again. And you will not be getting it back.”  

“I won’t,” you say quietly, gently brushing his fingers as you take it from him. 

“Try not to do anything idiotic,” he says as you both watch the silvery veins light up at your touch. “I'm aware it's a challenge for you.”

You smile, about to say something back when the headache slams into you with full force. He notices, his eyes sharpening over you before he softens his tone slightly. “It’s late," he says, his voice carrying an unexpected trace of patience. "You need to rest.”  

You nod silently, unable to do more than that, and he steps aside to let you pass.

“Goodnight, Professor,” you say softly.

"Goodnight," you catch him say quietly once you've started walking away. You turn, surprised, but by the time you do, he's already closed the door. 

Chapter Text

Winter has settled quickly over Hogwarts like a thick blanket. Soft, heavy, and impossibly beautiful in that annoying way snow always is when you have to walk through it. It clings to every window, turning the castle into something from a frozen fantasy. Outside, the Black Lake lies still beneath a sheet of ice, its surface capturing the pale winter light like a mirror charmed to remember the sky. Even the giant squid seems to have vanished beneath the depths, leaving the lake as motionless as a memory.  

You didn’t think it was possible, but the dungeons are even colder now too - the chill seeps into you no matter how many layers you wear. You shove your hands into your sleeves as you walk down the corridors, wishing you’d worn that extra pair of tights today after all.  

Jade's walking beside you, deep in thought about what’s happening. Your house has been excused from classes this afternoon with no explanation, and even she – who usually knows everything - doesn’t know what’s going on.  

“They could’ve told us why,” she mutters, looking ahead at the other Slytherins filtering into the corridor. “Excused from classes out of nowhere?"  

“Yeah, it's weird,” you agree, shivering.

She glances sideways to you. “Do you think it's about that duel the other night?" 

You raise an eyebrow. “The one where Snape had to disarm them both before they set fire to the whole common room? It's a bit dramatic to call the whole house for that." 

“Maybe they’re making an example of us,” she says, shrugging. “Or maybe someone actually got cursed this time.”  

You laugh, pulling your robes tighter around you. It’s possible, but you suspect it’s something far sinister. “I bet it’s some horrible group punishment disguised as a team building exercise. A group detention with the extra steps.”  

“No,” she groans. “If this is another one of those-”  

Whatever she's about to say dies the moment you set foot into the Great Hall. The tables are gone, the chairs are pushed to the side, and the floor is polished to a shine that’s almost too reflective. McGonagall stands in the middle, already scolding someone off for talking too loudly. Snape is beside her, looking like he regrets every decision that led him to this moment. Lupin's here too, standing a bit further away, catching your eye with a sympathetic look. 

Jade stills beside you. “Oh no.”  

You barely get a breath out before McGonagall's sharp gaze snaps towards you both like she’s spent decades perfecting the art of shutting students up with a single glance. “Miss [Last Name], Miss Voss. Move along. We don't have time for dawdling.”  

You share a grim look before hurrying over to join the rest of your house, settling yourselves at the end of the line. McGonagall doesn't even wait for silence. 

"You are here because I've been informed that certain members of this house are in need of... correction." She says, glancing to Snape with a pointed look. "With the Yule Ball approaching next weekend, and the other houses having already completed their etiquette sessions, it has fallen on us to catch up." Her eyes narrow over you all. "Frankly, given recent events, we should consider ourselves lucky to be invited at all." 

“This is ridiculous,” someone mumbles next to you.  

“It is tradition,” she snaps back, making them flinch. “Today's session is not optional. You will all participate. You will listen. And you will conduct yourselves with the decorum expected of this school. Or you will find yourselves here every morning until you do.”  

“Do you think she’s serious about the mornings?” you whisper to Jade.  

“It’s McGonagall, of course she is,” she whispers back.  

“Great.”  

McGonagall claps her hands once, silencing the chatter instantly. “Today, we will begin with basic partner dancing. Any volunteers?”  

You all look at the floor, and nobody even dares to breathe too loudly - like a room of statues hoping not to be seen. Her eyes scan over you all and eventually, she finds her target.  

“Well. Miss [Last Name]. As Hogwarts champion, I imagine you are more than capable of leading by example. Or am I mistaken?”  

Jade makes a sound beside you that almost sounds like a laugh, but she manages to cover it with a cough.  

“What?” you blurt out, looking up at her. “No- I don’t know if I’m even going.”   

McGonagall doesn't even blink. “Oh, but you will be going,” she says with a tone that makes it clear you won’t argue. “As a champion, you and your date are required to open the Ball. It’s tradition.”  

Your mouth hangs open. “My what?”    

Jade snorts next to you, not even trying to cover it this time. You nudge her hard, giving her a look that says, ‘this isn't funny, why didn’t you tell me?’ but she just shrugs. Her obsession with finding you a date these past few weeks suddenly makes a lot more sense. 

“I suggest you start thinking about it,” McGonagall says briskly. “Now, up you come. We haven’t got all day.”   

You nod, stiff and humiliated already, pushing yourself forward to the centre of the room. As you pass Snape, you catch his eye and shoot him a look – something between help me and please get me out of this. He does neither. He just folds his arms and steps further into the shadows, like the human embodiment of not my problem.  

Typical. 

McGonagall doesn't waste a second. “Mr Pucey.”  

You suppress a sigh. It could be worse, you suppose. Adrian's not exactly impressive, but you know he plays Quidditch, so he should be decent at this, right? He accepts his fate as he joins you with all the enthusiasm as someone being led to their execution.   

“Take your positions,” McGonagall says, stepping aside.

Adrian takes your hand. His grip is clammy and way too tight, but it'll do. His other hand hovers over your waist, just above the fabric of your skirt.  

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You can put your hand there, you know.”  

He clears his throat and rests his palm on your waist, barely making contact. McGonagall sweeps in again with a tut, adjusting the angle of your hands, lifting your arms slightly and nudging Adrian into a proper stance. “There. You may begin.”  

The music starts - something slow and old fashioned with way too many violins - and he takes the first step. You follow... and for a moment, it's actually not awful. You're surprisingly in sync, moving with the music like this won't be a complete disaster. 

That is, until, he decides to stomps directly on your foot.  

“Ow, what the fuck?” you hiss, pulling your foot back.  

Laughter ripples through the hall, and McGonagall sighs like she’s just aged ten more years.  

“Chill out,” Adrian says, not even pretending to be sorry. “It’s just a dance.”   

You glare at him, only just restraining yourself from stepping on his foot to see how he likes it. But you're determined to end this nightmare as soon as possible, so, you take the lead this time. He follows, keeping up with you... and steps directly on your other foot. 

“Are you serious?" you snap. "You fly a broomstick for a living, and this is what takes you down?”  

“Well, I don’t dance on a broomstick, do I?” he sneers, as if you're the problem here. 

“That’s enough,” McGonagall finally cuts in, already sounding fed up. “Miss [Last Name] will be lucky to make it to the Ball at all if you continue trying to break both of her feet.” She waves a hand at him like she's shooing away an annoying bird. “Sit down, Pucey.”  

He practically flees, muttering something under his breath as he goes. Lucky bastard.   

You, on the other hand, are left standing in front of everyone, your dignity in shreds and your toes throbbing under your boots. You straighten your skirt and flex your toes a bit while she skims the crowd for her next victim. Everyone is suddenly fascinated by the floor or their own sleeves again.

She sighs again, clearly unimpressed. "Is there anyone here willing to volunteer? Or at least someone who won't treat this dance like a duel?"

No one moves, and a few heads shake.

"Honestly," she says, clicking her tongue. "Useless. The lot of you."

She looks over the room again, glancing past the crowd of students and smiles to herself.

“Maybe someone with a bit more experience can handle this then," she says, tilting her head. "Professor Snape?”  

Your heart stops. 

No.    

No. no, no. 

She wouldn’t - she couldn’t - do this to you.   

You whip your head to the back of the crowd, praying she's joking, but there he is, cloaked in the shadows like he belongs there, his arms still folded. He lifts his head slowly, narrowing his eyes beneath that curtain of dark hair.

"No," he says coldly. 

McGonagall looks at him as though he’s being difficult on purpose. Which, to be fair, he absolutely is. And for once, you're glad for it.

“Oh, don’t be such a spoil sport, Severus.”  

“If you believe I intend to take part in this parade of absurdity,” he drawls. “Then I fear you may be finally losing your mind, Minerva.”  

“Come on, where’s your holiday spirit?” she counters, putting her hands on her hips.  

“In the same grave as my patience.”  

Everyone laughs, and you probably would too if you weren’t silently screaming inside. You just pray to every God that Snape wins this.  

“Very well,” she says, coolly. “Unless you’d like me to personally inform Albus that you refused to assist one of our champions in upholding a most honoured tradition, then...” she trails off, letting the threat hang. They lock eyes as a battle of silent wills plays out between them.  

Then, after a moment, he moves.  

Your breath catches in your throat as Snape cuts through the crowd. The other students quickly step aside, some still laughing at your misfortune and the face you have to dance with him in front of everyone. You're still processing it when Lupin chuckles next to you, wishing a quick “Good luck,” before disappearing to the back.

You stare up at Snape as he stops in front of you, looming over you like a dark omen. Merlin, this can’t be happening.   

“Alright, take your positions you two,” McGonagall instructs, far too cheerful now.   

You can barely feel your legs as he steps even closer, watching you with a calm that is somehow worse than his usual scowl. For an awful moment, neither of you move. You both just stand here, too close but not close enough. There’s something in his eyes, something restrained, but you don’t dare to try and decipher it. You look away quickly, focusing on the buttons of his robes.  

He gives you his hand when you reach for it – reluctantly. But his fingers curl around yours with a steadiness that surprises you. It’s not cold, not careless, just... controlled. His other hand hesitates for a second, then settles lightly at your waist. 

The contact is barely there, but it might as well be fire. It’s the gentlest touch you’ve ever felt from him – and it feels weirdly familiar for something that has never happened before. Your other arm hangs uselessly at your side, unwilling to bridge the last space between you. 

He must notice. He must be able to feel how tense you are. But if he has, he's not showing it.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” McGonagall mutters, marching over to take your arm. She places it firmly on his shoulder, giving it a pat as though she’s done this a million times. “There. See? Nothing to panic over.”  

You are panicking, actually. Just in time for the next instruction to land like a dagger in your back. As if this couldn’t possibly get any worse.  

“Now, look at your partner,” she says, stepping back.  

Your stomach drops, and your fingers twitch against his shoulder, but you keep your eyes glued to the button on his robe like it’s your only salvation. Snape doesn’t speak, but his grip at your waist tightens ever so slightly, as if he’s silently urging you to do what she says.  

You sigh through your nose and force yourself to look up.  

He’s already looking at you. Of course he is.  

Those dark eyes lock you into place, steady and impossibly heavy. He always sees too much, he has for weeks now, but it’s different when he’s this close. When he’s touching you like this.  

The music starts, giving you barely any time to brace yourself before he's moving and you're moving with him. Snape leads like it's a second nature for him - annoyingly elegant for someone who supposedly hates this. 

“You’re stiff,” he says, just loud enough for you to hear. “Relax.”  

Relax?    

You shoot him a glare that clearly says you’re not enjoying this, but he doesn’t so much as blink.   

Still, you force yourself into his rhythm, trying not to focus on the warmth of his hand seeping through the fabric of your skirt. Eventually, without meaning to, you find yourself easing into his hold as you start to catch up with the steps.  

“Better,” he says, as if correcting you in a classroom.  

“You’ve done this before,” you say quietly, mostly to yourself.  

His eyes look back down to you. “I was not always a professor,” he replies dryly. “Contrary to popular belief, I have, on occasion, endured human rituals such as this one.”  

You snort quietly, unintentionally. “Endured is the right word.”  

His mouth twitches. Not a smile – heaven forbid – but something just shy of amusement.  

The music swells around you, but all you can feel is the heat of his hand. It’s shifted lower to your back, pulling you closer than you ever intended to be. Every now and then, his fingers press in firmer, just enough to keep you steady. Like he’s anchoring you in place without even thinking about it.  

You try to ignore it. Try to focus on anything else. But it’s impossible. You’re aware of everything now. His scent - something between old books, parchment, and a faint trace of whatever potion he’s been working on - the way his body moves with yours. The way it just works. And for a moment, you wonder if anyone else notices.  

Just as you’re starting to settle into the dance, a familiar voice cuts through the quiet conversations from the benches.  

“Who knew our champion had such grace?” Ivy calls out loud enough for everyone to hear, followed by her stupid friends bursting into laughter. You can always count on Ivy to make things ten times worse than they already are. 

You really try not to react. But you can feel your face burning, already flushed from the dance - from him.  

“Let's hope she keeps it together this time," she adds, too casually. 

You snap your gaze towards her before you can stop yourself. She’s leaning back on the bench, arms crossed, looking way too satisfied with herself.  

“Miss Selwyn, that’s enough,” McGonagall warns, sensing your reaction. “You will not disrupt this lesson.”  

You're halfway to saying something you’ll absolutely regret when Snape’s fingers press firmly into your back again, almost pulling you towards him even more - just enough to stop you. When you look back at him, he gives you the faintest, barely there shake of the head – don't.   

As the music winds to an end, you and Snape look at each other for a split second too long before stepping apart at the same time. His hand drops from your waist too fast, and yours falls from his shoulder just as quickly.  

Neither of you say a word.   

He retreats to the corner like a shadow melting into the stone, and you’re already moving too, practically marching back to the sidelines like if you move fast enough, everyone will forget the whole thing. You collapse beside Jade, trying to breathe, but your heart’s still racing as if you’ve just sprinted across the grounds.  

“Well,” she says, grinning. “That wasn’t weird at all.”  

You shoot her a look. “Don’t.”  

“I’m just saying, for someone who said she wasn’t going to the Ball... you dance suspiciously well with our Head of House.” You groan, burying your face in your hands, but she only laughs more and nudges your shoulder. “At least he was better than Pucey.”  

“Now we’ve seen how not to behave,” McGonagall cuts through the chatter, glaring at Ivy’s group, “we’ll be practicing in pairs. Stand and form a line.”  

A few sighs echo through the Hall as everyone starts to line up and shift awkwardly into place, and McGonagall moves to organise you all – pulling names and pairing people at random.  

You successfully manage to avoid Snape for the rest of the lesson, at least. And by avoid, you mean you don’t even breathe in his direction.

Dinner is loud and a little chaotic tonight. Everyone's talking about the Yule Ball - who's going with who, who's been rejected, and who's pretending they don't care. You’re trying your best to avoid the conversations, nearly halfway through your plate when Eirik and Jakob finally drop into the seats across from you and Jade, looking like they’ve both just survived a war.  

Jade eyes them over her goblet. “You two look like you’ve just crawled out of the lake. What happened?”  

“According to Karkaroff," Eirik starts with a defeated tone, "we do not walk like warriors. We shuffle like drunken goats." 

"His exact words," Jakob confirms. "He made us practice entering a room for thirty minutes straight. Walking through the door, over and over." 

"And bowing," Eirik adds. "To imaginary ladies. With grace," he sneers. 

You can't help but laugh, glad to know you weren't the only one who had a rough day. 

“Sounds like fun,” Jade teases, barely hiding her amusement as she smirks at you.

Ugh, you know exactly what’s coming.

“Not as fun as [First Name]’s afternoon though," she says, beaming.

“Why?” Jakob asks, smiling at you. “What did you do?”  

“She danced.” Jade’s grin widens, looking at them both like she’s revealing a secret. “With Snape.”  

Eirik blinks, and Jakob actually chokes on his food. “You what?”  

“Yeah. She’s got the moves now,” Jade continues, utterly delighted with herself. “Snape whipped her into shape.”  

You nearly choke on your drink. “Please never say that sentence again.”  

Jakob laughs. “Sounds like you have had a very educational afternoon.”  

“I hate you all,” you mutter, stuffing a potato into your mouth to avoid further comment.  

"Too bad you don't have a date," she sighs. "All that effort, just to show off for Snape." 

Their teasing turns into background noise as you glance towards the staff table, half-expecting to find a pair of eyes already on you. But Snape’s already gone - and that's your cue to leave. 

“I need to go,” you say, already half out of your seat. 

“Where now?” Jade asks, eyeing you suspiciously. “You’re not secretly off to practice your twirling, are you?”  

The boys snort again, and you can’t help the half laugh that escapes you. “Tempting. But no. I need to sort something for Astronomy class later, said I’d help Sinistra.”  

Jakob pulls a face. "Nerd." 

You toss a piece of bread at him and grin. “Takes one to know one.”  

You turn and start heading towards the doors, praying no one reads too much into your very fake excuse. You’ve just made it into the corridor when you hear footsteps behind you, quick and uneven.  

“Hey, wait!”  

You glance over your shoulder to see Jakob jogging a few steps to catch up, running a hand through his hair.  

“What? Do you want to configure telescopes with me?” you ask as a joke, but genuinely hoping he isn’t planning on it. Or you’re screwed.  

“No,” he huffs a laugh. “Uh... I was wondering... after astronomy tonight - are you free?”  

“After astronomy? Isn't that a bit late?" 

You can see his ears going a bright shade of pink, which is his cute way of telling you he’s nervous. “I know, but I just thought we could talk. Or something?”  

You squint at him, smiling, trying to decide if this is suspicious or sweet. “Talk?”  

He groans, clearly regretting this whole thing, which makes it funnier. “Not like that . I am not asking you to sneak off to the forest with me, if that is what you are thinking. I just want to... talk, ok?”  

“Disappointing,” you tease, and he rolls his eyes at you. “Alright,” you say, already walking backwards a few steps. “Meet me outside the astronomy tower after class. Be careful not to get caught by Filch though.”  

He grins, and it almost looks like he’s about to say something else, but he doesn’t. He just nods before jogging back to the Great Hall. 

You turn and hurry to the dungeons. You’re late now, and you know it. Hopefully Snape won't notice.  

It doesn’t take you long to get there, but you’re already out of breath by the time you reach the entrance to his office. You slow down, trying to pull yourself together, but he’s already there - waiting outside. He stands with his arms folded, his black eyes narrowed, looking like he's been stood here longer than he had to. And he definitely saw you rushing.   

“Miss [Last Name],” he says in a low voice. “You’re late.”  

You stand there for a second, still trying to catch your breath discreetly. “Sorry... Professor,” you manage, straightening yourself. “I lost track of time.”  

“Come on then. I don’t have all evening to waste,” he says flatly, turning on his heel and heading inside.  

You follow without a word as he leads the way into his quarters, shutting the door quietly behind you. He walks ahead, moving towards his desk, but you notice something different today. His sleeves are pushed up just slightly – only to his wrists, nothing more. His movements - the way his hand work through the parchments and materials scattered on his desk - distracts you in a way it never has. 

You sit on the rug, trying to settle, but your brain’s already spiraling – back to the Great Hall, to the stupid dance earlier. The way his hands felt on you, the way his fingers shifted slightly lower than perhaps they should've.   

Damn it. Why are you thinking about this now?   

And then, as if he can feel your stare burning into him, he stops, turning his head to you slowly. “Is something the matter?” he asks, smoothly.  

“No,” you say quickly, looking away like you weren’t just caught doing exactly what you were doing.  

He doesn’t say anything to that, just watches you for a moment longer. The silence stays, and it’s becoming more awkward by the second. 

So, you break it with something appropriate. For once. “Do you think all this stuff with my head is tied to emotions?”  

He turns to face you properly, studying you with a new sort of interest. “Why?”  

“Well, the book I borrowed-”  

“Borrowed?”    

You huff. “Okay - the book I stole, the one you so dramatically confiscated before I could finish it –,” you say, scowling at him as he gives you that unimpressed look. “It touched on emotional triggers. How trauma, grief, all that stuff can mess with mental barriers and break them.” His expression doesn’t change, but you can tell he’s listening closely. “I’ve just been wondering if that’s what this is. I mean, it makes sense. Doesn’t it? I’ve been less overwhelmed recently, and the dreams don’t seem half as bad.”  

“Maybe,” he says. “Emotions, particularly grief, can corrode the minds defences and make them unstable.” He pauses, thoughtful. “But a shatter like yours isn’t usually caused by emotions alone. It could be, but I suspect something else is at play.”  

Something else is a play? That doesn't sound good. 

Before you can ask what he means, he moves forward, pulling his legs beneath him as he sits down in front of you. You feel yourself go still as his hands lift slowly, framing your face. His thumbs rest just beneath your jaw, his touch feather light, like he’s already done this a hundred times. You hate how much you're noticing it all.  

Your breath catches, and he sees it. His eyes lock with yours, and you try to hold it, but it’s too much. So, you close your eyes, hoping he hasn’t already seen too much.  

“I will see if I can reach anything from that night,” he says casually, as though he hasn’t sensed a thing. “Sit still. Tell me if it’s too much.”  

You nod, and as you do, you feel his thumbs shift slightly into your jaw. Not on purpose, it’s the movement from your nod, but still. It sends a rush of heat to your cheeks you desperately try to flush immediately.

“Calm down,” he says quietly, but it just makes it so much worse.

You squeeze your eyes tighter, feeling the memory of the dance all over again. You push it far, far away so that it won't have any chance of resurfacing while he's in there. That's the last thing you need to come up right now. 

You feel the connection suddenly form, and he’s already started pulling through your memories of before Hogwarts, guiding you through them. It takes a while as they slip by one by one, until-  

There. A crack.  

He sinks into it, too fast for you to brace yourself.  

You're hidden in the corner of your father's study, curled up under his desk with your knees tucked tightly against your chest. The air smells faintly of old books and pipe smoke - the familiar scent almost knocks your focus. Crow is here too, perching quietly on your shoulder, his black feathers ruff and alert as if even he knows something isn't right. Your fingers bury themselves in the dark softness of his neck, trembling, more to soothe him than yourself.

Somewhere outside, voices echo. A chorus of judgement cutting through the quiet of the night. They’re chanting your parents names. Accusations. Confirmation.   

They’re gone.   

You don’t cry - your face remains blank in disbelief. You look... the same. Almost. You’re only five months younger, but something is missing. Something behind your eyes that you never got back.

All of a sudden, your head snaps to the door, and you shrink further into the shadows, not even daring to breathe. Crow stays silent, ever loyal to you.   

You can sense him now, too. Snape hovers just outside the edge of the memory, guiding you through it gently. He doesn’t speak, but his thoughts come alive through your mind like a second pulse.   

‘This is shortly after. The memory is clear... but not complete.’   

In the memory, you shift again, whispering something to Crow as he nuzzles further into your shoulder. You don’t know what you said, but it was so quiet it barely existed.   

And with that, the memory slips, falling away like ash.  

You open your eyes with a small, choked breath you didn't realise you were holding. Snape pulls away slowly, but he’s watching you carefully.  

You shake your head. “That’s the only thing I remember from their deaths.”  

 “There’s more... somewhere," he replies. "Buried deeper. But whether the mind wants to recall it – that is another matter entirely.”  

You glance towards the fire. “So, it is grief then?”  

There’s a pause as he shifts slightly beside you. “Grief... disturbs the surface. But I am unsure what broke it.”  

You both fall quiet for a bit after that. The memory sticks in your head, and you can’t help but think about it. The fear clings to you even now when you’re so far away from it. You try to push past it, to dig deeper into that night, to pull something else free. Anything. But nothing comes.

“That owl,” Snape says quietly, breaking through your desperate thoughts. “He never left you.”  

“No,” you say with a faint smile, looking over at him again. “I don’t think I could get rid of him if I tried. He gets in a right mood if I go too many evenings without seeing him." You pause, lowering your voice. "Sometimes I think he’s the only one who still sees me without... all this. He looks at me like I haven't changed at all. Like he still remembers who I was before I had to start hiding."

Snape meets your gaze, and for a second, it looks like he might break the silence with something real. His brow twitches, and his mouth opens just slightly. But then, as if he thinks better of it, he simply nods. “Smart creature.”  

You watch the firelight dance over his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. He’s not looking at you anymore. Lost in his own thoughts while staring into the fire.   

"What are you thinking about?” The question slips before you can think about it, curious as to what goes on in his head.  

He considers it for a second. “I've been thinking about the dream you mentioned last week. The one about your father. How it seemed... distorted.”  

You know that's not what he was really thinking, but you decide not to push it. Instead, you nod slowly, trying to figure out what he's getting at. “Something was definitely off.”  

His brow furrows slightly again. “Dreams warped by memory can sometimes point to deeper fractures. Areas where your mind has rewritten something.”  

“So, I might be remembering things wrong?” 

“I think,” he says carefully, “that it’s possible other memories may have been similarly affected. Twisted at the edges. Your father's image might be the one your mind is letting slip. We’ll try to revisit the emotional shape of him in your mind and see if there are others like it. Memories that appear normal but have been corrupted." 

“Corrupted?” you ask, worryingly. 

He doesn’t answer you. “If the foundation is unstable, you can’t trust anything you’ve built on it.”  

You mull over his words for a few minutes, a sinking realisation settling inside you. “You think the dream was a memory. A real one.”  

He searches your eyes as though he's afraid you might crack open. “It could be your mind trying to restore something that you refuse to see. Sometimes we lie to ourselves so thoroughly, we forget we ever did it.”  

You look down at your hands sitting in your lap. “And if it is real?”

“Then you face it. Piece by piece. You’re not alone in this.” He doesn’t let you respond before making the connection again and you feel the soft of his fingers against your temples. “Pick something early. A memory of him from your childhood, if you can. A quiet one.”  

You breathe in, closing your eyes. There's so many you could pull, maybe too many, all crowded together. For a moment, none of them come into focus, and you think you won’t be able to reach one when something finally appears.  

A late sunlight slants across a patch of overgrown grass in your garden. You’re maybe nine, fumbling around with your wand that’s far too big in your tiny hands. Your father is here, not far off, crouched over a broken wand handle with his brow furrowed, lips moving silently as he works. He’s not angry, just... elsewhere. Too far in his own head to notice you.  

You call out to him. Twice. He doesn’t answer. So you try something else, a little spell you’d read once in one of your beginner spell books from your mother. You’d never practiced it, so the wand flares harsher than you were expecting, sending you to the floor as the sparks set a patch of grass on fire.   

That gets his attention – but not in the way you remember.   

You brace for the smile. You remember it – or you thought you did. That quiet laugh as he rushed over, ruffled your hair, extinguished the flames and took you inside. That’s what he did, isn’t it?   

But here, now, his eyes meet yours and they’re not soft. They’re cold. Exhausted. And worse of all, disappointed.   

He stands slowly, brushing some ash from his hands. The sun frames him in a dark silhouette, and for a moment, he looks enormous, towering over you. Then he turns. Walks away. His robes trailing after him like closing a curtain. And you’re left there with smoke rising and something sharp clawing in your chest as the fire burns closer to you.   

“Do you feel that?” Snape's voice brushes through the memory.

But you don’t answer him. You're too confused about the memory. He smiled – you know he did. But the image won’t come no matter how hard you try, and eventually it all collapses into nothing.   

“You told yourself he smiled.” Snape says, his tone somber. “But he didn’t.”   

You squeeze your eyes tighter as the memory fades, leaning away from his touch. “Why would I do that?” you ask him, opening your eyes.  

He meets them. “Because pretending he smiled is simpler than facing the rest of it.”  

You let out a shaky breath. “It’s not like it matters now anyway, though. He’s gone either way."

“What we remember always matters,” he offers with that cold sort of calm he always has.  

His words and the emotions from the memory hit you hard, and you can feel the tears starting to sting. You blink them away, but your chest is already tightening in that unforgiving way you don't want him to see. The quiet between you stretches on, and you find your gaze wandering around the room, searching for for something - anything - to distract yourself with that isn't this.

That's when you catch sight of a book nestled on the shelf across from you. You stand, drawn to it, stepping closer to reach for it.

The Ballad of Eternal Ties. You've read it so many times, but it's not a book you'd ever think of Snape owning. "You've read this?" you ask him, holding it up. 

He follows your eyes. "No. It was a gift. One of the professors, I think. Years ago. I've never read it." He stands, folding his arms. "I have no interest in fairy tales." 

You smile, just a little, brushing the spine with your fingers. "It's not what it looks like. The story's quite grim, actually. It's not exactly a bedtime story." 

He doesn't reply, but he watches you now - curious, or maybe just waiting. So you keep going. 

"It's about a witch and her lover," you begin, tracing over the cover, trying to recall the story. "They fall in love in the middle of a brutal war, but their story is basically doomed from the start because their love was never supposed to last. The world pulls them apart time and time again, until there’s almost nothing left of them.”

You clear your throat, trying to get to the main point of the story. It looks like he's seconds away from telling you to shut up.

“In the end,” you continue, glancing back down at the book. “The war tears them apart, so she binds her soul to his, intending to allow them to be together even in death. But it backfires, obviously. The binding keeps their souls stuck in a kind of limbo - they're not exactly dead, but they're not living either. They're just... left there. Forever searching for each other in places that don't exist anymore." 

He raises his brow. "And that's supposed to be romantic?" 

"No," you say, wistfully. "It's meant to be ruinous. But I think there’s something beautiful in it... that love could last beyond death like that, even if life doesn’t end the way we want it to.” 

You smile, flipping through the pages one last time. “Personally, I like to think they found each other in the end.” 

The fire crackles, filling the silence left behind by your words. Snape steps closer to you, brushing your fingers as he takes the book from your hands. "I didn't have you down as the sentimental type."

"Well, there's a lot you still don't know about me," you reply, softer than intended.

He looks at you then - really looks. And this time, you don't look away. He's closer than he should be again, near enough that you have to lift your head slightly to meet his eyes. Just like earlier this afternoon. The memory rushes back again without warning, his touch, the way he looked at you then. The same way he's looking at you now. Nerves flutter in your chest, making your breath catch before you can stop it. 

He saw it. 

"Enough of this," he turns away from you sharply, heading for his desk. "We've wasted enough time." 

You watch him walk away, still caught up in the look he gave you, the nearness of him. But then, your eye catches the clock above his desk.

“Shit,” you breathe. “I gotta go.”  

He turns, startled. "What?"

“Astronomy,” you say, rushing over to the door. “Something big is happening tonight – some rare alignment or whatever. Sinistra's been planning it all week.”  

His expression darkens as if you've just told him you’re off to join a circus. “Are you telling me you’re abandoning our session for stargazing?”  

“You should be thrilled I’m engaging with schoolwork,” you shoot back, challenging him.  

His eyes narrow. “Ah yes. Perhaps the stars will suddenly grant you enlightenment. Should I expect you to come back with prophetic insight?”  

You grin, glad to have at least shifted the mood. “Maybe the stars will reveal your deep, dark secrets to me.”  

He scoffs, turning back to this desk. “Then the stars are as foolish as you are."  

“So, you admit you have secrets?” you push him, playfully.  

He doesn’t even look back at you. “Leave. Or you’ll be late for whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing.”  

You roll your eyes – typical. Always so cryptic and cutting the moment short the second it threatens to become anything.  

You leave, jogging through the corridors, cursing under your breath because now you’re probably late for this, too. It’s not like stargazing is life-changing, but you did promise the group you’d be here. On time.

Everyone's already waiting to get started by the time you reach the top of the Astronomy tower. “Glad you could make it,” Sinistra says with a raised eyebrow as you join the group. 

You give her an apologetic smile, hoping it's enough. “Sorry, Professor."  

You rush to set your telescope up beside the few other students scattered around, the tower lit up by the soft glow of the stars. Sinistra starts her lesson, a professional tone in her voice as she talks about the constellations and the rare alignments of the planets that’s happening tonight. But you can’t fully take in her words, they fade into the background as your mind wanders back to what you and Snape just uncovered.  

Looking up at the planets, you trace their patterns through the lens of the telescope, turning the focus dial slowly to see them closer. But instead of the usual excitement you get at seeing them up close, all you can see are pinpricks of light that that feel too far away to mean anything. 

Sinistra mentions Jupiter's position in relation to Saturn - something about convergence and history repeating - and it's enough to bring your attention back, just for a moment. 

"Some call what's happening tonight a Grand Conjunction," she starts, cutting through the hush of the tower. "In magical theory, it's said to weaken certain boundaries between past and present, fate and choice... even between the living and the dead, if you believe the older texts." She pauses, gesturing up at the sky. "Historically, it marks a turning point. Magic shifts, and things buried tend to resurface."

You stare up at the sky, trying to focus on the conversation, but something in her words hit you. You're suddenly too aware of how far from normal tonight really is. Your brain is stuck somewhere else. Lost in the mess of memories that might not even be yours. That might never have been.

How many more corrupted ones could there be? Is your whole life as you know it a lie?  

You try to not think about it, tuning back in to Sinistras instructions, joining in the debates about the stars, pointing out constellations and discussing the planets alignments. But it all feels too normal - especially after whatever that moment was with Snape. Like the universe hasn't just rearranged itself in your head. 

You lean against the railing once the lesson has ended, staring up at the stars one last time. You wonder if they’re as solid as they seem or if they’re just like everything else in your life – dimming out of focus, and harder to trust the longer you look.  

Shaking your head, you say goodnight to everyone and push the thoughts away before heading back down the staircase. Jakob's already at the bottom waiting for you with his hands tucked into his pockets, smiling at you as he sees you.  

And just like that, you feel a little bit more normal. He's here, he's real. Maybe the stars are liars. Maybe your memories are too. But at least for now, you're not alone in it all. 

“Managed to avoid Filch, then?” you ask with a half smile.   

“He is not much of a challenge,” he says. “Too predictable.” He walks next to you, and a comfortable silence settles between you both, just like always. “Peeves, though... that is another story.”  

You laugh quietly. “Don’t remind me. I’m still not over the last time he caught us.”  

Snow crunches under your boots as you follow him into the courtyard. It’s freezing, but you're not really thinking about that right now. Jakob slows in front of you, stopping beneath one of the bare trees. He’s shifting awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck.  

"What?” you ask, suspicious again. “You’ve got that I’m about to say something serious face on again.”  

He laughs softly, glancing to the ground before meeting your eyes. “Maybe I do. Just – stay still for a second.”  

You pause, watching him curiously as he reaches into his coat. He pulls out a small box wrapped in a deep green ribbon. The edges are slightly crushed, like he’s been hiding it in his pocket for a while.

“I wanted to give you something,” he says quietly. “I was going to wait until the Ball, but... I thought tonight felt right.”  

“You got me a present?” you ask, carefully taking it and pulling apart the ribbon. Inside, nestled on black velvet, is a silver bracelet, threaded with three tiny detailed charms. Each one is slightly different, etched with faint little designs.   

“Jakob,” you breathe, surprised. “It’s beautiful.”   

His cheeks are more pink now, and you can tell it’s not from the cold. "It is made in Romania,” he says. “The charms are from an old pattern, my grandmother used to sew them into my coats when I was little. Each one means something – protection, strength, the kind of thing she said magic does not always cover.” 

He points at the charms, speaking quieter now. 

“This one is a warding knot, meant to confuse ill intent. The feather is for guidance. And the last one, the shield, well, that is obvious.” He smiles. “I thought, since you are terrible at shielding charms, you needed that one most.” 

You snort at that. He’s not wrong, you still suck at them. 

“She did not trust magic alone to keep me safe. I guess I picked that up from her,” he says finally. 

Your fingers trace over the tiny charms. You don’t know what to say – not because there’s nothing to say, but because it’s so much. So thoughtful. So unmistakably him.   

“I thought it will be nice for you to have on the hard days. Something that will remind you, always, that you can take on anything.” He hesitates. “And... well. I was wondering if you would like to go to the Ball with me?”  

You lift your head, looking at the uncertain honesty in his eyes. “Yeah. I’d love that.”  

He breathes a laugh, relaxing back into the Jakob you know. “Good.”  

“Help me put it on?” you say, holding the bracelet out to him.  

He steps closer, taking it carefully and clasping it around your wrist. The silver settles against your skin, the charms catching in the moonlight.  

“It’s perfect” you say, can’t quite believe someone would give you something so thoughtful. “Thank you.”  

He gives you a smile, one that doesn’t need words. You’re not quite ready to let the moment go, but curfew looms, and the castle has that late night stillness. The kind what whispers that you’re pushing your luck here.  

“I should go,” you say eventually, though it comes out more like an apology than anything else.  

Jakob nods, shoving his hands back into his pockets. “Yes. We should go.”  

“See you tomorrow?”  

He smiles again, smaller this time. “Of course.”  

You turn to go, walking a few steps before looking back. He’s still standing there under the tree, watching you with a soft look, like he's holding onto something he hasn't said.

Giving him a small wave, you smile and head towards the common room, occasionally glancing down at the bracelet. It already feels so oddly reassuring. 

Your fingers are freezing through your gloves, but your head is clearer than it has been in a while. You slept great last night, didn’t stir once, and you think it must be to do with whatever Snape’s doing in your sessions. Maybe the fact you're finally starting to get some answers is helping - even if it isn't exactly the answers you were hoping for. You’re still not sure how, or why it’s working with him, but you’re not questioning it today.  

Jade is already beside you, listing off every shop, snack, and all the plans she’s crammed into the day. You let her go on, nodding along as she pulls you towards the gates and out into the fresh snow. It’s your first proper trip to Hogsmeade, and you’d be lying if you said you hadn’t been looking forward to it all week.  

You’ve just let it slip that Jakob asked you to the Ball last night, and Jade looks like she’s about to pass out from excitement.  

“Okay, tell me everything,” she exclaims, looking at you with wide eyes.

You sigh, but can’t help your smile. “It wasn’t dramatic, if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

Which she definitely is. It’s jade, after all.  

“Sure,” she says, drawing the word out with skepticism. “So Jakob didn’t ask you to the Ball in a snow-covered courtyard like it’s straight out of a storybook?”  

You don’t even reply to that, becuase it’s exactly what happened. Instead, you pull up your sleeve and hold out your wrist, letting her see the bracelet which sparkles in the afternoon sun.

“Merlin, he gave you that?” she says, grabbing your wrist to get a closer look. “It’s beautiful.”  

“He said it’s from Romania,” you tell her. “Each charm has a meaning, he said his grandmother used to sew the symbols into his clothes to protect him."  

Jade stops walking for a second to look at you properly. “Okay, I take it back. You are in a storybook.”  

You laugh, nudging her back to the walk as the village comes into view ahead. “You never told me how Eirik asked you, though.”  

“He didn’t, that’s why,” she snorts. “He just casually mentioned he was going and assumed I’d be with him.”  

You shake your head. “That sounds exactly like Eirik.”  

“I know, right? Clearly, I have a type.”  

Hogsmeade is exactly how Jade described it, and you have to stop for a moment to take it all in. Every shop seems to glow from the inside, their signs swaying in the snowy breeze, and a soft hum of a song drifts from somewhere down the street.

“Told you it was amazing.” She says, tugging you forwards. “Come on. You need to experience Honeydukes.”  

“I feel like you’re about to be a bad influence on me,” you say, dodging a group of third years throwing snowballs at each other.  

“Oh, I am,” she says proudly, pulling you past the first cluster of shops.

As soon as the door to Honeydukes opens, you're instantly hit with the aroma of caramel, cocoa, and everything sweet. Shelves upon shelves overflow with every sweet imaginable, and the place is already packed with students.

You’re barely in the shop when Jade starts throws some sweets into your hands. You hold the box up – Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans. Huh. You’ve never tried magical sweets before, so this is a whole new world to you. And it sounds gross. Earwax flavour? Soap? Vomit?   

"So, what do you like then?” she asks, pulling out something that looks like it has more magic than it should for a sweet.

“Well, I’ve never had any of these before,” you shrug. “I guess I missed the whole childhood sugar rush phase.”  

Jade spins around, looking like you’ve just insulted her personally. “Are you serious? Well, that needs to be fixed. Like, right now.” She starts piling even more sweets into your arms, and you barely have time to look at them before she moves in a different direction, listing off every flavour she can think of. By the time you reach the counter, you’ve got what feels like a month's supply of sugar balanced in your arms.  

“We’re trying all of these tonight,” she declares, looking pleased with herself. 

The next thing you know, she’s leading you to a crooked little shop that looks like it’s held together by pure mischief. The sign above sways in the breeze: Zonko’s Joke shop.  

The minute you step inside, your senses feel overloaded all at once - bright colours, whirring things, pops and crackles from corners you can’t even see.  

“Okay, I have to show you my favourite thing here,” Jade says, rushing over to one of the ridiculously high stacked shelves.  

You’re suspicious. Jade doesn’t usually like pranks, and she’s always telling you off for them. “You have a favourite?”  

She just smiles, reaching up to grab a small, innocent looking package. “Here.”  

You take it, eyeing the label – 'writes notes that only appear in the moonlight.'  

“Huh, that’s actually kinda cool,” you admit.  

“Right?” she grins. “No explosions, no weird side affects. Just a sneaky note passing.”  

Before you can ask her when exactly she’ll need to send a note specifically when the moon is out, a loud pop echoes from the back of the shop, followed by someone shouting. You both turn around, seeing a big puff of pink smoke swirl over the aisles. Fred and George appear through the mist like twin agents of mayhem, covered in pink and utterly unbothered.  

“Fancy seeing you here, [First Name],” Fred says, giving you a wink. “What are you guys looking for?”  

“Nothing specific," you reply, holding back a laugh at his pink hair. "Jade’s giving me the grand tour of Hogsmeade."

Jade steps closer. “It’s her first time here.”  

“First time?” Fred says, eyeing you with that familiar mischief you’ve come to be wary of. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”  

“Here,” George says, handing you a box with far too many warning labels. “Shake it.”  

You narrow your eyes at him. “Is it going to blow me up?”  

“Come on," Fred nudges you. "Don’t you trust us?”  

You absolutely don't, especially given the way they're looking at you right now. But you give in, shaking the box anyway, carefully. For a second, nothing happens. Then, it starts rattling violently in your hands, almost making you drop it.  

“Uh-” you start, just as the top springs open and a cloud of gold glitter bursts out like it’s been shot from a cannon. The intensity of the explosion causes a few bottles to knock off the shelves, and everyone in the shop turns their attention to you.

Why do you always fall for it?   

“Seriously?” Jade says, giving you a disappointed look.   

“I didn’t know it would do that,” you protest, brushing the glitter from your face.  

Fred and George are in hysterics. “Come on, that was comedy gold – literally!”  

Jade sighs, glancing at her watch. “Right, before you two get us banned, we’re heading to Galdrags."  

“You’re taking her clothes shopping? Bit of a mood killer, don’t you think?” Fred says, making a face.  

“She needs a dress for the Ball,” she counters. “She’s opening the dance after all.”  

Fred’s brows shoot up. “You’re opening the dance?”  

George laughs. “Blimey, who’d you kill for that honour?”  

“Oh, no,” Jade interrupts before you can say anything, as if she's forgotten what just happened. “You guys missed the best part. Did you know she danced with Professor Snape yesterday? It was dead cute.”  

You groan, and there’s a moment of silence before Fred and George start doubling over like they’ve been hit with a laughing hex.  

"Did I mention that I hate you?" you say to Jade, giving her a very fake smile, but she just joins in with the twins teasing.

After putting up with their jokes about you and Snape for at least ten minutes, you finally arrive at Galdrag's Wizarding Wears. Even if you really don’t want to be here. It smells faintly of shoe polish and pressed fabric, the kind of fancy scent that makes you instantly aware of your scuffed boots and windswept hair. Soft lights hang from the ceiling, casting a gentle shimmer over the rows of dress robes. Everything looks charming. And expensive - which isn't technically an issue since you inherited your parents fortune.

The process of finding you a dress starts off awkward though, to say the least. The shopkeeper barely lets you get out a hello before he’s sizing you up, his tape measure slipping around your waist, your shoulders, your hips - taking every measurement possible as he asks you what you’re looking for.

What colour? What length? Fabric? Sleeves or no sleeves?   

You don’t really know what you want, you haven’t thought that far ahead. But you give him the best description you can – something dark, but elegant. Bold, but not too dramatic. Modest, maybe. Nothing that screams for attention.  

He hums thoughtfully before disappearing into the back, returning a few minutes later with an armful of dresses that look nothing like what you asked for. They’re either too low, too poofy, or just too much. Each time you try one on and look in the mirror, it’s like you’ve slipped into someone else’s fantasy, someone else’s idea of you. None of them feel right, and you’re starting to lose hope.   

But as you search through the remaining dresses on the rail, you find it, tucked between all the rest. It’s not too loud, not too showy or too dramatic. It draws you in with a quiet elegance, a simplicity that feels like it works.   

As you slip into it, something in the mirror aligns.   

The silky fabric hugs you in all the right places, the fit just right – not too tight, not too loose. It’s almost like it was made for you. It doesn’t transform you into someone else - you’re still you. A version of yourself that, for once, feels almost within reach.  

With your new dress in your bag, you head back outside where the sun has dipped low behind the rooftops of the shops, casting the village in a dusky amber light. The village slows down around you, with people ducking into pubs for dinner or heading back to the castle. Jade links arms with you, steering you into the Three Broomsticks for a quick butterbeer before the walk back.  

You tuck yourselves into a corner booth, and Jade’s already talking about the Ball again, asking you what kind of earrings she should wear, what makeup she should go for, and for the first time, you’re not just nodding along politely. You’re actually listening to her, thinking about your own ideas, starting to feel something that almost feels like excitement.  

Yesterday, the whole thing felt like a huge looming disaster you couldn’t avoid. But now you have a dress that feels like it was meant for you. You have Jakob  by your side. And even though you’re still nervous about the whole dancing and looking stupid thing, something in your chest softens. Leaving you thinking that maybe it won’t be so bad after all. 

Chapter Text

Wow.  

You’ve been staring at your reflection in the mirror for about five minutes already, still not quite sure if you recognise the girl staring back. The Yule Ball is less than an hour away, and after pretending you weren’t nervous all day, it’s finally catching up.   

Only now, looking at yourself properly... you’re not sure nervous is the right word.   

Your dress is stunning – a deep emerald silk, nearly black under the light, smooth and fitted like it was stitched just for you and nobody else. It’s a little daring – the back is cut low, showing off the faded scar descending down your spine. You’d thought about covering it, but deep down it feels authentic. It’s a part of your story, and you want to bring it with you tonight. 

You’re a Champion, and now, you really look like one. It’s strange and surreal and equally terrifying.  

To complete the look, you fasten a necklace around your neck. You've had it for as long as you can remember, one of the first birthday gifts your mother ever gave you. You haven't worn it much since being at Hogwarts, letting it live safely at the back of your drawer, too afraid you might lose the last thing you have left of her. But this feels like the right occasion to wear it. 

Your fingers shake a little as you clasp it around your neck, and for a moment, you close your eyes, imagining her fastening it for you instead. The silver charm catches the light, fitting perfectly with the bracelet Jakob gave you. It's like you’re tying your different lives together, in a way.  

Checking your hair and makeup one last time, you take a deep breath before heading for the stairs, being careful to not trip over your dress in these heels. You give yourself an internal pep talk on the way down, trying to convince yourself you've got this - you’ve fought a literal dragon. You can survive one dance, can't you?     

The common room is mostly empty now, but Jade’s waiting by the fireplace like she promised, holding two glasses and looking like she walked straight out of a magazine. Her dress is a deep purple, hugging her figure like it was poured onto her, with some added glittery details which makes it very much her.

She turns at the sound of your footsteps.  

“Holy shit,” she says with a smile spreading across her face. “You look insane. Like, dangerously beautiful.”   

“Look who’s talking,” you breathe, taking her in. “You’re practically glowing.”   

She does a little twirl. “Right? Eirik isn’t going to know what hit him.”   

You laugh, taking a step closer as she holds out one of the glasses to you. “Here. A little liquid courage for your big moment.”   

You take it without thinking. “I think I'll need about three more of these before we go.”   

She laughs, clinking her glass against yours. You swig it quickly, feeling the burn hitting your chest warmly, chasing away the nerves. When you're both finished, you set down your empty glasses, looping arms with her.  

“Ready?” she asks.   

“God, no,” you say with a half laugh. “But let’s do this.”   

You spot Jakob and Eirik before they see you, standing near the entrance in full Durmstrang dress robes, all crimson and very  dramatic. Eirik’s coat is slightly longer, more severe and regal, while Jakob’s looks like it was tailored to be worn by only him. He turns, and to say he notices you is an understatement. His eyes rake over you for way too long, almost looking like he’s forgotten how to breathe.   

“Wow,” he says under his breath, “you look truly beautiful.”   

The way he says it, so genuinely with not even a smirk, makes your stomach do something weird and fluttery. It’s sweet.   

“You’re not looking too bad yourself,” you say, tugging playfully at the shaggy fur draped over his shoulder. Whatever it is, it’s surprisingly soft. “Very handsome.”  

The red suits him so well, and the high collar just adds to the whole thing. There’s something different about him, though. His hair looks neater, like he's spent time styling it - and he still hasn't looked away from you once.   

He smiles. “If I knew you would look like this, I would have tried harder.” 

You laugh under your breath, feeling a blush spread over your cheeks. “Shut up.” 

Thankfully, the doors to the Great Hall start to open, providing a welcomed distraction from his eyes. McGonagall appears, all business in her dark green robes and clipboard in hand – taking the whole thing way too seriously, as expected.  

“Oh, there you are!” She says scoldingly, sweeping her eyes over the both of you. Whatever it is she’s assessing, it seems to pass. “We need you two inside – now. The other Champions are waiting.”   

Jade mouths a quick good luck to you both, and Jakob catches your eye again as you follow McGonagall in, smirking. He tilts his head ever so slightly, a silent, cocky little 'ready?' in true Durmstrang fashion. You return one, but it's definitely not as confident. 

The Great Hall is completely transformed. Snow falls gently from the enchanted ceiling, the walls glittering in the lights like they’ve been carved from frost. The round tables at the edges of the room shimmer with a crystal candlelight, already set neatly for the feast later. A few professors, including Dumbledore and the other judges, are chattering near the front.   

You take in the other champions. Krum is with Hermione, who looks radiant in her dress - nothing like the usual Hermione you’ve seen always buried under her books. Harry’s here with a girl you don’t recognise, but he looks as nervous as ever, barely paying attention to her. Frankly, she looks far too beautiful to be stuck here with him. Fleur meets your eye as you look over to her – she's here with a Ravenclaw, looking like a straight up Goddess in her silver-satin dress. She gives you a small smile, as if to say ‘hey, you look amazing’ , which you return. You haven’t spoken to her much since your time together in the hospital wing, but it’s nice to see she’s still sees you for you.  

McGonagall wastes no time in lining you all up, giving a brisk rundown on the opening dance. You’re listening at first, nodding when you’re supposed to, but your attention slips when the doors open again, finding yourself glancing over.  

And there he is - Snape steps inside like a shadow slipping into place. You didn't think he'd come to something like this, but by the look on his face, it seems like he's been dragged into this just as much as you were. Though, at least you can pretend to enjoy it. 

He’s still in black, of course. It’s always black. But tonight, he’s not wearing his usual robes. These ones are fitted closer to his body. The fabric looks heavier, maybe even a little expensive, with the slightest shimmer when it catches the light. It’s still very him... but not quite what you’re used to.   

He walks with that same no nonsense stride, focused on the staff table – until his eyes catch yours. And they hold.   

It’s not the casual scanning glance. It’s a pause. But just as quickly, he looks away.      

You turn away, too. Back to McGonagall, not even letting your mind go there.

Jakob leans closer to you, slipping an arm around your waist. "What is wrong?"   

"Oh, nothing," you assure him with a quick smile. "Just nervous."  

He squeezes your side gently, letting out a quiet laugh. "You worry too much. We have this."  

McGonagall finally finishes her speech, and with it, the doors to the hall open again. The rest of the students pour in, talking and laughing as they file in, wide-eyed and excited. They move around you, circling you and the other champions like you’re exhibits in some museum.   

“You will begin the dance after the headmaster’s announcement. For now, stay near the centre with the others.” She looks over everyone with a pointed look. “And for Merlin's sake, try to remember you're representing your schools. Is everyone ready?”   

You manage a small smile. Though, your heart is beating somewhere between no and absolutely not, but you nod along with the others. Dumbledore rises as the last students enter the hall, lifting a single hand to silence the room.    

“Welcome, to the most magical of evenings,” he announces warmly. “A night of music, laughter, of dance steps – and perhaps even a memory or two you will carry with you long after the final song ends.” He clasps his hands together, stepping onto the dance floor. “Now, let us begin the Ball with a long-held tradition – the Champions’ opening dance!”   

The music starts then, and the hall bursts into a polite applause as you all take to the floor in your pairs. Jakob turns to you, bowing with a flourish far too dramatic even for this occasion, lowering his head and offering out his hand. “May I have this dance, Champion?  ”   

You try to stifle back a laugh as you slip into an equally over the top curtsey, taking his hand elegantly. "You may."  

You step forward with him onto the floor, but not before catching McGonagall’s unimpressed stare from where she observes at the sidelines, giving you a look that very clearly reads: this isn’t a stage play, get on with it.       

Jakob notices too, quickly falling into step with the others, keeping his head up to keep himself from grinning too much. He leads you gracefully, and as expected, he’s really good at this. You’re dancing, in front of the whole school, and it’s not awful at all. You forget the nerves and the eyes of the room as you find the rhythm, letting the music carry you across the floor. Jakob moves with you so naturally it’s almost easy to believe this whole thing isn’t just yours and his.   

“I told you we had this,” he says, daring a turn.   

You laugh, twirling under his arm with a swish of your dress and a spark of confidence that’s hit you out of nowhere - probably Jade’s drink kicking in, or maybe Jakob's confidence is enough for the both of you. Either way, there’s a reaction from where the professor’s stand at the side, a few ‘ahhs’ , and you glance up without thinking.   

But you catch the wrong pair of eyes.   

Snape stands there, but he’s not watching the dance – he's watching you.     

You look away instantly, like nothing happened, but the twisting sensation in your chest tells a different story. Jakob's hand finds yours again, pulling you gently towards him. You try to keep up with him while acting like the floor didn’t just almost shift beneath you under Snape’s stare. 

But your head starts to betray you, imagining different hands on your waist, steadier ones that are familiar in all the wrong ways. You can feel them now – Snape's hands replacing Jakob's, clutching you like it’s the only thing he wants to keep hold of, his fingers locking around yours in a way that feels far too personal. Your breath catches at the sudden wave of thoughts, but you hide it quickly with a cough.   

Get a grip!  

You spin into the final pose, smiling for the second round of applause, still pretending your thoughts aren’t currently setting themselves on fire from a look you wish you hadn't noticed. Jakob holds you in place just long enough to keep the illusion alive.   

“You killed it,” Jakob says with a pride he always seems to have of you, his hand still loosely holding yours. He lifts it gently, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

The gesture is so simple, so earnest, leaving you unsure what to say. 

“We killed it,” you correct him, masking it with the easiest answer you can think of.

The applause dies down, replaced with conversations and the other students moving onto the dance floor as the next song starts. Now all the formal shit is done with, you're in desperate need of a mental detour.

“Come on,” you tug his hand. “I need a drink.”   

He looks at you, amused. “It was not that bad.”   

You ignore him, pulling him along with you through the crowd as you make a beeline for the punch table – half hoping it’ll help, half knowing it absolutely won’t. You grab a cup anyway, downing it quickly. You barely finish it before you’re almost choking.   

“What the fuck is this?” you rasp, blinking as the taste properly hits you. It’s way too strong to be on offer at a school event.   

Jakob takes a curious sip from his own cup, and the way he winces says enough. “Interesting,” he mutters.   

“That, my dear champion, is what happens when you leave a perfectly good punch bowl unattended near an unsupervised genius,” George Weasley says, appearing behind you and grinning like the devil himself.   

You turn to face him. “You spiked the punch?”   

“Only a little,” he beams, unapologetically.   

“A little?” you laugh, “It's practically poison. What did you put in it?”   

“Ah, a craftsman never reveals his secrets" he winks.  

You shake your head, hiding a smile. “Let me guess, Fred’s behind this too?” You check around George’s vicinity, not seeing him. “Where is he anyway?”   

George leans against the table. “Nah, he’s off playing the gentleman. Last I saw, he was twirling Angelina around like he’s in a bloody musical.”   

You glance towards the dancefloor, catching sight of him spinning Angelina. You snort. “She’s brave.”   

“Very,” George agrees, taking a sip of his own drink like a proud parent. “Though, if you ask me, he’s trying too hard. Doesn't wanna drop her - or his chances.”   

Jakob chuckles beside you. “I say we did much better,” he says, throwing you a cheeky wink.   

You roll your eyes with a smile. “Is that your way of asking me for another dance?”   

He arches a brow. “Depends. Would it work if it was?” Before you can answer, he's already backing onto the dancefloor, offering his hand out properly this time. “Come on,” he grins. “We are not wasting the one night of freedom we have.”   

You hesitate, long enough for George to try sneaking away. You catch him by the wrist.   

“Oh no,” you say, pulling him back. “You’re coming too.”   

After dancing for what feels like hours, you finally get a break when the feast starts. You settle at one of the crystal decorated tables with Jade, Eirik, and Jakob (George took off a while ago, probably plotting other ways to sabotage the Ball) and the four of chat about some of the scenes you’ve seen tonight already – including the couple that got caught doing a lot more than making out in the courtyard, and had to do the walk of shame back in with Filch behind them, looking like he might retire there and then. 

The food isn’t the usual Hogwarts dishes either – tonight's menu seems to have taken inspiration from the guest schools. Jakob convinces you to try the Goulash and some strange looking beetroot thing from Durmstrang, and it’s actually really nice.   

You’ve just finished eating when one of Jade’s favourite songs comes up. She begs Eirik for another dance, and despite his groans, he follows – taking Jakob with him for backup and leaving you the small opportunity to sneak away yourself.   

Your breath frosts in the winter air as you make your way outside, still clutching the drink you’ve been nursing for a while now, though you should probably let it go.  

You wander towards the gardens, the music and the craziness of the Ball fading behind you, following a path decorated with rose bushes. You admire them – their pale, soft petals glowing faintly in the moonlight. Tiny fairies flit between the blooms, their wings like miniature lights showing the way as you drift down the path. You’ve just reached the far edge of the bushes, a stone wall in front of you with nowhere to go but back, when you hear a rustle behind you.  

“You think I can’t see what you’re doing? Charming your way into any weakness you can find?”     

The voice startles you, your grip loosening on the drink as it plunges to the floor. It almost spills all over your shoes, and you turn around just in time to see Igor Karkaroff stepping out from behind the bush, anger practically rolling off him.  

Is he talking to you?    

“Sorry?” you ask, shaken and very confused.  

“You,” he growls, stalking closer. “You parade around with my students. They are not toys for you to play with.”    

You almost laugh. “Are you serious?”    

“Jakob was one of my brightest,” he snarls, closer now that you can smell the tang of smoke on his breath. “Now he’s... distracted. Thinking too much. You’ve corrupted him!”    

The accusation is so stupid that you actually laugh this time. “Corrupted? I think you’re doing that just fine on your own.”     

His eyes flash, even angrier than before. “I’ve heard the whispers, little girl. I saw what you did in the first task. I know about the Ministry’s interest in you, I know they’re watching you.”   

You lift your chin, challenging him. “They might be watching, but I'm still here.”    

“You’re playing with a fire you'll never control, with people you shouldn’t even think of touching.” He lowers his voice, embracing a bitter tone. “I’ve seen you. You and Severus Snape, sneaking away at odd hours. You think you’re subtle?”    

Your heart drops at that – if he’s seen you, even if it isn’t in the context he might be implying, who else might’ve noticed?     

“You’re delusional,” you snap, but it’s clear your hesitation’s already given you away. Shit.     

“Don’t look so surprised.” He steps closer with a wicked grin. "Your kind always go for men with power. Even the broken ones.”    

"If you really believe that, then you're more of a fucking idiot than I first thought," you snap, shoving at his chest to get him away.

He doesn’t even move an inch. Instead, he shoves you back – hard - slamming you against the stone wall and knocking the breath from you. He’s already leaning in as you try to recover, his face only inches from yours now, not bothering to hide the fury behind his eyes.   

“You have no idea what you’re meddling in,” he says, his foul breath hot against your cheek. “Witches like you think you’re untouchable. Hiding behind your clever tongue, your cleverer spells. But there are rules.” He presses against you harder. “And people like me enforce them.”    

“Let go!” you shout, twisting out of his grip to reach for your wand, only to remember you didn’t bring it with you since this stupid dress doesn’t have any pockets. Damn it. 

He doesn’t know that though – he grabs your wrist when he senses your intentions, pinning it against the wall beside your head with a crack that makes your teeth clench. Pain shoots through your arm, but you refuse to let him see it. 

"Careful," he growls. "Accidents happen in this tournament, don't they? One slip and you're gone. Not even Snape will be able to help you."

“Get off!” you snarl through gritted teeth, struggling harder. You claw at his hand, but it’s like fighting a wall. He’s way stronger than you expected.   

"Keep pushing," his voice drops to a whisper. "And you'll find out just how easy it is for me to make someone disappear."  

Severus is tired.    

If this ludicrous tournament hadn’t already sunk the year into enough mayhem, he’s now forced to partake in this ridiculous Ball. He hadn’t planned to attend – in fact, he had made every protest he could. But Minerva had that look in her eye claiming, ‘the students need supervising.’   

As if watching hormonally unstable teenagers attempt to dance is some sacred duty.   

It was fine until he stepped into the hall and his eyes found you. It hadn’t even taken a drink, not even a thought. He didn’t believe it was really you at first, the way your hair caught the light, cascading loosely down your shoulders. The daring cut of your dress dipping low, revealing the scar he hadn't known was left behind.

He kept himself distracted after that, taking a drink offered by another professor in passing, accepting it without thinking to be polite more than anything else. He should’ve known better to take anything on offer at a student event, because it was definitely spiked. And the minute Moody tried to pull him into a conversation he really didn’t want to have, he left, disappearing into the chill of the gardens in search of something that resembles silence away from it all.  

But of course, trouble finds him. Or rather, you.  Because clearly, peace and quiet is far too much to ask for. Though, he should be used to it by now. You have a peculiar gift for attracting disaster after all - like flame drawing moths or curses drawing old blood.  

Karkaroff has been a risk since the moment he stepped into the castle. Severus has been worried about this exact scenario since he arrived – that Igor might just recognise your name, follow the trail, and uncover who you really are.  

He’s been careful, watching Igor from the corners of rooms, reading every little twitch of unease, every question he asks. But lately, he’s started seeking Severus out more and more, cornering him with thinly veiled questions and antsy fears. So far, Severus has kept cautious, keeping him at arms length – close enough to avoid suspicion, but not enough to validate his desperation. 

And this – the sight of Karkaroff with his hands on you, proof that he might be sniffing far too close to the truth, really isn't helping.  

He grits his teeth - not at Igor, at you. At your stubbornness, at your complete inability to keep your head down, especially when the stakes are so much higher than you know. You can't afford this kind of attention. Not to yourself, and definitely not to your bloodline.  

He breathes in a slow, measured breath before stepping closer.   

“Is there a reason you’re assaulting one of my students, Igor,” he pauses, his voice revealing the hatred he has for the man, “or are you simply testing how far you can push your luck tonight?”   

Karkaroff doesn’t move, just tears his gaze towards Severus like a knife shifting direction.   

“This isn’t your concern, Severus,” he says venomously.   

“You’re mistaken,” he replies, low and precise. “This became my concern the moment you put your hands on her.”   

Karkaroff scoffs, but there’s tension in it – it's brittle and poorly hidden. He straightens himself, releasing you. Attempting to make a show of composure.   

“You always did enjoy playing the martyr,” he murmurs. “Still chasing shadows. Still pretending you’re above the rest of us.” He pauses. “She’s dangerous, Severus. You don’t see it? Jakob was sharp once, focused. Now he-” his voice cuts off as though you’re some sour taste in his mouth. “Now he’s following her around like some lovesick idiot!”   

Severus’ lip curls – disdain, maybe? Or something else entirely.   

“If your student is so easily unmoored,” he says coolly, “perhaps you should examine the strength of his anchor.”   

Karkaroff’s eyes darken. He leans closer, his voice dropping colder. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? You think I don’t recognise the way you protect her? Encourage her?” He sneers, a glint of something cruel crossing his features. “There was a time you didn’t ask questions, Severus.”   

“That was a long time ago,” he says, dismissively. “And now, I have little patience for ghosts.”   

Karkaroff gives a quiet, mirthless laugh. “No, ghosts don’t frighten you, do they? But living things...,” his gaze drifts back to you, “those are harder to bury.”   

Severus follows his eyes, forgetting for a moment you were still here, and you are, watching them both. Still silent, with an expression that says you’ve been taking it all in, that you've already picked their bones clean.    

The red mark on your wrist stands out like a brand, but it’s not the only thing he notices. Your dress catches the light, making the green silk glow like something otherworldly. And in your eyes, that maddening spark is present – the one that makes him feel like you’re either a warning or a temptation he should avoid. Or both.   

He looks away quickly.  

"That's enough, Igor" Severus warns. "Leave my students alone."

Karkaroff almost looks like he's about to drop it, but instead he turns to you one last time. 

“Secrets rot when kept too long,” Igor leans closer to you, just loud enough for Severus to hear. “And I always find the rot.” 

He gives you one last glare before he vanishes behind the roses again.

Severus doesn’t watch him go, his focus is on you and the way your fingers tremble at your sides even though your face is a mask of composure and burning curiosity. 

You're quiet, and that alone is a cause for concern. 

He curses himself for saying too much with you standing there, knowing what you're like with your incessancy to know things about him - but Merlin, Igor knows how to get under his skin. And now he sees those questions behind your eyes, ones he doesn't know how to answer.

You move to walk past him, but he steps in your way without thinking, catching your arm gently as you do, careful to avoid the mark left by Karkaroff. 

“Where are you going?”   

You stop, glancing down at his hand wrapped around your arm. “I need to clear my head," you say quietly. "I don't want to be cornered down here. Not after that."

“No,” he says, pulling you a step back. “We need to talk about what just happened.”   

“What? You can’t just-”  

He draws his wand in one smooth motion, wrapping a silencing charm around you both in an instant, sealing off the world without ceremony. 

You’re not quite sure why Snape just cornered you like this, or why he's even here, but judging by the look on his face right now, you daren’t question it.

You lean back against the stone wall with your arms folded, trying to keep yourself steady, because thanks to George’s lovely punch, your head is currently swimming ten times as much as it should be when you’re in the presence of Snape. Especially pushed up against a wall with nowhere to go. 

“What exactly did he say to you?” He demands. “Word for word. And I need to know what you said in return.”   

The intensity of his stare makes your stomach flip, the same way it has been doing lately when his attention focuses on you. But this time, his eyes are darker, and it feels like you’re standing on thin ice while he watches it crack beneath your feet.   

You suppose it’s best to be honest here. He’ll probably just see it next time he’s in your head, anyway.   

“If you must know,” you say tightly, “he accused me of corrupting his students. Which is rich, considering he manages that perfectly fine on his own.”    

His eyes narrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.   

“Then...” you look down at your wrist, absently rubbing the mark. “He suggested that I'm sneaking around... with you.”   

He doesn’t react, not outwardly, and that’s almost worse than if he did.   

There's no way he saw you leaving Snape's office after one of your sessions... is there? Though, he is always slinking around - you've noticed him more than once in the dungeons. Fuck. The thought he might’ve spread it already, or that other people might be saying the same thing makes your skin crawl.   

“And?” he prompts, stepping forward. “What did you say back?”   

You unfold your arms, trying not to wince at the sheepish look you know just landed on your face. You don’t mean to, but you know he’s about to be pissed when he finds out what you said. And from the look of his face, he can already tell it was something bad.  

“What have you done?” he asks hotly.   

“Well... I may have called him delusional,” you admit.   

“Delusional” he repeats in disbelief. “Once again, your capacity for stupidity remains unparalleled.” 

You hold back another wince, because that’s not even the worst part. “I may have also said he was a fucking idiot - which, in my defence, he is.”   

For a moment, he just stares at you, his expression frozen in a mix of astonishment and fury. “You truly have no sense of caution, do you?”    

“Oh come on, what did you want me to say? Agree with him? Say nothing?” you let out a bitter laugh. “Because that would’ve looked so much better, wouldn’t it? He accused us of sneaking around together, and not in the way we actually are, by the way.”  

His eyes flash with something, but you carry on.  

“What, am I supposed to stand there and let him think whatever he wants? Let him twist it?”   

“You shouldn’t provoke him,” he snaps. “Karkaroff may be an idiot, yes, but he knows which lies to tell. He knows what people will believe.”   

“You think I provoked him?” you ask, feeling the sting.  

Why does he always think you make these things happen? Like you’re the problem?   

“It’s always me, isn’t it?” you say, sourly. “I must have done something. I must’ve deserved what he did.”   

“I didn’t say it like that,” he states. But it's too late. you knew what he meant.   

“But you meant it, didn’t you? Every time something happens, it’s my fault. All the stuff with Ivy in class, the whole disaster of the first task, now this. Every time something happens, you act like I caused it.”    

“This is different,” he says through gritted teeth, turning away from you. “You don’t understand.”   

“Is it?” you fire back. “Or is it only different because now it’s about you?”   

“Don’t be stupid,” he hisses, snapping back round to face you. “People like him are dangerous. They don't stop. And they will always come back for more.”   

“Right,” you let out a harsh, humourless laugh. “Stupid. That’s all I am, isn’t it? Just the stupid girl who provokes dangerous men and then needs saving.”   

You see how he flinches, and it only feeds the fuel burning inside you.   

“You think I asked for any of this?” you bite out, your voice cracking slightly with the force of it. "To be dropped into a life that I didn't choose? To be always trying to piece myself into a world where I don't really fit?"

He doesn't say anything straight away. He just stands there, taking in your glare.

“No,” he says finally. “And you know that’s not what I meant.”   

You don’t say anything to that. Because maybe he has a point – maybe Karkaroff is dangerous, especially with the Ministry already watching you. But you still loathe how he always blames you, even though he clearly has his own secrets to hide. The conversation between him and Karkaroff gnaws at you – you overheard enough to know there’s more to their words.   

“What was all that anyway?” you ask, watching him for a reaction. “What were you two talking about?”   

“It’s none of your concern,” he says, straightening himself.   

"You do realise I was standing right here, don't you? Whatever it is between you two... it's clearly something. Why am I not allowed to know?"

He watches you for a moment but keeps silent. 

“I’ve seen the way you look at Karkaroff," you add. "That's not just dislike. You have a history with him. You know him."  

“You’re seeing things that aren’t there,” he says flatly.

He's lying. You know what you've seen, and you won't let him think you're imagining it all. 

“We should go,” he says, not letting you push further. “People will start to wonder where you are, and if they see us here together, it will not help our story if Karkaroff decides to spread whatever filth he’s got in his head about us.”   

You stare at him. Of course he’s pushing you away the minute you start asking him questions. Because God forbid you know even a speck of his life while he gets to parade himself through yours.

"I let you into my mind," you say, trying to stay calm. "You've seen parts of me I've never given to anyone. And I still know nothing about you."   

He draws in a breath and holds it, like he's about to say something but he chooses not to. 

"Why is that fair?" you ask him, taking a step closer. "Why do I have to bare everything, while you stay hidden behind whatever ruins you keep to yourself?" 

“That's a line you don't get to cross.” 

“Why not?” you ask, frustrated now. “Everyone else sees me as some kind of risk, someone not to be trusted. Is that why? Do you think that too?"

More silence.

"Of course," you mutter, turning your back on him. "Why would this be the moment you actually say something." 

You ready yourself for the inevitable - the cold dismissal, the way he's probably going tell you to go away and mean it this time. And really, what were you expecting? He'll never tell you anything, so why do you keep trying? 

But the silence that follows isn’t what you expected.    

You hear the faint shift of his robes behind you. Before you can turn, you feel him there –  close . So close that his breath ghosts across the bare skin of your neck, too careful to be accidental.   

“You should have told me it scarred” his voice comes quietly behind you, like he’s trying not to startle you. “I could have lessened it.”   

You glance to the side, just enough to see the edge of him behind you but quickly look back at the wall. “I don't mind,” you try to say, but it comes out as a whisper. “It's growing on me."  

After a pause, his fingers brush your neck as he tucks a loose strand of hair away from your back - a gesture so tender it feels surreal coming from him. Then, his touch returns, slower this time. Goosebumps bloom on your skin as he traces your scar, starting at the base of your neck, trailing all the way down the curve of your spine to the low dip of your dress, as if he’s rereading the story of it.  

You close your eyes – not because it hurts, or because you’re scared. But because you crave it – his touch. For some absurd, maddening reason, your body reaches for it, for him, in ways you don’t even understand, even if he is a big mystery to you. He’s the last person who should be making you feel safe. And yet...   

You exhale, slow and quiet, like breathing too loudly might break the moment. The scar may have been born from secrets and a terrible decision, but beneath his fingertips, it feels like it's being rewritten. 

Then, his hand drops like he’s just remembered who he is. Who you are. The loss of his touch is instant – a cold wind hissing against your spine.   

Your heart thuds as you turn to face him in a slow movement, half-expecting him to have moved. But he’s still right there - watching you, close enough now that the air between you feels shared. And the rawness in his eyes is enough to take your breath away. It’s nothing like his usual restraint, it’s something deeper. Something you’re probably not supposed to be seeing.   

He doesn’t turn away this time, doesn’t shield it behind a glare or a wall of steel.

It feels like an eternity passes, standing between the roses, sharing another look you don't fully understand. 

“We should go,” he repeats quietly. It's oddly gentle, like he’s saying it to himself just as much as you.  

You don't move - you can't. There’s something so achingly sincere in his face and the way he just spoke to you. Like he’s finally allowing you another glimpse of the man beneath the secrets - not his past, but something else. 

“Professor...”  

He turns away, avoiding your eyes. “Come,” he says, already walking ahead. “While we both have the sense to leave this untouched.” 

Chapter Text

You follow Snape silently, the space between you suddenly so much louder than any conflict could be. He keeps a steady pace in front of you, just slow enough that you don’t have to hurry to keep up. Which is nice, because your heels have made their hatred very clear.

He doesn’t look at you, and you don’t look at him.

You want to say something. Merlin, anything. A comment, a question, or even one of your stupid jokes to make it all feel less strange. But nothing comes. 

At the edge of the gardens, he slows just enough for you to come up beside him. Only then do you chance a glance over at him, but his own eyes stay forward, fixed on anything that isn't you. In the soft glow of the fairy wings still drifting above you both, his face looks like it's carved from stone. You can see how tense he is, how tired the night has left him.

“Next time, I may not be the one who finds you first,” he says quietly. "Let's not test what happens then."

He leaves you with that, veering off without another word, heading straight for a couple sneaking behind one of the Beauxbatons carriages. 

You don't move right away, you just stand there, watching his figure approach the unsuspecting couple. You can't hear what he's saying to them, but by the way they run off like startled pixies, you know it probably wasn't kind.

For a second, you hover, unsure whether to laugh or just keep watching. But when he turns, the idea that he might see you looking still standing there jolts you back into life. Before he can catch you staring, you turn and head off in the opposite direction.

The night air stings your bare skin now that you’re no longer shielded by the heat of the gardens as you head for the castle. It’s colder than it was when you first came out, or perhaps it’s just the shock wearing off. Either way, you pull your arms tighter around yourself and take a second to decompress. 

What the hell was that?

One minute you're being pinned against the wall by Karkaroff, and the next, Snape's there - defending you like it's his second nature. Not to mention whatever that was with him after. The way he looked at you... the way he touched you. 

It must mean something, but it's his silence that's shaken you. Does he really see you like everyone else does? Is that why he couldn't answer you?

For a while, you just stand outside the castle doors. Confused, letting yourself exist in the space between too much noise and unanswered questions. The Weird Sister’s just burst into their next song, the bass rattling through the stone like a pulse – a reminder that inside, the world is still going on, and you're supposed to be part of it. 

Right. 

You smooth down your dress, fixing your face and breeze swept hair the best you can without a mirror before heading back inside. You’re barely three steps in before Jade catches sight of you. 

“There you are!” she calls, weaving her way through the cluster of dancing students with Eirik close behind her. “Where have you been?” 

“Oh, I just went outside for a bit,” you say, steadily, tucking your sore wrist behind you. “It’s way too stuffy in here.” 

“For forty minutes?” she narrows her eyes. 

Shit. Has it really been that long? 

Before you can be subjected to any more questioning, someone taps you on the shoulder. 

“Forgive me, Miss [Last Name], but the photographer is looking for you,” a harried Lupin says. “They need you for a photo. All the Champions are required to take one.” 

You suppress a groan. Seriously? Does this have to happen right now? 

But you don't have it in you to argue, not after tonight. So you just nod, letting him guide you to the small, raised platform where the photographer is waiting, visibly irritated. 

Jakob’s already here too. Apparently, they want the Champions to pose with their dates. Of course they do. 

After Karkaroff’s warning, the idea of being seen this close to Jakob again makes you anxious – not that you’re about to let a bitter old bastard dictate who you stand next to, but it's the way Snape reacted to him that's stuck with you. Like Karkaroff is a threat you need to take seriously, and you can't help but wonder if he's right.

“Welcome back,” Jakob smiles, resting a hand on your back as you join him on the stage. 

“Sorry,” you offer, keeping it light. “Got caught up outside.” 

The photographer fiddles with the lens, gesturing for you both to move closer. 

“Don't be shy!” he calls, exasperated. “At least pretend you like each other.” 

Jakob leans in just enough that your chest rests lightly against his. Far too close for comfort in your opinion. 

“I was not aware we signed up for a wedding shoot,” he mutters in your ear, clearly as uncomfortable as you are. 

You let out a quiet laugh. “Right? Should we start planning our honeymoon next?” 

The photographer snaps something at you both that you can’t quite make out, but you get the gist. You shut up and smile as best you can, trying to pretend that the last hour or so never happened. But your eyes focus somewhere just past the camera, and all you can feel is the memory of the gardens.

The ghost of fingertips that don't belong to Jakob. 

The same, reverent touch still echoes down your spine even now, like its made a mark on your skin that he intended to leave.

Stop it.  

You push the memory and everything to do with Snape as far back as you can, tucking them carefully into a quiet part of your mind where you won’t be tempted to reach for them. At least for the remainder of the night. 

Once the photographer is satisfied with your ridiculously romantic poses - Karkaroff will love that - he waves you off with a grumble. Jakob helps you down from the stage, his hand still lingering on your back. 

“So,” he says, hopeful. “Care for one last dance now that our modelling obligations are over?” 

You’d love to dance again, to lose yourself in the music like everyone else, but your heart just isn't in it anymore. 

“I think I’ve managed all the steps I can for tonight,” you laugh weakly. “How about a walk instead?” 

He raises a brow, but nods anyway. “Sure. Anywhere in particular?” 

“Not outside,” you say quickly. “Too crowded out there.” You add with a smile. 

“The castle it is then,” he announces, gesturing ahead of him. “Ladies first.” 

While you walk together, he fills the silence with everything you missed while you were gone – not that you answer his questions asking where you were, or who you were with. 

“Fred spiked the punch,” he says with a shake of his head. 

“Seriously?” You sigh. “Let me guess, he didn’t realise George already had?” 

“Exactly that,” Jakob replies. “You should have seen McGonagall’s face. She was not happy.” 

“Those two are a bloody hazard,” you say, shaking your head.

He looks at you with a smug look, like he’s just remembered something else. “And guess what?” 

“What?” you ask, intrigued. 

“Eirik finally kissed Jade.” 

You nearly trip over your own feet. “Shut up. No way!” 

He grins. “It happened right in the middle of the slow dance. It was disgustingly romantic, especially for Eirik. I did not know he had it in him."

You’re gutted you missed it. You’re definitely going to press her for all the details – no way are you letting her live that one down. 

He carries on, telling you all about someone tripping spectacularly over a table and right into The Weird Sister's performance – it's stupid, completely ridiculous, and exactly the kind of thing you wish you’d seen too. 

Between the silly stories and the laughs, it hurts. He tells it all like you were there, like you share the joke even though you weren’t a part of any of it. Still, bit by bit, listening to him does make you feel a bit brighter.

It’s all one huge reminder that not everything has to be so damn complicated all the time. 

After he drops you off at the common room, you let yourself imagine it for a moment – what it might be like to be so utterly normal. To laugh at silly things that don’t matter, just living in the moment and not having to worry about secrets or consequences.  

Not... whatever this life you’ve been forced to make is. 

The days that follow pass in a blur of anything that doesn’t include thinking about that night. Or him. 

You’ve spent most of them with Jakob. He hasn’t gone home for the holidays like most of the other students, and it’s been a breath of fresh air to not have to worry about classes, assignments, or anyone expecting anything from you. You know you probably shouldn't be spending this much time with him, but the truth is, you just don't feel like being alone. Jade isn't here, and Fred and George went home too.

Besides, you like Jakob's company.

When they asked why you're still here, you made up the best lie you could - your parents didn't want to make a fuss. The tournament has drawn enough attention already, and they'd rather stay out of it all for now. It's flimsy for sure, but no one's questioned it yet.

The castle’s quieter than ever, the halls mostly empty and the common room even more so. It should feel peaceful, but the stillness of everything has only made it harder to ignore the weight pressing down on you – the next task and all the other things you’re trying not to think about. 

You’ve already spent hours trying to crack that damn egg, opening it in every corner of the castle you can think of, casting all the detection spells you can at it, scribbling down countless theories that don’t work. At one point, you even shouted at it. Nothing happened, but one of the portraits in the common room did call you crazy.

You’re starting to think they might be right.

Jakob has tried to help, but there’s only so many suggestions you can throw at a golden egg with a temper before your patience starts to dwindle.

So instead, you've decided to do something different this morning- you’re finally taking him on a grand tour of the castle. You’ve been talking about it since the Durmstrangs got here, but this is the first opportunity you’ve had to do it. 

You start with your favourite spots, naturally. 

The Astronomy tower is first – it's always empty during the day. Well, technically nobody should be up here at all unless it’s for class, but when has that ever stopped you? The view is as striking as ever – the winter sunlight cascades over the castle grounds, and being up this high makes it feel like you’re floating above the rest of the world. Jakob leans against the railing, staring out over the forest while you tell him how you sometimes sneak up here at night to catch the stars.  

He doesn’t say anything, but you catch the way he looks at you for a little longer than necessary. You pretend not to notice, but it's growing harder to ignore.

"Come on," you say, brushing a bit of hair behind your ear that doesn't really need fixing, already heading for the stairs. "There's loads more to show you."

From there, it’s a whirlwind of moving staircases, winding corridors, and dodging Peeves. You point out all the suits of armour that shout at you if you touch them, the shortcut behind a painting of a fruit bowl that leads to the kitchens, and the weird corridor on the third floor that always smells weird but nobody knows why. 

Eventually, you wind up in a part of the castle you’ve never actually been to, right outside a door that you think could be the prefect bathroom you've heard about in passing, but the portrait guarding the door won't tell you. He’s a smug, old looking wizard with a stupidly long moustache. 

“Password?” he asks in a rough voice, raising a bushy eyebrow. 

“What? We don’t have it,” you reply plainly.

“Well, obviously,” the portrait scoffs. "Otherwise you'd be inside, wouldn't you?"

“But this is the prefect bathroom, right?” you ask. 

The portrait narrows his eyes. “If it were, do you think I'd be foolish enough to admit it to two loitering students without clearance?"

You fold your arms, unimpressed. "Right. Whatever." 

You turn to leave, already done with him, but apparently he's not finished with you.

“I suppose if you’re that desperate,” he drawls, “we could make this interesting.” 

You turn back around just as he’s stroking his moustache. “Solve my riddle, and I might consider letting you in.” 

“A riddle?” You glance over at Jakob, who looks equally perplexed. “What is it?” 

He clears his throat. “I rise without feet and vanish with grace, I cloud every mirror and soften your face. Born of the heat, I slip through the air - what am I?"

Fuck. You’ve never been good at riddles. Jakob wastes no time in blurting out some answers though. 

“Smoke?” he suggests, but even you know that’s not right 

“Seriously?” you laugh. “That sticks to everything, it's hardly graceful.” 

“Light?” he tries again. 

You frown, thinking. “Well, light doesn't cloud mirrors, does it?” 

“Breath?” you try, pulling at literally anything you can think of. 

“No...” Jakob says slowly, tapping a finger in the air. “Steam?” 

You blink. “Oh shit. Yeah, that makes way more sense.” 

The portrait claps once mockingly. “Correct!” he bellows.  

“Can we go in now?” you sigh. 

He swings open the door with an over the top bow. “Enjoy. Try not to steal anything.” 

A marble corridors spans out ahead of you, glowing faintly with golden lights lining the wall. It’s way warmer in here than the rest of the castle, and it smells faintly of something floral. 

You and Jakob step inside, your boots echoing on the polished stone. The corridor opens up into a huge room, and your jaw actually drops.

The massive sunken bath in the centre takes up most of the space, its edges lined with brass taps in different sizes, each labelled with tiny golden plaques. The water inside bubbles, a faint steam rising from it like it’s charmed to stay warm.  

The ceiling arches high above, enchanted to mimic starlight, kind of like the one in the Great Hall. There's even a constellation or two twinkling softly above you. 

Jakob lets out a low whistle. “You have been holding out on me.” 

“Trust me, I didn't know this was up here. I'd be here all the time if I did."

He dips his finger into the water near the edge and watches the bubbles swirl around. “Do you think those taps do something?” 

“You are not touching them,” you say, dragging him back by the sleeve before he can. 

He grins. “Spoilsport.” 

You wander further in, eyeing the rows of towels folded by the benches. Everything looks way too clean and fancy to exist in Hogwarts. 

“Why do the prefects get a spa and the rest of us get showers that sound like they’re dying?” you think aloud. 

Jakob chuckles beside you. “Perks of being important.” 

You’re still taking it all in when a sudden thought hits you. “Wait, Jade definitely knows about this. She’s head girl! Why wouldn’t she tell me?” 

He shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well, strictly speaking, you are not supposed to be in here.” 

You scowl at him. “Well, neither are you.” 

“True,” he says, glancing back at the entrance. “Which is why we should probably leave before someone catches us.” 

You sigh, casting one last longing look at the bath. “Fine.” 

After that, you take him to the Owlery. You've got a couple of letters to reply to, and it’s the perfect chance to introduce him to Crow.  

Crow’s already waiting when you arrive, perched high up in his usual spot. You call for him softly and he swoops down straight away, landing next to you on a ledge with a quiet hoot. Jakob offers him a button from his pocket – you told him Crow loves shiny stuff (he really lives up to his name). 

You write your letters while they have their little bonding session, reading over Jade’s reply again to your demand for more details about her kiss with Eirik – she gushed back, telling you about how they almost got kicked out for being ‘too handsy’ when you left with Jakob. Gross.

Fred and George have written to you too, but it’s mostly a load of nonsense as per usual. Fred went on about a new joke product they’re working on that supposedly makes you sick enough to get out of class, but they’re still trying to figure out how to reverse it. He’s appointed you that task when he gets back – their tester, if you will.

Yeah, that’s absolutely not happening.

There’s a little message from George, too, asking if the punch had done any lasting emotional damage - you don’t reply to that part. 

“Come on,” you hear Jakob say, followed by the sound of angry wings flapping. “I am not that bad.” 

You laugh, signing off the last letter and turn to them to see how they’re getting on. Crow’s staring at the button, giving a low warning hoot, clearly not agreeing with him.

“I think he hates me,” Jakob says, casting you a helpless look.

You shrug, tucking your spare parchments back into your bag. “He’s picky.” 

“He is rude,” Jakob mutters, holding the button a little closer but cowering slightly as if he’s bargaining with a dragon.  

Crow lets out another disapproving hoot, fluffing his feathers. You sigh, coming over to try your luck instead. 

“Hey, he's being nice,” you whisper to him, stroking the back of his neck. “Sort of.” 

Crow swivels his head away from you both completely, like even looking at Jakob is beneath him. You try not to laugh again. “Well, he let Jade pet him.” 

“Then why not me?” Jakob tries one more time with the button, moving around to face him again. You’re about to warn him when Crow suddenly snaps forward, biting Jakob’s finger hard enough to make him drop the button, then swoops down to snatch it off the floor. 

Jakob stumbles back, sucking on his finger. “He bit me! He is vicious!” 

You press your lips together, hiding your grin. “Yeah, okay, that’s enough bonding for today.” 

Jakob scowls, examining his finger. “I offer him a gift and he draws blood. Charming.” 

“Don’t take it personally,” you say, coaxing Crow back over to you to tie a letter to his leg. “He can be grumpy sometimes, even with me.” 

Crow’s always been this way. You start to remember him snapping at your fathers fingers even when he hadn’t done anything – or at least, you don’t think he had. It’s hard to tell now.

Maybe he just hates men. 

“He clearly has murder in his soul,” Jakob says, eyeing Crow warily. 

Crow lets out another warning hoot, flapping right into Jakob’s face before soaring out into the pale afternoon sky to deliver your letters to Fred, George, and Jade. You watch him disappear until he’s nothing but a dark smudge in the clouds. 

That afternoon, you find yourself back in the library, unable to keep still until you’ve figured out the egg. If the second task is anything like the first, you need to be prepared. 

Jakob hasn’t managed to find anything out from Krum yet, which isn’t surprising. And you're definitely not expecting help from Snape - not that he’s even talking to you. 

You were glad to not hear from him at first, not wanting to be summoned to his office to be told off for what happened with Karkaroff again. But the days keep passing by with no notes, no sudden appearances, or no schedule for your sessions. And now you're starting to feel his absence. 

It might hurt less if he hadn’t said what he did. Like there’s something between you to touch, and he knows it. It’s been almost a week now since the Ball, and it’s like he’s disappeared off the face of the Earth. Not that you care. If he wants to play that distant, cold, detached game again, you’ll let him.

Still. He’s the one who pulled you through those memories, who made you feel like maybe you weren’t completely alone in this mess. And now he’s just... gone. You’ve become inconvenient so he’s dropped you.

You throw yourself into the books, determined to not let your thoughts distract you. You’re halfway through a dusty old book with brittle pages that vaguely references magical objects and enchanted items. Nothing so far about screaming eggs – figures. 

You flip the pages, but there’s nothing. Just paragraphs about cursed brooches and trinkets. 

You sigh, letting your head drop into your hands for a moment, fingers tapping the edge of the page as you read over the same sentence for the fourth time. You’ve already burned through five books today, and most of them didn’t even have indexes. It took you forever to skim through them, and they all act like egg is a banned word. You’re starting to think someone’s gone through them all and erased all mentions of it. It certainly wouldn’t shock you.

You catch sight of Harry from across the library with Hermione, tucked into a corner and whispering about something. They’re probably doing the same thing you are, but you can't tell if they've found anything. 

You shut the book with a dull thud, not even bothering to pretend to be gentle with it, even though Madam Pince has been shooting daggers at you since you arrived. No doubt she thinks you’re going to start a raid on the restricted section again (which, to be honest, you’ve considered). 

After a few more failed books, you decide to call it for the day. You return all the books to their shelves and sling your bag over your shoulder, heading out of the castle for the station to meet Jade. 

The Icy wind nips at your face as you watch the carriages roll in, and you don’t have to look far before you spot Jade already rushing towards you, case in hand. 

“Hey!” She smiles, pulling you into a hug before you can brace for it. “Merlin, you look like shit.” 

“Missed you too,” you mutter against her shoulder. 

She pulls back, squinting at you. “Still no luck with that egg? I can tell you haven’t been sleeping.” 

She’s right about that, but it’s not just the egg keeping you awake lately. “What gives you that impression?” 

She laughs, linking an arm with yours as you start the walk back to the castle. “Sooo,” she says, dragging out the word. “You and Jakob had the castle to yourselves all week... and you’re telling me nothing happened?” 

You shoot her a look, knowing she’d be like this. “Well, we did take a very romantic walk around the castle," you say sarcastically, "and we found something rather interesting.” 

“Really?” her eyes light up. 

“Yeah, we found the prefect's bathroom.” 

Jade pulls a face. “What?” 

“Yeah,” you say, feigning your betrayal to make her feel bad. “You know, the one you’re allowed in but never told me about?” 

“Well, technically you’re not exactly on the list,” she shrugs. 

“And technically, you’re a terrible friend,” you reply, giving her a fake smile.

"I’ll put in a good word for you next year. Maybe they’ll make you a prefect and you can feel special too.” 

You laugh – fat chances of that ever happening. “How generous.” 

She grins, walking beside you again as you walk through the grounds up to the castle. By the time you reach the corridors leading to the Great Hall, you’ve already caught her up on most of it. The egg, the library, the failed spell attempts on it.  

She listens carefully, lost in her own thoughts and giving the occasional muttered comment, clearly as stumped as you are. 

“This thing sounds impossible. It better hold a bloody prophecy,” she murmurs as you head for Lunch. "Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. I’ve got fresh eyes and weeks of energy to burn off.” 

It’s only the third day back after the holidays, and you’re already knackered. You arrive at potions a few minutes early – not by choice, but because sleep has apparently become optional again now. Cedric’s already here, flipping through his notes. 

He glances up as you take the seat next to him. “Morning. You alright?” 

You nod, even though you’re not. “Yeah,” you lie, letting your bag drop to the floor with a thud, courtesy of your egg still taking up all the room in there. “You?” 

He shrugs, giving you a smile. “Can’t complain.” 

You force a quick smile back, pulling your notes out and hoping he doesn’t start talking again. He’s spent the last two potions lessons going on about his new girlfriend, a Ravenclaw. You've forgotten her name, something starting with a C you think? But not the way his voice goes all soft when he brings her up.

It's sweet, really. Just not before nine am. Especially when your brain already feels like it's been simmering in a cauldron for a week. 

Luckily, Snape storms in right on cue, all scowling and serious as he lets the door slam closed behind him. You try not to look at him, but you find yourself doing it anyway. He still hasn’t so much as breathed your way once since term resumed, never mind tried to communicate with you. What a surprise. 

Without a sound, he flicks his wand at the board behind him, letting it etch out todays lesson: 

Everlasting Elixirs: Theory and Use

He turns, letting his dark eyes sweep over the class, disregarding you like usual, giving a look that says you've all already failed somehow.

“Page two hundred and forty,” he says curtly. 

The rustle of parchment and the turning of pages fills the room. You flip open your own copy of Advanced Potions, skimming over the contents to avoid looking at him. 

“Everlasting Elixirs,” he begins, pacing the front of the classroom, “are not always defined by immortality, but by permanence. Some grant resistance – to temperatures, pain, or even death."

You jot down a few notes, reading over the textbook as he speaks. 

“We’ll start with those brewed to endure extremes. Frozen terrain, cursed winds, subterranean vaults – all examples of settings that sap magic and body alike. Each one demands precise counter measurements.” 

He pauses, allowing time for the board to fill with a list of ingredients.

"Frostnettle," he continues, "despite the name, is a prime example of a thermal reagent. It endures the cold by storing heat at its core, a defence mechanism that, when extracted properly, can be transferred to the drinker." He moves along the front row, his eyes sharp. "Used correctly, it strengthens elixirs that protect against freezing conditions, allowing warmth to hold in the body indefinitely. Mishandle it," he adds dryly, "and you're left with something only useful as a skin irritant."

You rush to scribble the information down before he moves on to the next point. Trying to keep up with his fast pace when you’re tired is a whole new level of difficult. You glance to the board to quickly double check a spelling, but your eyes don’t make it that far.  

Snape's looking at you. Not with a glare or a scowl as you'd expect, but almost like he's checking to make sure you're paying attention.

It throws you completely off, and for a second, you forget what you were even writing. You stare back, searching his face for something – an explanation, a crack in the silence. But there’s nothing, just that same look you can’t read that you hate so much now. 

It lasts for all of about two seconds before he turns away, now dissecting the Elixir of Life with a tone that suggests anyone who's ever tried brewing it before is a complete idiot. He doesn’t look at you again for the rest of the lesson, not even when he passes by your desk. 

By the end of class, your notes are a mess and your mood is terrible, but lunch offers one small hope – maybe Jakob’s found out something about the egg. Yesterday he told you he was going to ask around, so maybe he’s got some new intel for you. 

He’s already waiting near the front of the table, beckoning you over as soon as he catches sight of you. 

“Any new leads?” he asks as you take the seat opposite him. 

“Nope,” you sigh, defeated. “Not even Jade’s been able to crack it. You?” 

“Sadly not,” he admits. “I have asked around, but Krum will not give anything away to anyone. I suspect only Karkaroff knows, but he will not tell me a thing.” 

You glance up at the professors table when he says that, spotting Karkaroff hunched towards Dumbledore in conversation. You’ve seen him sneaking around the dungeons again lately, always giving you a dirty look when he sees you – most likely because you’ve totally ignored his warnings about staying away from Jakob. 

It probably didn’t help that you flashed him a sweet little eat shit smile when you saw him the other day, right after you'd spent hours in the library to come away with nothing new. But whatever. Fuck him. 

“It’s hopeless,” you groan. 

“Relax, there is still time,” he assures you, putting his fork down to meet your eyes. “In the meantime, I have plans for us.” 

“Plans?” you ask, raising an eyebrow. “Do they involve secret egg information or are you whisking me off somewhere?” 

“Tomorrow,” he smirks. “Wear something warm.” 

He gives nothing else away, no matter how much you try to pry it out of him. He just starts a new conversation about classes, but now your mind is elsewhere. 

You’re not blind. You’ve known for a while now that Jakob’s feelings go a lot deeper than yours. Jade knows it. Hell, even Karkaroff's noticed it. You just don't know how you can hold onto what you have without making him hope for something more.

Later that evening, you’re back in the Owlery with Crow, checking up on him after a busy few days. You intended for it to be quick – just a little hello and sneaking him some treats. But now you’ve done that, you can’t bring yourself to leave. 

Between the odd flap of wings and the low hoots, the silence up here rings too loudly in your head. There’s something about this place that dredges things up from the parts of you that prefer to stay quiet, and tonight is no different. 

It’s been a few weeks since you and Snape uncovered the memory of your father being twisted and cruel, and you still can’t seem to shake it. It’s pried open a whole new casket now, leaving you wondering if the memories of your mother are fractured too.

Was she real? 

Her voice is distant now, warped and crooked, like a radio turning into static. It feels like your own mind is shielding you from something, but you don’t want it to. You don’t need protection - you need something to make some fucking sense for once. 

Everything feels like one huge lie. It’s getting harder to keep up the pretence, and the longer it goes on, the more the truth feels like it’s rotting under your skin. The dreams are slowly creeping back too. Not as bad as before, but the whispers are growing louder, more restless with each night. It’s not long before they come back completely. 

You've been wearing the same mask for so long now, it's getting harder to remember if there's anything real left underneath it.

Then again, there's always someone who sees through it.

A part of you wants to reach out to him. To ask him for help, to have him pull you through the disarray of your mind like he'd done before, even if the truth is starting to worry you. But the other part, the louder part, refuses. You’re not chasing someone who’s already made it clear they’d rather stay away from you.

You sit there for a while on the stone windows, trying not to let your thoughts consume you while you swing your legs over the edge. But they keep going round and around in a Snape enclosed spiral. 

It’s not just what he didn’t say. It’s all the times he’s held something back – the way he watches you when he knows you’re vulnerable but never says anything.  

The night he helped you bring that awful memory of your father, he gave you the truth, but stayed just out of reach.  

The way he asks you questions that cut deep, but always with a sense of calm that says he doesn’t actually care about your answer.  

The distant looks, the way he’s always annoyingly one step ahead. How he’s always so fucking composed recently, no matter what you say or do. 

Even when he spoke to Karkaroff, when they were talking about something in the past. He stayed perfectly still while Karkaroff almost lost his mind.  

And- 

Oh. 

Oh.  

Your legs stop swinging. 

Wait - is he an Occlumens, too?

You know he's a Legilimens, that’s been obvious for a while. But can someone be both? 

You think back, suddenly, to all the times his expression went blank in a second. The way his presence could vanish even when he was standing right there in front of you. That infuriating calm he always has, a stillness that never cracks no matter how much you throw at him.

You could tell he had his own walls, yes, but you didn't realise they were real. You assumed it was just more of his signature asshole behaviour.

Shit! You’ve been so fucking blind. He’s been behind his own locked doors this entire time while you’ve been bleeding yourself open for him. 

You’re furious. How could he keep that from you, after everything? 

You get to your feet, clenching your fists, fingernails digging into your palms. Crow lets out a low hoot, fluttering down to perch on your shoulder. He nudges you gently, always able to sense the storm inside you before it opens. Together, you stare out into the encroaching dusk, watching the last traces of sunset melting across the sky. It's a striking difference to the fury twisting inside you.

Next time, he might find the door closed too.

Chapter Text

It's late in the afternoon by the time you make it down to the lake. The frostbitten snow crunches under your boots as you pull your coat tighter around you. The sun's already starting to sink, blending the sky into shades of violet and gold that blur together like a watercolour painting. You spot Jakob near the shoreline, just ahead of the Durmstrang ship. The gloomy masts and old wood loom in the distance, giving the appearance of a ghost ship on the horizon.

It’s fucking freezing – why the hell has he asked you here today of all days? 

He waves you over as you get closer, bundled in far more layers than you are.

“I was starting to think you were not coming,” he calls. 

“I nearly didn’t,” you admit, wrapping your arms around yourself. “It’s bitter today.” 

He smirks. “Well, I did tell you to wear something warm."

Easy for him to say in his big fancy fur coat. 

“I am wearing my warmest clothes," you mutter, lifting your gloved hand up to his face and wiggling your fingers stiffly. They barely move. "See? They don't even work. Why are we here?" 

Jakob gestures behind him towards the lake. “Come on,” he says, taking your hand.

“...On the ice? Seriously?” 

He nods. “Do not worry. It is solid, we have been using it to get to and from the ship. It holds.” 

“Are you sure?” You ask, glancing out at the ice. “I really don’t fancy plunging to my death tonight.” 

“You know I would not take you here if it wasn’t safe.” He meets your eyes. “I thought it would be nice to watch the sunset from the middle. It is quiet, and I figured the peace might do you some good.” 

Okay... that does sound kind of perfect.  

The ice creaks beneath your boots as you step onto it, but it holds. Jakob walks ahead, casual as anything, and you try not to slip and slide too much as you follow. Once you’re far enough from the bank, the lake opens around you like a fragile glass, endless beneath the fading sky. 

“See?” he says, peering over his shoulder with a grin. “Perfectly safe.” 

You make a face at him. “If we die, I’m blaming you.” 

He chuckles. “I would never let that happen.” 

He walks a little further, then drops your hand and sinks down onto the ice, laying back like it’s a sun warmed meadow. You pause for a moment, then follow him, feeling the cold bite through your coat. Above you, the sky is still twisting with different colours – a dusky lavender followed by a brushstroke of pinks now, curling over the treeline of the forest.

“This is... actually kind of amazing,” you admit. “I get what you mean now.” 

“I told you." 

You glance sideways at him curiously. “So, what’s it like living out here?” 

He pushes himself up onto one elbow, looking at you with those intense eyes of his. “It is not too bad. The ship is old, yes, but it is enchanted well.” 

“Enchanted?” 

“Yes, warming spells, silencing charms, all of that kind of thing. It does not feel like a ship once you are inside. Plus, it is way bigger than it looks.” 

You hum thoughtfully. “Now I kinda want to see it.” 

“Do you?” he grins. 

“Yeah. I gave you a whole tour of Hogwarts, remember?" you say, smirking at him. "The least you can do is sneak me onto your creepy ship."

“Good luck with that,” he laughs. “Karkaroff barely lets us on it, let alone anyone else.” 

That doesn't surprise you in the slightest.

Your eyes drift back to the Durmstrang ship in the distance, black and silent beneath the bruising colours of the evening sky. For a second, you swear you see something move near one of the masts. You squint, trying to see more clearly, but whatever it was is already gone. 

Weird. You probably just imagined it. 

Jakob speaks again, breaking your focus. “You know, I have not seen that girl who is obsessed with you lately. Ivy, is it?” 

You groan. “Oh, she’s still around.” 

He raises a brow. “Still on your back?” 

“Constantly. She always has something to say. Her new thing is talking about how a real Slytherin would’ve figured the egg out by now.” 

He smirks. “You should open it right in her face next time. That will shut her up.” 

“Believe me, I’ve tried,” you say with a grin. “She just talks louder over the screaming. Honestly, I think she just gets bored if she’s not being annoying.” 

He chuckles again, and you catch yourself laughing too, remembering the look on Ivy's face when the egg screeched loud enough to rattle the whole dorm.

When you glance over to Jakob, he’s already watching you with a quiet smile of his own.

“I like seeing you smile,” he says quietly, “it suits you.” 

Your stomach flips and you quickly turn away before you have to think too hard about what to do with that. 

Instead, you nudge his knee with yours. “You never told me more about Romania. What's it like?” 

He shuffles himself into a more comfortable position, turning on his side to face you properly. “Well, It is much colder than here. My family lives near the mountains, so the snow starts early and does not leave until Spring. Everything smells of pine and smoke, and the wind is always carrying the sounds of Wolves, the rivers or old magic. It is nothing like the silence at Hogwarts.” 

“Old magic?” you ask. 

He shrugs with a smile. “My Grandmother again, she is very dramatic. Swears the forest near our home is haunted, and the old magic keeps the spirits away.” 

“Do you believe her?” 

“I am not sure,” he replies with a furrowed brow. “She is the one who taught me what I know about protection and wards, as you know. There must be a reason she is so crazy about it.” 

“She sounds interesting,” you smile. 

“She is,” he says fondly. “She is strict, but keeps us all in line.” 

You let out a small laugh. “I’d love to meet her.” 

Jakob looks over at you then. “You are always invited to come over when you are done with this,” he says. “After Hogwarts. I will show you everything.” 

You blink at him, not expecting such an offer from him. “We’ll talk about it if I survive this tournament, yeah?” 

“Do not joke about it,” he says, pushing himself up to a sitting position and giving you a serious look. “That eternal glory is yours. I know it.” 

You sigh, admiring the sky again. “I hope you're right." 

He’s quiet for a moment, so you turn your head back to him, noticing him looking just past your shoulder with a frown.

“What?”  

"You brought it here?" He tuts. "Seriously?” 

You follow his eyes to your bag sitting next to you with the golden egg poking out of it.

“Until I figure it out, that thing comes everywhere with me,” you mutter.

He laughs under his breath, reaching over you to take it. 

“Be careful,” you warn him. “It might start screaming again just to spite me.” 

He tosses it in the air gently, catching it in his hands. “Do you sleep with it too?” 

“Don’t tempt me,” you say, propping an arm beneath your head. “At least I might get some answers in my dreams.” 

Jakob laughs again. “You are becoming obsessed.” 

“I think you would be too if you were on a time limit,” you glare at him playfully. “I’m trying to survive here.” 

He pushes the egg into your free hand, letting it rest against your stomach. “You will figure it out.” 

Your fingers clutch the egg absently. You know the look he's giving you right now. You’ve been seeing it for weeks, and there's only so many times you can avoid it. 

The silence stretches, and you prop yourself up on both elbows, letting the egg roll into your lap. 

“Jakob...,” you say softly, intending to stop this before it starts.

But he's already moving closer. He reaches up, brushing a few loose strands of hair from your face with a delicate touch, grazing your cheekbones. You close your eyes as he leans in, and you feel him press his lips against yours. It's soft, gentle, like he's testing if you're okay with it or not.

You don’t pull back.  

Because God, you wish you wanted this. It should be easy – it could be easy. He’s kind, he cares, and he always wants the best for you. 

But it just doesn’t feel right. 

A sharp crack suddenly splits through the air, shattering the moment instantly. You rip away from him, snapping your head to the side of you where the sound came from. The egg is further away from you now - it must’ve rolled away while you were distracted. 

But it's what's under it that makes your heart lurch. Delicate fractures threaten the ice beneath it, snaking out like vines.

It all happens too fast.

A final cracking sound tears through the silence before the ice falls through and your egg disappears beneath the surface. 

You gasp, pushing yourself up fully. “Shit-!” 

You surge forward instinctively, scrambling to your hands and knees, locked on to the broken circle in the ice. You don’t even stop to think that it might break more under your weight as you fish aimlessly with your arm into the icy water - but it’s already out of reach. 

“No, no, no-" 

Jakob’s already beside you, gripping your other arm. “Leave it. Do not even think about-” 

You shake him off, crawling closer to the edge as your heart beats faster. You fumble around inside your pocket for your wand, desperately pulling it free. 

“Accio egg!” you shout, aiming it into the water. 

It doesn’t even twitch. The dull golden hue of it only vanishes further into the blackness below. The enchantment that stopped you using accio during the first task clearly still holds. Of course it fucking does. 

You panic, tearing off your coat and shoving it into Jakob. 

“Are you insane?” he says sharply, moving between you and the hole. “You cannot do this! The water is freezing, you will-” 

“I don’t care, Jakob!” you cut him off. “I need it! It’s the only way I’m surviving this next task.” 

His hands catch your wrists, stopping you again. “We will go get help. I will go right now, but please, do not go in there.” 

“No! There's no time!” You push him away before he can grab you again.

The ice groans under your weight as you get to your feet, staring down into the abyss of the lake.

"Don't-!" he starts, but you don't let him finish.

You hurl yourself forward, diving into the lake without a second thought. The cold punches you like a fist as soon as you plunge into the water, and it feels like you’ve just been swallowed whole by the lake. The shock of it hits you instantly - the freezing water feels like a vice around your ribs, leaving a scream frozen somewhere in your throat. 

What the fuck are you doing?! 

You break to the surface with a gasp, spluttering as you draw in a few desperate breaths. You can barely hear Jakob shouting from the edge through the chattering of your teeth. 

“Get out!” he yells, leaning over the edge. “Come back up, now-!” 

But then you see it again. A glimpse of gold, teasing you in the dark depths, the glow beaming through the water like it’s calling out to you. 

You don’t answer him. You suck in a deep breath and dive back under. The cold numbs you all over again, worse now from the weight of your clothes, but you force yourself deeper into the water. This might be the last chance you get before it sinks too far. 

You kick downwards, not able to see a damn thing because the ice is blocking the last of the daylight. Reaching for your wand you luckily tucked into the waistband of your jeans, you cast a Lumos through clenched teeth. The tip glows, sending a small stream of light through the water. It’s weak, but it’s better than nothing. 

Just when you think you won’t be able to see it, you notice the faint blur of gold just a little further down, drifting away slowly. It’s the egg, suspended in the dark like some ancient relic, it’s wings unfurled in slow motion. 

There’s a voice now, too. It’s... singing?  

A melody, low and mournful, rising to meet you through the water. It’s almost hypnotic. 

Come seek us where our voices sound...  

Is it coming from the egg? You swim closer, not having the time to wait and listen because your lungs are on fire already. You need to grab it and get out, or you’ll be dead before the task even comes. 

We cannot sing above the ground...  

You reach for it quickly, snatching it before it has a chance descend more. 

An hour long you’ll have to look...  

You swim upwards, missing the last of the song entirely because your lungs seize with warning. You’ve been under way too long, and it takes all your strength just to push yourself back through the hole. 

You break through the water for the second time with a violent gasp, heaving air into your lungs. The cold above the surface is just as cruel, biting at your skin. But at least you can breathe. Beside you, Jakob's already there, plucking the egg from your arm and snapping it shut. The shriek cuts off instantly, leaving only the sound of your ragged breaths. 

“Are you mad?!” Jakob shouts.

You try to answer but you can’t, still half choking on the air. Your fingers cling to the ice, and you push your wand onto the surface before it slips and you lose that in the lake too.

“Give me your hand,” he says, kneeling at the edge and reaching out for your arm. “Now!” 

You weakly grab onto his arm, letting him haul you out of the water, soaking and shaking. 

“What the hell were you thinking? You could have-” he sounds angry, but his voice cuts off. He peels the wet jumper from your skin, wrapping your coat back around you. “You are freezing.” 

“I’m okay,” you wheeze through your numb lips.  

Jakob’s hands tremble as he tries to fasten your coat up, and you weakly sink down against the ice to catch your breath. 

“Oi! What the hell are you doing out there?!” 

The voice comes from the distance behind you, making you both turn at the same time. Lupin’s running across the snow covered grounds with his wand drawn and his scarf flapping behind him. 

“Stay where you are!” he calls, slowing at the lake’s edge, waving his wand in the air. “Glacialis Fixa!”   

A faint shimmer of magic pulses over the ice, reinforcing it with magic before he steps onto it, rushing towards you. 

“What happened?” he asks, scanning the both of you. “Is she hurt?” 

“She went in,” Jakob says quickly, still fussing over your coat. “The ice cracked and the egg fell in. She just went in after it!” 

Lupin’s eyes shift to you, noting the egg in your hands. “You went in after that? Are you out of your mind?” 

You try not to roll your eyes - do they not realise you’re probably dead anyway without it? 

He kneels beside you, taking your arm. “Can you stand?” 

You nod, letting him pull you up, and with Jakob's help, you manage to get upright. Lupin waves his wand over you, muttering a warming charm around you which dries your clothes a little, but your hair still drips in wet strands over your face.

“You should go to the hospital wing,” he says, eyeing you carefully. “Hypothermia isn’t a joke.” 

“I’ll be okay,” you say, shaking your head. “I’m just cold.” 

Jakob throws you a look, but he doesn’t bother arguing with you. 

“At least let me walk you both back,” Lupin replies.  

He leads you back through the castle grounds with Jakob on the other side of you, your limbs stiff and aching as you walk. You’re halfway up the slope when, because the universe apparently loves to test you, a familiar figure steps out from the looming shadow of the Durmstrang ship. 

Karkaroff.  

“Ah,” he drawls. “So that’s what the commotion was about.” 

Ugh. You don’t have the patience for him during a good day, never mind when you’re soaking wet, humiliated, and almost frozen solid.   

Lupin steps subtly closer to you. “Is there something you need, Karkaroff?” 

Karkaroff’s eyes hover over to Lupin, then Jakob, before settling back on you. “Just ensuring my student is safe. The lake can be... treacherous this time of year.” 

Jakob speaks up. “We were fine until-” 

Karkaroff cuts him off with a raised hand. “No need for defensiveness, Jakob. Accidents happen. Though, one might question the wisdom of venturing onto the ice with such... valuable cargo.” His attention fixes on the egg poking out of your bag hanging off Jakob’s shoulder. 

Lupins expression hardens. “If you have a problem here, perhaps you’d prefer to discuss it with the Headmaster.” 

Karkaroff chuckes, though its devoid of any humour. “No problems here, Professor. It is merely an observation. But do be careful,” he adds, his eyes locking back onto yours. “Some things, once lost, are not so easily recovered.” 

With that, he turns from you. “Come, Jakob. We need to speak.” 

Jakob is clearly reluctant to go with him, but he slips your bag off his shoulder and passes it to Lupin. “I will see you later,” he says quietly. 

You watch them retreat across the ice, catching the way Jakob turns to say something to Karkaroff. They're too far to hear, but the way Karkaroff stops mid step makes it obvious - they're arguing.

“What a delight,” you mutter under your breath. 

“Oh, he’s a bloody ray of sunshine,” Lupin replies, placing a warm hand behind your back. “Come on, let’s get you inside.” 

Word spreads fast at Hogwarts apparently – even faster when it involves the lake and a near-death experience.

Jade’s been fussing ever since she found out. You’ve barely had time to sit down in the common room after taking a warm shower before she’s draping a blanket around your shoulders, asking you what the hell you were thinking. 

“I’m fine,” you sigh for the sixth time. “Seriously, can we drop it?” 

“You could’ve drowned!”

“Could have” you mumble, shrugging the blanket off you. “But I didn't. And I finally figured the egg out, didn’t I? At least help me figure out what the clue means.” 

She rolls her eyes, pulling the blanket over herself instead. “Fine. What did it say?” 

“Well... it sort of sang to me.” 

“Sang?” she frowns. 

“Underwater,” you clarify. “When I grabbed it, it was already open, singing this weird song.” 

“What song?” 

"I only caught a few lines. I didn't exactly have time to hang around for the chorus," you say, reaching into your pocket for the crumpled bit of parchment you scribbled the words on. "I think it's charmed to only activate in water. That's why nothing else worked.” 

You hand her the paper, and she reads over it silently. "So, the second task is underwater?" 

You glance at the egg, mocking you from across the table. It’s quiet now. Innocent. Like it didn’t just lure you into a death trap for a haunting melody. 

“Looks like it."

“Okay... but how are you supposed to survive that? Underwater for an hour? In the middle of winter?” 

You force a shrug. “I dunno. Ask Cedric to transfigure me into a fish, maybe?” 

“Be serious,” she says, slapping your arm lightly. “They want you down there for an hour. That’s not hard, that’s brutal. What are you going to do?” 

“I’ll figure it out,” you assure her. 

“Figure it out?” she repeats, her lingering hand on your arm tightening as she leans closer to you. “This is bad, [First Name]. What if something goes wrong?"

You avoid her gaze, pushing her away from you. "Then it goes wrong."

“Don’t be like this,” she pleads. “The dragon almost killed you, but at least you could breathe.” 

She's right. You barely survived a minute under the lake before your lungs almost gave out. The cold was ruthless, and you have no idea how you’re going to manage for an hour down there. 

“They can’t seriously expect you to do this alone,” she continues, looking at you gravely. 

You sigh again, staring at the egg. “Well, they do.” 

She goes quiet again, before speaking more gently. "You should try it again in the prefect's bathroom. At least you won't freeze your arse off in there. It's empty most of the time too, barely anyone goes in."

You hadn't thought about that.

There’s another pause, and a few students pass by, whispering. You catch your name, followed by something to do with the ‘lake’.  

You roll your eyes. Perfect. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Jade asks, finally giving you the paper back. 

You nod. “I’m just tired,” you lie. “I’m gonna get an early night.” 

“Alright,” she says with a weak smile. “I’ll be here if you need me.” 

You snatch the egg off the table, even though you despise the thing now. You don't want anything more to do with it, but until you can figure out the whole clue, it's a burden you're stuck with.

As soon as you make it back to your dorm, you trade your clothes for some comfy pants and the biggest jumper you own, slumping into your bed without bothering to pull the curtains closed. Your fingertips still sting slightly from the icy water, and you’re starting to reconsider whether refusing the hospital wing was a bright idea. Oh well.  

You stare up at the canopy, letting the song reel through your mind, trying to make sense of it all.  

Come seek us where our voices sound...  

We can not sing above the ground...

It has to be the lake, surely? Where else is there a big enough body of water to hide a whole task? Though, just thinking about going back in there makes your stomach turn.

An hour long you’ll have to look...  

That's obvious. But do they seriously expect you to stay underwater for an hour? Even if you did find some miraculous way to hold your breath for that long, you’ll freeze long before the hours up. 

And was there more to the clue? You didn't catch the rest of it if there was any. Jade had a good point about the prefects bathroom; you could take the egg there to try again and it should work. But that would mean having to face that smug, irritating portrait who'll probably give you another stupid riddle to solve.

Ugh. The dragon task was merciful compared to this. 

You twist on your side, half-ready to call it a night to escape it all - not that your dreams offer much respite. But as you do, you hear a crinkle of paper under your arm. 

A folded scrap of parchment lay just under your pillow, waiting. Your stomach drops at the sight – it’s his handwriting, there’s no mistaking it. 

My office. No later than eight. Don’t be seen.  

That’s it - no explanation. Not even a signature. 

You roll out of bed, staring at the words and wondering why he’s chosen now to break the silence. Maybe he heard about the lake?  

Who are you kidding - of course he heard about the lake. Which means he's definitely going to be furious.

By the time you check the clock, it's nearly eight. You grab your wand, casting a quick evanesco at the note before coating yourself in a disillusionment charm to avoid the few people still lounging around in the common room, including Jade.

As you creep down the corridors, walking careful despite the charm still shimmering over your body, you wonder if you should be even going at all. Not since he's made it clear what he thought of that night at the Ball. But you know avoiding him won't change anything, and if he wants to drag this into another fight, you're ready for it.

When you arrive outside his office, you knock twice before you can convince yourself this is a bad idea. He opens it before you can even step back, like he was already waiting behind it.

“What are you doing?” he asks, eyeing your wand still in your hand. 

“Disillusionment?” you retort, cutting out the charm with a wave of your hand. “Or did you want me to get caught?” 

“Put that thing away and get inside before someone sees,” he snaps, stepping aside to let you in. 

Glad to know his paranoia around your wand is still alive and well.  

You step past him, forcing yourself to ignore the flutter in your stomach and the way your palms already sweat with the quiet thrill that comes with being alone with him again.

Even after everything. 

Especially the silence. The looks. The fact he’s been behind his own walls this whole time and you’re definitely about to face them again.  

Well, two can play at that game. And you’re ready to win. 

He doesn’t look back at you as he pushes open the side door and steps into his quarters – dimly lit, as always, with the fire crackling low. You hover just inside the doorway, watching as he places himself next to the desk. You match his posture, letting the silence stretch. Letting him be the one to bring up whatever he called you here for. 

“Not even a week into term,” he says eventually, “and already you’re making a new name for yourself.” 

You don’t reply yet, you just tilt your head slightly, like you’re waiting for him to make an actual point. 

“You never seem to tire of finding new and spectacular ways to risk your life, do you?” 

You keep your face blank and he narrows his eyes before talking again.

“Tell me,” he says, stepping closer. “Did you at least pause to consider the possibility of freezing to death? Or did that detail come after your dramatic dive?” 

You shrug, just to irritate him even more.  

"If it's attention you want, there are less suicidal ways to beg for it," he says coldly. "But then again, I suppose you only feel alive when you're inches from death."

You know what he’s doing, goading you, trying to chip at you and provoke a reaction he can slip though. It usually works, but not tonight. 

He studies you harder, and it’s almost satisfying in the way he does it, realising he can’t get in. 

“You’re unusually quiet tonight,” he notes, pacing around one of the armchairs.

“I thought you preferred it that way.” 

“Only when it isn’t so obviously calculated.” 

You hold his stare, not giving him a reply. He steps closer, scanning your face like he’s trying to find something soft beneath it.

But you’re giving him nothing. And you can tell he hates it. 

His jaw shifts, like he wants to say something worse but he exhales instead, stepping back. 

“Fine,” he hisses, half-turning his back on you. “I'll play your little game. You’re Occluding. Why?” 

You don't give him a reaction, just pause long enough to make him wait for it. He turns back to you, expectingly, so you smile at him. Just a little.

“I thought I'd see how you like it," you say coolly. "You know, talking to a wall.” 

“You think this is clever?” he says, his voice lower now. “You think blanking me out proves something?” 

You're about to tell him where to shove his impending lecture when he goes to grab something from his desk. He rifles through the drawers before moving back towards you, carrying what seems to be a folded copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Maybe you’d prefer to read what everyone else thinks of you instead," he says, holding out the paper like it's something filthy. "Since you seem so determined to test me.” 

You look down at the paper, then back at him, thinking this is just another one of his own games. He gestures with his eyes to the paper, indicating for you to take it. You do, unfolding it to read headline. 

Hogwarts Champion in Late-Night Scandal? 

It was a night of glitz, glamour and gossip – and Hogwarts's champion [First Name] [Last Name] gave us plenty to talk about. Arriving on the arm of her Durmstrang date, the young witch certainly looked the part. But was her performance all for show?  

Readers may recall that during our earlier chat, the young witch claimed to have ‘no tragic love story’ to tell. And yet, the photographs tell another tale.  

But the real mystery? Her sudden disappearance midway through the evening. Her date was later seen dancing solo, while she was nowhere in sight. Where did our champion disappear to - and more importantly, who with?

This isn't the first time [Last Name]'s behaviour has raised eyebrows, and with the Ministry already keeping a close watch, one has to wonder: what exactly is the young witch slipping away from? And how long before the rest of us catch up?  

One thing’s certain – Hogwarts's golden girl definitely has more to hide than just nerves.  

You should've stopped reading after seeing the photo of you and Jakob pushed up against each other, but you can’t help it. You didn't see Skeeter a the ball, you're sure of it. But she definitely wrote this. 

“Why is this so serious? I stepped out during a dance, so what. And they made us take those pictures." You hold the paper out to him, feigning your nonchalance. "It’s hardly news.” 

It’s a little romance scandal. Nothing life threatening. It’s fine. 

He takes the paper, handing you another one. You practically snatch it from him this time, wondering what on earth this one could be about. You waste no time in scanning the contents, and it’s much, much worse. 

Triwizard Tensions: What Is Hogwarts Hiding?  

Hogwarts's Champion [First Name] [Last Name] made headlines for all the wrong reasons during the first task in the Triwizard Tournament. Moments into her challenge against the Swedish Short Snout, a thick, black mist exploded from her wand, blinding the arena.   

This wasn't an accidental burst of poorly-aimed magic - no, dear readers, this was a deliberate, calculated act. The mist, according to several unnerved onlookers, was cold and suffocating. Dark magic, or something darker still?  

And while the mist eventually cleared, the questions did not. How did a student conjure such a powerful and volatile enchantment? Where did she learn it? And why has there been no public statement from Headmaster Dumbledore or the Hogwarts staff?  

When pressed for comment, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge issued a single statement:  

'The situation is under review. I have every confidence in the schools judgement... though of course, we will be monitoring things more closely going forward.'  

With the second task coming soon, the wizarding world is left to wonder - just what is Hogwarts's champion hiding? And how far will she go to win?  

What the fuck? She wrote about the first task, too? Why did nobody tell you?

You look up at him again. “What's the point of this?” you say, thrusting the paper at him. “Why are you showing me this now and not when it was published?” 

“You were preoccupied with not dying. Or have you already forgotten?” he says scornfully. “Forgive me for not seeing the benefit of you falling apart further in the Hospital wing.” 

“And after?" You try to conceal the anger in your voice, keeping it behind your walls. "I was only in there two days.”

He scoffs. “What, when you staggered into my classroom reeking of Firewhisky? Accusing me of being jealous? Flirting with your Professor?” 

You can tell your face just visibly flushed at the reminder, and you feel your composure splinter.

Fuck, why is he so good at breaking you? 

“You still should’ve told me.” You say through gritted teeth. 

“Perhaps,” he concedes. “But I didn’t.” He pauses. "You're being watched. And you're giving them every reason to keep doing so."

You breathe so hard through your nose it takes all of your effort not to scream at him. Your head is killing now, and you're feeling the pressure starting to crack the walls you're desperately trying to hold up. 

"Head hurting already?" he remarks, almost mockingly. "Shame. You almost had me fooled."

You scowl at him, loathing the way he says it. But you don't answer. Because it does fucking hurt.  

“You’re trying too hard,” he says calmly. “You think you’re winning, but I see what it’s costing you.”  

He paces around you like something patient and starved, and you can feel his eyes peeling back every lie you're trying to wear.  

“I’ve warned you before, have I not? Occlusion won’t protect you.” He stops just in front of you, his dark eyes pressing into your own like a hand around your throat. “You’re not built for silence.” He taps two fingers, lightly against his temple. “Not in here.” 

You don't let it show, but his words bruise you. Like a punch you saw coming and couldn't dodge.

“Are the nightmares back?” He steps even closer, his eyes still piercing you. “The ones you’ll no doubt pretend aren’t clawing at the edges again?"

You steel yourself, staring him down and trying to gain some semblance of restraint. But under his scrutiny, you can’t help but feel two feet tall. 

"You might not be afraid of drowning, but the thought of someone seeing you struggle is unbearable, isn't it?"

He's so close now you can feel the warmth of his breath.

You cross your arms tightly, like the very act itself is holding you together. "Spare me the poetry, Professor."

"Deflection. A classic." He tilts his head, unfazed. "You'd rather suffer than admit you're in over your head."

“You haven’t exactly made me feel welcome,” you spit back. 

“What, did you expect a welcome banner? An invitation? Perhaps a Dove to carry it?” 

God, you hate him. 

“Yes, actually," you snap. "Didn't seem that hard for you to leave a note on my bed tonight, did it?" 

That finally shuts him up. He holds your gaze, looking like he’s deciding whether to throw another knife or finally back down. After a second, he exhales loudly, facing away. 

“Then consider this your invitation,” he says curtly, crossing the room. “Tomorrow, after lunch.” 

“Great,” you mutter, tightening your grip around the strap of your bag. “Will we be pretending the gardens never happened tomorrow, too?” 

He moves behind his desk, turning to face you again. “There’s nothing to pretend.” 

“Really? Because the way you looked at me said you wanted something,” you say, trying to keep your calm. “You touched me like you meant it. Or was it just for show?” 

“Whatever you think happened-” 

“Oh, I know what happened,” you cut in. “You let your guard down, just for a moment. And you hate that I saw it.” 

“There’s nothing between us,” he says coldly. “And there never will be.” 

That hurt, but you smile through it, like it didn't affect you at all.

“Perfect. Glad we’ve cleared that up.” 

And you turn to leave without another word. 

The greenhouses are quiet this morning, which is exactly how you need them. The chill of winter barely touches the air inside greenhouse five, where the heat clings to the glass and the scent of damp moss fills the space.

You’ve taken over the corner bench with your notes and books splayed out around you. It’s not exactly private, but it’s hidden enough to escape the twins, who’ve been on your back the last few days to test their latest products. You’re running out of excuses, and you need to work on surviving the second task before risking your life with one of their inventions.  

Most of last night was spent like this after your delightful time with Snape, tucked in your bed with countless ideas swimming inside your head. You ruled out the obvious – a bubblehead charm. It’s standard, and should be easy enough. But it isn’t for you. You know how badly your shielding spells crumble under pressure, and you’re not about to risk yourself with a charm you barely know to keep you alive for an hour.  

Gillyweed crossed your mind too. But besides the obvious fact that it’s rare and you probably won’t get your hands on it anyway, the thought of growing gills simply makes you want to throw up.  

You need something you can trust, so you’re going to do what you do best – brew a potion. Or at least, attempt to. 

You’ve never invented one before, but surely it can’t be too difficult. It only needs to be something that will firstly, keep you breathing for an hour, and secondly, keep you warm. Added bonuses if you can make something that will make you swim faster and see better too, but you’re starting with surviving the water first.  

You flip back to the page you marked in your potions book, scanning over the section on internal thermal regulators. Something Snape mentioned the other day whirrs around in your head, but you can’t for the life of you remember what it was – and you’re not exactly in the mood to comb through his voice in your head for it. Not after last night. 

You’d gone to his office ready to win, but he tore down your walls so fucking easily like he always does.  

He was cruel about it. That wasn’t anything new, you suppose. But hearing him confirm that the gardens meant nothing to him hit harder than it should’ve. You suspected he regretted it, of course he did. But he didn’t have to be so bloody harsh about it.  

You sigh, frustrated at yourself, tuning your focus back to the books. This is the third time you’ve caught the festering anger over him distract you, and you just can’t afford it. You’ve wasted far too much energy thinking about him today. 

You’re doing some ratio work when the door of the greenhouse behind you creaks open. You don’t glance up - it’s probably just Neville again tending to the plants, or Professor Sprout checking some of her lesson plans. 

“You were supposed to be in my office thirty minutes ago. Or are you avoiding me indefinitely now?” 

You freeze mid calculation, turning your head slowly to see Snape standing at the door with his arms folded. 

“I’m busy,” you snap. “If this is about yesterday, don’t bother. Message received.” 

He moves closer, eyeing the mess of work around you. “Busy. Is that what we’re calling it now?” 

You glare at him, preparing for another one of his stupid lectures. “Why are you even here?” 

He lifts an eyebrow. “Because unlike you, I take our arrangement seriously.” 

You scoff. “Funny, that’s not what you were saying last night. Unless 'there's nothing between us' has suddenly changed its meaning." 

His expression doesn’t falter. “It hasn't.” 

“Well, you’ve said your piece. So unless you’ve come to critique my handwriting, you can leave.” 

Silence stretches between you. It’s not hostile like last night, but it’s not the same calm as it once was either. He moves closer, trying to peek over your shoulder to see what you're writing.

“Is this for the second task?” 

You say nothing, carrying on your work.

“I see,” he says quietly. “I assume you’ve solved the egg?” 

You don’t look up from your notes. “Mostly. Managed it without your help. Again.” 

He ignores that. “So, the lake.” 

Great, you know where this is going. 

“I got the official story from Lupin,” he continues. "The egg slipped. You followed. Predictably idiotic." 

“Nice to know everyone’s still talking about it.” 

“He also mentioned Karkaroff.” 

You take a deep breath, flipping a piece of parchment over to give yourself something new to focus on. 

“Well?” he presses. 

“Yeah, he was there.” 

“What happened?” 

"I thought Lupin told you?" You glance up at him. “I don’t owe you a full report.” 

“I’m not asking out of curiosity,” he snaps. “What did he do?” 

“Nothing,” it comes out slower than you'd like. “Not really.” 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“He said some stuff,” you admit. “Then he took Jakob off with him. I haven’t seen either of them since.” 

His expression darkens. “He just happened to be there when the ice broke? You don't think that’s strange?” 

“I don’t know. He told me at the ball to stay away from Jakob, and I haven’t exactly been doing that. He was probably just watching us.” You shrug. “The guy’s a creep. It's hardly surprising.”

Then it hits you - what if he saw the kiss? 

You push the thought down fast. It doesn't matter, and it's not like it meant anything. It's your mess to deal with. Snape doesn't need to know. 

Snape narrows his eyes. “What exactly did he say to you at the Ball?” 

You throw your quill down onto the desk a little harder than necessary. “I already told you, he doesn’t trust me around Jakob. He got in my face and tried to scare me. He said he’d make me disappear from the tournament or some shit.” 

“He threatened you,” he says. “And you didn’t think to tell me sooner?” 

You scoff. “Hard to bring it up when you’ve spent every moment since acting like none of that night ever happened.”  

He doesn’t even hesitate. “It shouldn’t have.” 

“You’ve said that already.” 

He doesn’t say anything to that, just exhales softly through his nose like he’s trying to restrain himself from biting back. Then, he drags a chair over beside your bench and sits next to you. 

You frown at him. “What are you doing?” 

He gestures to the mess you’ve made of the desk. “You claimed this was for the second task,” he says. “It looks more like the aftermath of an explosion.” 

You look at the desk again, taking in the smears of ink and knocked over plants nearby, spilling dirt onto your things. “Why do you care?” 

“I’m trying to find out exactly what you’re attempting,” he replies, cool as ever. “Since you seem intent on tackling your next brush of death through trial and error.” 

“Does it matter?” 

Why does he always feel the need to get up in your business?

“If you plan on surviving the next task, yes,” he says sharply. “Now -,” he flattens one of the parchments with his hand, “explain.” 

You sigh. “The clue, I think it refers to the lake. The song mentioned being underwater for an hour.” 

“And you assume you’ll survive that?” 

You glance at him sideways. “You really think I'm that stupid?” 

“No,” he says simply. “But I saw you go into the first task without a plan. That same stunt won't save you here."

You suppress the retort already on your tongue. Instead, you scratch out a note you copied from one of his lessons before he sees it. 

“I know I can’t wing this like the dragon,” you say. “But I have been thinking about it. I... might have something that could work.” 

“Enlighten me.” 

You hesitate. A part of you wants to keep this to yourself. But the rest of you is exhausted and already frustrated with it all. You’re still angry at him for last night, but it’ll be a relief to get it out to someone who actually understands how all this works. 

You sift through the parchments until you find the right one, keeping your eyes fixed on it. 

“Well, I know there’s charms. The bubblehead would be the most logical, but I don’t have any faith in myself to hold one up for that long.” You shift, making your legs more comfortable. “Then there’s gillyweed, which would be good if it wasn’t so rare. But even if I did get my hands on some, I don’t fancy the idea of becoming a human fish. It's stupid, but what if something goes wrong and I get stuck like that?” 

“That would hardly be the most controversial thing about you.” 

You glare at him again. “Funny.” 

“So, no charm. No gillyweed. No plan?” he pushes. 

“I didn’t say that.” 

He gives you a look that says he’s waiting for you to elaborate. 

“I’ve been thinking about something, but it’s just an idea.” 

“Go on.” 

You force your focus back to the notes. “A potion. One that would adapt my body without transforming it. It’ll keep me how I am just... upgraded.” You point to one of your notes. “Internal regulation. Something that could keep my body temperature up, help me breathe underwater, and maybe help me swim faster and see a bit better.” You sweep your eyes back over to him. “It’s dark as fuck down there.” 

He raises an eyebrow, as if to say watch your language. 

“Sorry- It’s dark, okay? So, I’ve been going through some of my textbooks from potions and herbology,” you say, pulling one closer. “It’s a bit scattered at the moment, but I think it might be possible.” 

“Perhaps while you’re at it,” he says, looking utterly unimpressed by your revelation, “you might consider adding wings. Or the ability to speak Mermish?” 

“I know it’s a long shot-” 

“It’s more than a long shot,” he interrupts. “You really are determined to die creatively, aren’t you?” 

“I’ve already started the groundwork,” you counter. “I know what’s needed – internal heat, respiratory flexibility. Most of the basics are doable-” 

“-but the execution is another matter.” He looks at you sternly. “Especially when your reach exceeds your experience. 

You let out a long drawn sigh, closing the textbook in front of you. “You think I’m wasting my time.” 

“Tell me,” he says after a moment. “What sparked this... brilliant idea?” 

You shrug. “Potions are the thing I’m good at, I thought I might as well use it to my strengths here. Like I said, I’m not too great with charm work. It’s better to play with what I know.” 

“It’s ambitious,” he admits, slowly. “But not entirely idiotic.” 

You look over at him with wider eyes, stunned. “Careful. That almost sounds like encouragement.” 

He ignores it. “The theory has merit. Narrow the focus – temperature and respiration alone will be difficult enough to stabilise. If this is going to work, you’ll need to be precise. Methodical. It cannot be rushed.” 

You nod, brushing your fingers over the closed textbook. “I know. I just... I don’t have long.” 

The next task is just shy of a month away now. It’s going to cut far too close... which is why you might need a little help. 

Snape shifts closer, picking up one of your parchments to read it better. “When did you start drafting this?” 

“Last night,” you confess. “I’ve been here all morning, running over some herbology texts, trying to narrow some ingredients. It’s my sole focus this weekend.” 

He nods lightly, still focused on the parchment. 

You bite your lip. “... I might need your help.” 

He tears his eyes from the parchment, arching a brow at you. “A rare admission.” 

“Don’t get used to it." 

He waits, silently watching you for a bit longer. You hate it when he does this, leaving you to stew in your own discomfort. 

“I’m not asking you to do anything,” you add, rolling your eyes. “I just need somewhere to make it where nobody will ask questions.” 

Snape exhales loudly, placing the parchment back on the desk. “You’ll need something to hold the effects together. Without it, the whole thing will fall apart. Or explode.” 

“Is that a yes?” 

“I’ll let you use my classroom,” he says. “But if this kills you, I am not responsible.” 

“Fine.” 

“We’ll discuss it properly later.” He turns to face you fully. “You’re not going to brew anything useful if that head of yours is still in pieces.” He pauses. “Do you want me to have a look?” 

You don’t answer straight away. Instead, you let your eyes stay fixed on the papers in front of you, even though you’re not reading any of them. 

Yesterday he was acting like you’re this huge mistake, now he wants to help you?

“Didn’t seem like you cared about my head yesterday,” you mutter. 

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s watching you. Probably waiting for the walls to fall the same way they always do. 

“I’m okay,” you lie.  

“You’re not,” he says simply. “Do you want my help or not?” 

You hate that you do. And you despise even more how badly you want him to be the one to help. Because he’s the only one who knows what to look for.

Reluctantly, you turn to fully face him too, allowing your knees to graze his. 

Before he reaches out for you, he flicks his wand once at the door, locking it with a sharp click, followed by another low, almost silent hum that fades just as fast.

"What was that?" 

"A silencing spell of my own design," he says, tucking his wand away. "Now stay still."

His fingers find your cheeks, softly moving higher to your temples. It’s impersonal, you tell yourself. But it doesn’t stop your heart skipping a beat at his touch. 

The connection aligns a few seconds later. It’s familiar in the way he enters – the gentle sensation of him searching through your head like he knows exactly where to go.

“It’s worse than before,” he murmurs after a while, and you can hear it clearly. It’s not just in his voice, but in the way his presence moves inside you. It’s slower now. More cautious. 

He pushes through some of the new, weaker barriers, still navigating through the tangled memories and scattered fragments that started this whole thing.

He withdraws, his hands falling away leaving your skin colder than it was a few seconds ago. When you open your eyes, his are already on you again.

“You’re trying to block me out.” 

“I’m not.” 

“Yes,” he says, calmly but certain. “You are.” 

You weren’t trying to – not consciously anyway. 

“You’re not occluding,” he continues. “But your mind is doing it anyway. It’s locking me out of the deeper threads.” 

“I don’t mean to,” you trail off, unsure how to finish the thought. You don’t want to tell him the truth, that after what you saw last time of your father, you’re not sure if you want to find out any more. That you’re scared to face this. “It’s not – I don’t know.” 

His eyes sharpen. “You do. You’re afraid to say it. Why?” 

“I...,” you hesitate, not wanting him to think you’re even more stupid for feeling this way. “I don’t want to find out more things that aren’t real, okay? What if my whole life before Hogwarts was a lie? What if I made it all up?” You look down at your hands in your lap. “I don’t know if I’m ready to see that.” 

He doesn’t react, and part of you wishes he’d look away. 

“That’s exactly why we need to continue this,” he says quietly. “Because whether or not you want to face it, it doesn’t change the fact it’s still there. It will keep taking more from you." 

Your throat feels tight, but you nod anyway. 

“Let’s try something. Just for a moment.”

His hands reach for your face, his fingers brushing your cheeks again. But you don’t close your eyes this time. 

When you’re this close to him, there’s no where to hide from his eyes that read you like a confession and judge like sin. Only now, they aren’t so damning. They’re almost holding you together.  

“Trust me.”  

The words aren’t much more than a whisper, but they settle deeper than you want to admit. You do trust him – with everything you can’t trust with anyone else – and it’s terrifying.  

Swallowing hard, you mask the catch in your breath, forcing your eyes closed. 

You feel it before you see it. The faint melody of music, laugher and conversation envelops you.  

The Ball.  

You’re dancing, not the opening dance, but real dancing. Jakob twirls you under the falling snow in the Great Hall, and you’re laughing at something George just said.  

Then it shifts, to somewhere just as real.  

You’re in the common room with Jade. She’s just thrown a cushion at you for making fun of her and Eirik after her dramatic retelling of their reunion after the break. You’re laughing again – really laughing.  

Another shift, this time to the night the Durmstrangs arrived. You’re in a conversation with a few of them, but your focus is on Jakob and the way he only talks to you. Your smile is genuine, real.  

These memories don’t hurt. They don't scare you. They spill through the cracks like sunlight breaching a storm. Snape doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watching them too. He’s not intruding - he’s guiding you through them. Showing them to you. Reminding you of them. 

Eventually, you open your eyes again.

"Why did you show me those?” you ask, your voice barely coming through. 

“Because those are real.” 

You barely acknowledge the way your heart is beating against your ribs. “Is it real if I’m lying to them all?” 

“You’re not lying about who you are now,” he says. “Only about where you came from.” 

“Does that matter?” 

“Yes.” He finally lowers his hands from your face, and for a second you forgot they were still there. “Because this life you’ve built, it was earned. Not given. Whatever came before doesn’t matter now.” 

You want to believe what he’s saying, but it’s hard to feel like you deserve a life you’ve had to lie your way into. 

“If you want to keep them, we’ll need to continue.” 

You look down at your hands again. “Right. No more avoiding it.” 

“We’ll start again tomorrow evening,” he says, pushing himself up off the stool. “I expect you on time. I won't chase you a second time.” 

You spend the next couple of days buried in every potion book you can get your hands on, even managing to convince Snape to let you borrow some of his – on the condition you don’t lose them.  

On paper, the potion seems simple enough. In practice, however, it's a nightmare. Most of the viable ingredients are either rare, illegal, or absurdly expensive. And most of the ones you can get your hands on aren’t great. 

Still, you’ve made progress. Enough to fill two sides of parchment, at least. 

Your world has slowly narrowed to just this – your notes, your research, and your evenings in the quiet of Snape’s quarters. The sessions are helping again, keeping your mind clear and focused. There’s been no new distorted memories yet. But you know it’s not long until you uncover one. 

You've been avoiding Jakob when you can, giving half hearted replies when he finds you between classes and always finding somewhere to be. You feel bad, and you know you can't keep dodging him forever, but you can't face that can of worms just yet.

And of course, there’s him. 

There’s been no more stolen glances, no lingering silences that hold too much. It’s easier, more bearable, to sit across from Snape and pretend whatever it is between you hasn’t changed. You’re choosing not to notice how close he stands when he checks your notes, or the quiet way you feel his eyes on you when you’re not looking. 

It’s nice. To exist beside him without wondering what it all means. You just wish he didn’t make your heart skip a beat every time he moves. 

Chapter Text

Come seek us where our voices sound...  

We cannot sing above the ground...  

An hour long you’ll have to look...  

To recover what we took...  

Warm steam wraps around your face the moment you break through the surface of the water with a small gasp, blinking away the water from your eyelashes. Jade comes up beside you, pushing a few wet strands of dark hair from her face. 

“Well,” she says, breathless. “That’s not creepy at all.” 

Closing the clasp of the egg shut, you prop it on the edge of the marble bath next to you before leaning back against the side with a quiet sigh. “Tell me about it.” 

Jade's been on your back for days now about coming to the prefects bathroom to listen to the full clue. You resisted at first, mostly because you didn't want to deal with the damn egg again, and now you've heard the full thing, you wish you'd stuck to that decision.

“What do you think they’ll take?” she asks, like she’s reading your thoughts. 

“I don’t even want to think about it,” you admit, but it’s impossible not to. How the hell do they expect you to find something in the endless dark of the lake? 

“At least you’ve got the full clue now, though,” Jade says, moving beside you. “Have you thought more about how you’re gonna survive down there yet?” 

You nod slowly. “Kinda. I’m making a potion – or trying to.” 

She gives you a blank look. “You’re joking. A potion? To breathe underwater?” 

“Yeah,” you reply. “I know it sounds crazy, but if I can pull it off, it should keep me warm, help me swim faster and let me see underwater too.” 

“That’s insane, even for you. You know that, right?” she says with disbelief. “It doesn’t exactly sound like a lunch time brew. You’ve got, what, three weeks?” 

You shrug like it’s not a big deal. “I’ve planned it all out. It’ll work, don’t worry.” 

She sighs, leaning back too. “Are you doing it alone?” 

“Mostly.” It’s not technically a lie. “Cedric’s agreed to help me go through my draft today, though.” 

“Is that enough?” she pushes. “Have you asked Snape?” 

You scoff. "As if he'd help me. I'm pretty sure that's considered cheating, anyway."

“Right, and you’re telling me Karkaroff isn’t whispering stuff in Krum’s ear?” she turns to face you more directly. “If what Jakob told you about him betting on the tournament is true, there’s no way he isn’t helping him. And if anyone knows about potions, it’s Snape.” 

You go silent, focusing on the bubbles floating around in the air, not wanting to admit to her that he’s already helping you. Kind of. 

She swims into the middle of the bath then, probably knowing she’s not going to get much more out of you on the subject. After a while, she speaks again.

“Has something happened with you and Jakob?” 

“What?” The word comes out more defensive than you intended.

“You two haven’t been... I don’t know. Normal? Lately. Even Eirik’s noticed something’s off with him.” 

You shrug again, playing it off. “He’s probably just stressed. Everyone is right now.” 

Jade gives you the look that shows she’s not buying any of it. “You haven’t even sat with us at lunch all week. Don’t try and tell me nothing’s going on.” 

You can't escape this. You're going to have to tell her.

“He kissed me.” 

Her eyes go wide, and for a second, she looks genuinely thrilled. Which makes you feel all the more terrible. 

“He what?! Oh my god, finally! Wait- finally, right?” 

You grimace. “I didn’t stop him.” 

“That doesn’t sound like a bad thing,” she says, searching your face. "But your expression isn’t showing it’s a good thing either. “ 

“It just didn't feel... right.” You glance down at the water. "I don’t know. I wanted it to, well, I thought I wanted it to. But in the moment... it just felt- wrong?” 

The excitement practically drains from her face then. “Oh.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I thought you two were super close? I mean, he gave you the bracelet,” you follow her eyes to your wrist just out of the water where the bracelet still rests against your skin. “And you went to the ball together-"

“We are close, but I think I might’ve given him the wrong impression,” you sigh. “I’m horrible, aren’t I?” 

“No,” she assures you. “You need to talk to him. Maybe it’s just the pressure of the tournament getting to you. It’s a lot already, you might just not be ready for anything like that yet.” 

“Maybe." Though, you know full well it isn’t that. “I know I need to talk to him. I just don’t know how to fix it all without wrecking everything even more.” 

She drifts closer to you. “Be honest. Jakob’s a good guy, he’ll understand.” 

You nod, but you still can’t think of any way to bring up the conversation. How are you supposed to mend something you never meant to break? 

The two of you stay in a comfortable silence as you swim short laps and float on your back in an effort to clear your head of everything that's piling up in there. By the time a bit of quiet finally settles in your mind, Jade stretches, wringing out the water from her ponytail.

“I should probably go. I’ve got class soon,” she says. 

You groan internally. “Right. I should probably get on with that potion.” 

She grins, pushing herself out of the bath and reaching for her towel. “Just don’t poison yourself, yeah?” 

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you say, reaching for the edge and hauling yourself up. “Oh- and don’t tell Eirik about the kiss,” you call to her just as she’s making her way out. “I need to talk to Jakob first.” 

She stops, turning back to you with a softer expression. “I won’t. Just make sure you do talk to him though, yeah?” 

“I will,” you promise, even if the twisting inside your stomach tells you otherwise. 

When she leaves, you stay behind for a bit longer, taking your time to dry off and change out of your swimming costume back into your robes. By the time you're dressed and your hair's mostly dry, it's already time to meet Cedric in the library.

You told him about the egg and potion idea yesterday in class, and he kindly agreed to go over your draft with you. It can’t help to have another set of eyes to look over it, especially since you’re so close now. 

The potion still isn’t perfect – far from it – but it’s almost good enough to bring to Snape. He’s asked to see the rough draft tonight too, and you’re determined to prove to him you can do this. 

Cedric’s already in the library when you arrive, sitting near the back with Cho beside him. He didn’t mention he was bringing her, not that you mind. You’ve crossed paths with her a few times now, and her calm nature is so easy to get along with.

“Hey,” you greet them, taking the seat opposite. “Thanks for doing this.” 

“No problem,” Cedric says, smiling. “Let's see what you've got.” 

Cho offers a small smile too. “He’s been talking about this all morning.” 

You give her a look, arching a brow. “If only he was this enthusiastic in class.” 

Cedric chuckles. “Well, if you’re going to attempt a near impossible potion, of course I want to look at it. It deserves a second set of eyes.” 

“Technically third,” she nudges him, giving him a playful look.

You smile, glad for both their help on this. You slide the notes across between them, watching as they both lean in to scan the parchments in silence. It's hard to not feel nervous as they read, hoping they aren't going to see it as a total flop. If they don’t agree with it, you’ll have no chance impressing Snape. 

“Frostnettle’s a smart choice,” Cho says, tapping the corner. “You noted the heat loss problem too – not a lot of people catch that.” 

“Extraction at sunrise is smart,” Cedric agrees. 

You nod. “I think there’s a few patches near the forest. I’m going to have a look tomorrow.” 

“You’ve done a lot already,” Cho says softly. “The layering structure looks good, but these two ingredients,” she points them out, “are going to be a nightmare to get.” 

You already know what she means. “Yeah, I thought as much. They’re the only ones I could find that will work with the base. Believe me, I’ve looked.” 

Cedric nods in agreement. “Selkie lens oil isn’t even sold legally anymore. Not in potion grade form, anyway.” 

A frustrated breath escapes you. You knew the oil would be a long shot, but having Cedric confirm it drains whatever hope you had left.

“As for the gillyweed extract,” Cedric adds, “you’ve got the right kind listed, but good look finding it.” 

“I thought about asking Snape if he knew where I could get some but-” 

“He’s not exactly the sharing type, is he?” Cedric interjects. He leans closer, his expression shifting. “I’ve heard there’s a dealer in Knockturn Alley. It’s not an official Apothecary, more of a private seller. But he specialises in off-market ingredients. Stuff like this.” 

“Seriously?” you ask, wide eyed. 

He nods. “But it’s shady, and students aren’t exactly welcome there.” 

That doesn’t surprise you. Breaking into the black market would look great on top of everything you’re being accused of lately.  

“I’m not saying you should,” he adds quickly. “Just... if you’re really stuck. It’s an option. Maybe.” 

Cho leans in too. “You’d need a strong disillusionment charm at least. And maybe a disguise.” 

You scribble Knockturn next to the two ingredients to remind you. It’s risky, but if that’s what it takes... 

The chair creaks softly as you lean back. “So, aside from the rare and potentially illegal ingredients, what do you think?” 

“Honestly?” Cedric looks up at you. “I think it could work. The structure is solid, and the theory looks clean. It’s just the sourcing that will most likely get you killed here.” 

You laugh. “Well, nice to know it’s not my work. Just the shopping list.” 

Cedric pushes one of the parchments towards you, narrowing his eyes. “Okay, so the theory is good, but how are your ratios? Measurements?” 

“Not great," you admit with a groan.

Cho raises an eyebrow, half smiling. “You’re planning on eyeballing it?” 

“I wish,” you mutter, grabbing your quill. “I can do the groundwork all day, but measurements are a different story. I second guess everything. ” 

They start running through the components, murmuring back and forth as they write around your disorganised scribbles. You try to keep up, but your mind keeps wandering – mainly to the fact that this is exactly the type of thing Snape’s already grilled you on. Ratios, precision, magical compatibility.  

You can already hear his voice, demanding to know if you’ve even read all the books you insisted he let you borrow this week. 

You try to shake it off. You’re not asking him, no way. You need to prove you’ve got this without him. It was hard enough just asking to use his classroom and the books.

When you refocus back on what Cho and Cedric are doing, it’s hard to make sense of it all. They’re sketching out a chart between them, talking ratios and measurements like it’s the easiest thing in the world. You try to follow along, but honestly, numbers have never been your thing. Your mother handled them when you brewed together, and in class, you’ve always let Cedric take over that part.  

It’s the part of potions you’ve never had to worry about. Until now. 

After a few minutes of hard focusing on their notes, it starts to click slowly. Not fully, but enough that you can follow their threads. You even catch a mistake Cedric almost makes with the salamander blood, which earns you a quiet ‘nice catch’, that makes you smile, impressed at yourself.

Then the bell rings.  

Cedric leans back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head. “Shall we continue this at lunch?” 

You nod, overwhelmed but grateful. The challenge of it all is far from over, but it doesn't feel so impossible now.

After a productive lunch, you feel a lot more confident in yourself and the plan for the potion. The rest of the afternoon is spent juggling overdue assignments that you've been putting off. You really don’t have the heart to care about the ethical classifications of Inferi or the medicinal applications of Sneezewort, but the essays are long overdue and you'd rather not give your professors more reasons to breathe down your neck. 

You grab a quick dinner before heading down to the dungeons to take the draft to Snape. It might not be flawless, but it’s getting there, if you do say so yourself. You’re proud of it, and maybe a little excited to show it to him.

When you step inside his classroom, he’s already at his desk with his head down, buried in whatever's keeping him so focused.

“You’re late," he says, not bothering to look up.

A quick glance at the clock confirms it. You're ten minutes late, but it's no big deal. 

“I think I’ve got it," you announce, heading over to his desk with your bag full of notes and books, dropping it in front of him with a thud. The force of it almost knocks over one of his inkwells.

He draws in a breath as if he's restraining himself, abandoning his work and slowly rising to his feet.

"You waltz in here late, nearly upend my desk... and you expect me to be impressed?"

You hold his glare. "Do you want to see it or not?"

He eyes you for a bit longer before giving in. 

"Fine," he says, making his way around the desk to stand beside you. "Let's start with the basics. What ingredients have you settled on?" he asks, sharp as ever. "If they don't hold, the whole thing is irrelevant."

You fight back a smile, knowing the look he's giving you. It's the one he gives when something's secretly snagged his interest but he tries to hide it.

"Frostnettle,” you pull out a parchment from the stack poking out of your bag, tapping it gently. “For the heat regulation. I think you mentioned it in class the other week, and it stuck with me. There should be some near the forest, I’m going to check there tomorrow morning when the sun comes back out.” 

Snape tilts his head. “So you were paying attention after all.” 

You frown, unsure if that's meant to be one of his sarcastic remarks or something else. 

“And?” he prompts. “What else have you got?” 

“Gillyweed extract," you continue, pushing the moment aside. "To breathe underwater, obviously. It’s diluted, so no morphing, and it should be easier to find than raw gillyweed.” 

He reads over your notes. “Distilled gillyweed is unstable. You’ll need a binder.” 

“Murltap essence,” you add, pulling out a new bit of parchment. “It syncs with the circulatory and nervous systems, and it’ll help everything stick together.” 

He barely glances at the page. "It'll also overpower the gillyweed extract if you add too soon. When are you planning to introduce it?"

"After the second heat, once it's reduced and thinned."

He lifts a brow. "Not a terrible instinct."

You ignore the jab. "It'll be a long brew I think. I haven't decided on the full timing, it all depends on if I can get the ingredients. I don't want to rush it."

He hums in response, but you can’t tell if it’s him approving or disapproving. 

You pick up another parchment. “This ones tricky, but I thought of using Selkie lens oil. I know it’s rare, but if I can get some it’ll enhance underwater sight. It cuts through all the murk, including anything magical, incase they decide to add some stuff down there. I’m not taking any chances.” 

He frowns. “Reacts poorly to heat.” 

“I know, that’s while I’ll add it when it’s in the cooling stage,” you smile. 

"You'll need to bring the temperature down gradually to avoid spoiling the whole thing. If you add it too late, it won't bind at all. It has to be timed precisely."

"Right," you nod. "I was thinking about using a stasis charm to manage it."

He leans closer to examine the page you're holding. You try not to react when his fingers brush against yours as he turns it.

His eyes trace the page pointedly. “And where, exactly, do you plan to acquire this?” 

"Well-," you say, trying to pull the paper away before he can see the little note you wrote next to it, but it's too late. 

“Knockturn Alley?” He looks at you, anger crossing over his features. “You intend to stroll into Knockturn Alley? You astound me. Truly.” 

“It's... sort of a last resort," you wince. 

“Do you have any idea what kind of creatures linger there, even during daylight? Let alone what they’d do to a foolish girl playing potioneer?” he snaps. “Who were you planning to take with you?” 

You stay quiet. That part hasn’t been figured out yet. 

He sees it instantly. “No one,” he breathes. “Of course. Just you, your wand, and your usual lack of foresight.” 

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off with a hiss of disbelief. 

“Tell me, what was the plan? Take the Floo at Hogsmeade, slip in unnoticed, and stroll through Knockturn Alley as if that place doesn't eat the naive alive?” 

Your eyes drop to the desk, because that absolutely was the plan you and Cedric came up with. 

“I swear, your recklessness borders on pathological,” he mutters. “After all the mess you’ve got yourself into this year already, and now you want to deal with black market traders who’d gut you for your wand.” 

“I can handle myself,” you scowl. 

He scoffs. “Oh yes. You’ve proved that, haven’t you?” 

It won't do you any good to make matters worse here, so you keep back your response to that.

He exhales harshly and pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s physically holding back every insult he can say. Then, with venom laced resignation, he says something. 

“You’re not going alone.” 

“What?” 

“I’ll accompany you,” he sighs. “Briefly. Quietly. And only because if I don’t, you’ll get yourself killed, kidnapped, or worse – indebted to a wizard who trades in darker currencies than coin.” 

Did he seriously just offer to take you to Knockturn Alley? 

“Write your list. Now. I want everything you intend to look for. And if I even suspect you’re withholding anything-” 

“You’ll leave me in the alley,” you finish for him. “Got it.” 

He glares at you like he’s seriously considering it already, so you rifle through your notes again to find a spare bit of parchment before he says something mean. You start writing your list, but it’s mainly those two ingredients that might make shopkeepers there give you a second look. 

"You understand this won't work on the first attempt," he says as you write. "Unless you're deluded enough to believe you can account for all these variables in theory alone."

"I know," you say, before he can go further. "That's why I need enough for multiple attempts. I've factored in the trial process."

You hand it over to him then, and he takes it from your hand to scan it in silence. 

“Salamander blood?” he says, dropping the paper to his side. “Of course. Why not throw in a little explosive instability while you’re at it.” 

“It’s for movement enhancement,” you argue, like it’s obvious. “It’ll thin the brew and make it all absorb better, too.” 

“You also know it can cause limb tremors and twitching when mismeasured.” 

You flash him a sweet smile. “So I won’t mismeasure it.” 

“And when you inevitably do?” 

“Then I’ll twitch,” you shrug. “At least I’ll be twitching fast.” 

He rubs his temples. “If you seize up mid task and sink, I will not be coming down to save you.” 

Given his track record, you doubt that. “Well, it’s a good thing I’ve got you assisting me then, isn’t it?” 

“I am not your assistant.” 

“Not yet,” you correct him, stacking your notes back together neatly.

He doesn’t react to that, just continues watching you sort the notes, pushing them back into your bag. 

“Are you going to start gathering the ingredients tomorrow?” 

You nod. “Yeah, I’ll go to the forest at sunrise to get the frostnettle... then I’ll try to trade someone for the essence. I've seen jars laying around in the common room. I can get the other stuff when we go shopping.” 

Snape folds his arms, and it’s kinda funny how displeased he looks about the whole thing. “When is your next free period?” 

“Tomorrow after lunch, or the day after in the morning,” you reply. 

“I’ll need to speak with the headmaster since he’ll need to authorise this. If he agrees, I’ll inform you when I know.” 

“Do you think he’ll say yes?” you ask, surprised he’s actually willing to go to Dumbledore on your behalf. 

He gives you a dry look. “If he doesn’t, you’ll still try to sneak off. So yes, I imagine he’ll agree just to avoid the headache.” 

You think about arguing back, but he does have a fair point there. 

He unfolds his arms, one hand bracing against the desk as he studies your list again. There’s something about the way he looks so serious, all focused and silent, like he’s dissecting every part of it. It’s unnerving to every other student, but to you, it lights something up.

Merlin, he looks good like this. The way his sleeves are pushed up ever so slightly past his wrists, the way his long fingers tap lightly against the parchment when he's thinking. Even the way his thumb absently drags along the wood of the desk idly like it's tracing his thoughts.

You've come to recognise his rhythms. In fact, you've come to recognise a lot of things about him lately.

The way the light catches his features, softened by concentration. The crease between his brows, the way his hair sometimes slips forward like it has now, leaving a dark lock curling against his cheek that he doesn't bother to push back.

And now, with his outer cloak gone, it's suddenly harder not to notice more of him. The fitted sleeves of his robes pull across his arms, outlining the subtle curve of muscle beneath. His shoulders are broader than you expected, too. Not bulky, but solid. 

It's not something you've ever paid attention to before, but now, the sight is hard to ignore.

Wait - where the hell did that come from?

You snap yourself out of... whatever that just was - fast, dragging your eyes back up to his face. He’s not looking at the list now, instead, his eyes are narrowed just a fraction on you. 

Hopefully he didn't clock the very unacademic direction your attention just wandered.

“Do you have the funds to acquire all this?” he says, lowering the parchment onto his desk. 

You nod without hesitating. “Yeah.” 

His eyes narrow a little more, but he drops whatever it is he seems to be trying to get at. “Fine. I’ll speak with Dumbledore tonight. Do not go planning anything until I confirm.” 

“Alright,” you say, mentally reorganising your schedule for tomorrow. Not that you had a lot planned. 

“And the texts I lent you. Are you finished with them?” 

“Oh, yeah,” you reply, rooting around in your bag again. “They’re in here somewhere.” 

You shuffle through the contents of your bag. Two of the books are here, but you can’t see the third one. 

Your heart skips a beat. Oh no.

In a frantic movement, you pull your bag fully open and tip everything out onto his desk – your notes, spare quills, and the mountain of other random stuff you’ve acquired over the last few months mixing with his own things.

Snape watches on, disgusted at the state you’ve just made of his desk. “Must you dismantle your satchel onto my workspace?” 

You shoot him a frazzled look. “Sorry. It’s in here somewhere. I swear I put it in.” 

But it’s not.  

You groan, dropping your empty bag onto the desk with the rest of the pile. “Okay. I might have left it in the library. I was using it earlier to cross reference some of the properties.” 

He exhales slowly again. “Then I suggest you go and retrieve it. I will not be able to replace that copy if someone swipes it.” 

“I’ll go find it – right now.” 

“You have ten minutes,” he says sharply. “If it’s not back here by then, consider your access to my time revoked.” 

“Right,” you say, feeling stressed all of a sudden. “Alright. I’m going.” 

You rush out of the classroom, heading straight for the library. How have you managed to lose one of Snape’s books? And of course it had to be the rarest one. Shit.

If it’s been nicked, he’ll never forgive you. 

When you finally reach the library, you’re out of breath, but you don’t stop. You scan the tables like your life depends on it (which it does), thankfully spotting it at the table you were sat at just a few hours earlier. 

Only, someone else is sitting there now. 

Harry, Ron, and Hermione. 

The sight makes you almost certain the universe has it out for you. You debate just grabbing it and running, but you have been meaning to talk to Harry since you figured out the egg. He did warn you about the dragons, and even if he does give you dead eyes in the corridors since the first task, you kinda owe him this. 

Damn it.

You walk over slowly, ignoring the way Ron scowls at you the second he notices you and the way Hermione instantly looks at Harry like she’s ready to step in. Harry just stares up at you. 

“Relax,” you say, picking up the book and lifting it up. “I’m just here for this.” 

None of them say anything, and it’s really fucking awkward. 

“Actually, Harry. Can I have a word?” 

“Why?” he asks. 

You glance over to Ron and Hermione, who are still eyeing you suspiciously. “Can we just talk? Alone?” 

Ron looks ready to argue, but Harry stands up slowly, giving them both a small nod before stepping away from the table. You walk a few steps away with him behind you, just far enough for some privacy. 

“Have you figured out the egg?” you ask him gently. 

He doesn’t say anything. God, he really isn’t making this easy. 

You sigh. “Well, I have. You need to open it underwater.” 

He crosses his arms. “Let me guess, Snape told you?” 

“What?” Does he actually think that?  “No. I figured it out myself.” 

He watches you with that same, narrow eyed caution through his round glasses. 

“Listen. You won’t hear the clue unless it’s submerged,” you repeat. “Go to the prefects bathroom on the fifth floor. You’ll have to answer a riddle from the portrait with the weird moustache before he’ll let you in. Be aware, he’s really fucking annoying.” 

“Why are you telling me this?” 

You fold your own arms, tucking the book against your chest, mirroring him. “Because you told me about the dragons. It’s only fair, isn’t it?” 

He’s about to say something when you’re both interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps behind you. 

“Potter. [Last Name].” 

You both turn to see Moody striding towards you, that lopsided gait immediately recognisable. His magical eye is trained on you, as it always seems to be, but the normal one scans over Harry. 

“Interesting little huddle,” he grunts. “What is this, a strategy meeting?” 

“Not really,” Harry grumbles.

You offer Moody a small, innocent smile. “We’re just talking.” 

“Well,” he says slowly. “Strange time for a cosy little conference, this close to the second task."

Neither of you say a word.

"Potter," he growls, fixing both eyes on him. "Some advice doesn't come twice. Might want to pay attention the first time."

Harry frowns as if he's waiting for Moody to clarify what he means by that. You catch on straight away though. He was listening.

"And you," he barks. "I believe I'm still waiting on that essay I assigned last week. Unless you plan on skipping straight to detention?"

"Sorry, Sir. I'll have it to you by next class," you reply quickly. "I've just been busy with the next task."

He starts ranting then, muttering more to himself than either of you. Something about how detentions are far too gentle these days. That students ought to learn what real consequences are like.

Harry throws you a puzzled look, one you return just as quickly. The kind that says both of you know you're not quite out of this conversation just yet.

Severus stares down at the scattered parchments on his usually meticulously tidy desk. Your charts, rambling notes, and theories for the potion – some of them annotated in a different hand. 

Diggory’s. Of course. 

He frowns. He’s not the worst choice, he supposes. The boy’s competent enough when it comes to potions, and his level headedness is a good contrast to your fiery manner. But the sight of his neat script woven in amongst your half-legible scrawls stirs something inside him. 

At least you had the good sense to enlist someone who doesn’t implicate him. A rare stroke of sense, where you’re concerned. 

Small mercies. 

He pulls the top parchment towards him, scanning over the annotations, dosage tables, ingredient ratios, infusion timings – things you normally butcher on instinct alone. He’s marked too many of your essays in silent agony over your sheer disregard for precision, and seen cauldrons go sideways in class because you ‘eyeballed’ it. 

You are, by far, one of his most intuitive students he’s had in years, and yet, you treat measurements like they’re vague suggestions. 

But as he trails his finger along the scribbled margin where you’ve scratched out three alternate ratios and circled the final one, he realises this is different. Your calculations align, and the stabilisers counter the volatility. It’s clean. 

He reads it again, slower this time, searching for the fault he’s certain is there – the misstep, the oversight, the inevitable shortcut you always try to take when you think he won’t notice.  

He doesn’t find one. 

Yes, it isn’t completely your own work. Diggory has clearly had some of a hand in it, but it’s also still you. The theory is completely yours. He sees it in the way you’ve adapted the ingredients distillations, the structure as a whole. 

He sits back slowly in his chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin as he considers it. You’re either on the verge of something impressive, or something catastrophically stupid. 

And knowing you, it’s probably a mix of both. 

He places the parchment back with the rest of the wreckage you’ve seen fit to dump across his desk – spare quills, half eaten sweets, a lone black feather, and a small hoard of shiny buttons. Amongst other things hidden beneath what he can see. 

His eye twitches.  

How on earth someone capable of brewing precision level potions can function with the organisational skills of a feral woodland creature is frankly beyond him. 

He checks the clock. 

Twenty four minutes since you left.  

He should be irritated. But that would imply surprise, and at this point, he’s long past that when it comes to you. 

Nevertheless, if that book’s gone missing, you’ll wish you’d stayed lost with it. 

He leaves the classroom, stalking through the corridors with long, purposeful strides until he reaches the library. It’s nearly empty at this hour, and you’re never hard to find. 

Merlin’s sake. He should’ve known you can’t even fetch a book without causing a scene.  

He spots you near the back, surrounded, with Potter standing stiffly beside you, arms crossed in that irritating Gryffindor way like he’s daring someone to challenge him. Painfully like his father. And Moody, a lumbering shadow with that damned magical eye scanning the room like he’s expecting a trap to spring up any second. 

For months, Severus has gone out of his to way to avoid Moody entirely. He’s evaded certain corridors, slipped into classrooms when he sees him coming, and left staff meetings before they end. Everyone knows Moody’s habit of digging and sniffing out what people would rather keep to themselves, and Severus has no intention of being on the receiving end of that bloody eye any more than he already is. Especially not with you around. 

The man has clearly clocked something is off with you, that there’s more to you than your fabricated school records and elusive family tree show. He doesn’t like you anywhere near Alastor Moody, especially when the wrong question, or the wrong sentence, could drag out everything – including his own past. The mark he still hides. The mark you can never see. 

One question in the wrong place, and he might rip this whole illusion apart.

He watches you again. You're speaking to him carefully, but the defensiveness behind your features doesn't escape him. Nor does the way your fingers fiddle with the hem of your skirt - a sign he's learned to recognise as something you do when you're not quite sure what to say.

Severus pauses there for a moment, taking in the interaction and trying to assess what exactly he’s just walked into. And if it's worth interfering.

You’re clearly trying to talk your way out of something. He knows the posture you're wearing right now, too. It's the one you you take when you argue with him, when you're dying to run away but your pride holds you firmly in place. 

It reminds him far too much of that night. That damnable night he wishes he could forget completely.

He clears his throat before he can be sucked back into that void he’s firmly build his walls over. 

“Miss [Last Name],” he says, casually. “You were due back in my classroom almost half an hour ago.” 

You jolt, turning around. The same guilty look creeps across your face like a reflect. “Sorry, Sir. I was just coming back now.” 

“Hm.” His eyes shift from you to Moody. “Alastor.” 

“Severus.” Moody growls. 

He turns to you then, wanting to escape whatever this is as quickly as possible. “Return to my classroom. Now.” 

You look as if you’re about to argue something, but the look he gives you cuts off whatever justification you think you can offer. Giving Harry one final look, you say something quietly to him before walking away. 

“Still protective of that one, aren’t you?” Moody rasps. 

“Protective?” he repeats. “Don’t mistake supervision for sentiment, Alastor. Some of us are simply cursed with responsibility.” 

He waits just long enough for the shuffle of your footsteps to fade before turning sharply himself. As he does, he catches the way Potter still scowls at your retreating form. 

What could you have done to Potter, of all people? 

By the time he catches up to you in the corridor, he can tell you’ve already regained all your stubborn composure. 

“The book,” he says, falling into step beside you. “Did you find it?” 

You reach under your robes, pulling it free and holding it up to him with that quiet smile. The one that always seems to catch him off guard, even when he knows better. 

“Obviously. I had to hide it though - if Moody saw me with something like this, he’d start asking even more questions.” 

He gives you a sidelong glance. “Self preservation. A rare instinct for you.” 

You laugh at that, and sound snags something inside him before he can stop it. It's too easy now, how comfortable you are again around him. Too familiar. And it almost makes him forget himself. 

He fixes his eyes ahead. “What was going on in there?” 

“I was just trying to tell Harry about the egg,” you reply. “He helped me with the dragon, so I figured I owed him.” 

“Owe him? He didn’t look particularly grateful.” 

"I think he hates me," you confess. "He’s been really weird since the first task, since he saw you drag me out of the tent,” he notices the look you give him out of the corner of his eye. “He thinks you’re helping me now, too.” 

Severus doesn’t respond to that. There’s too much layered in that sentence for him to safely touch. 

“And Moody?” he prompts. 

You shrug. “He was just asking for my missed assignments. I haven’t exactly been prioritising school work since starting the potion.” 

“You shouldn’t be speaking to him,” Severus replies flatly. “Not out of class.” 

“He’s my professor. I can’t exactly tell him to get stuffed when he approaches me, can I?” 

“You say that perfectly fine to me.” 

Your pace suddenly slows, and this time, he finds himself looking back at you.  

“It’s not really the same, is it?” you say quietly. 

Damn it.

There’s something he recognises in those unyielding eyes of yours. One he’s seen rarely since the ball, but it worries him all the same. 

He doesn’t acknowledge it, doesn’t dignify it with a reply. He’s decided he never will when it comes to this – whatever this is that always seems to be balancing on a knife's edge between you both. 

He pushes the door open to his classroom and makes his way in, knowing you’ll follow. He heads directly for his desk, where your entire life, apparently, is still sprawled across the surface.  

You enter slowly after him, staring down at the book as you make your own way inside, utterly oblivious to the state you’ve left and the way it grates against his every instinct. 

“Are you going to clean this up?” 

You lift your head then, and your expression tells him you’ve only just remembered it’s still there. 

“Oh. Right,” you step forward, setting the book down carefully on top of the other two already stacked in the corner of his desk.

He plants himself firmly at the side, watching as you rush to pack everything back into your bag as fast as you can - not dismissing the way your cheeks have turned a faint shade of pink as you do so.

“Shit-"  

The buttons scatter across the floor like startled beetles, sending you to your knees as you scramble to catch them.

“And what precisely is the purpose of those?” he asks just as you're collecting them all into the palm of your hand. 

“Crow likes them,” you reply, throwing them back into your bag carelessly.

Of course. The Owl. 

“Is everything you own this disorganised, or is it just a reflection of your mind?” 

You glare over at him. “Do you always have to insult me, or is it just a reflex at this point?” 

“That wasn’t an insult.” 

The way you look at him tells him you know exactly what he's about to ask. It hasn't been long since your last session, just a few days, but something's changed. The progress you were making has faltered again, stalled under the strain you're carrying. He knows the tournament and its endless demands are wearing you down, even if you try to hide it.

He won't voice it. You already have enough to manage, but he needs to keep up the pace before the threads start to snap completely.

“Sit,” he says, gesturing to one of the desks. 

“What?” you say, looking over your shoulder to the desks, then back to him. “You're telling me to sit on classroom furniture now? What happened to all the lecturing about respect and property?” 

You’re smiling again, too. That damned smile that always means trouble. Infernal little witch. 

Severus hastily composes himself. “Unless you’d prefer the floor?” 

He catches the subtle roll of your eyes before you cross the room and perch yourself on the edge of the nearest desk, hooking your hands around the edge of it with your eyes fixed on him. 

He steps towards you, well aware the whole situation is far from ideal. His quarters would have been preferable – quieter, more comfortable for you, but he doesn’t have the time today. Dumbledore is expecting him soon, and if he lets this go another night, he’s worried the mess piling up in your mind will affect your focus. It's not a risk he'd like to take, certainly not with the potion unfinished.

As he nears, you shift a bit, adjusting your posture to part your knees and give him room to get closer. It’s nothing, he tells himself. It’s practical. Unconscious.  

He positions himself just between your knees, close enough to reach you comfortably without leaning. You don't look away. Your eyes stay locked on his, wide and unblinking, your lips parting like you might say something, but close again like you've just thought better of it.

“Is something the matter?” he asks. 

“No,” you say quickly, but the pink blooming beneath your cheekbones again shows him you're lying.

He lets it lie, nodding once but saying nothing more. 

Then he brushes his fingers over your temples, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. You close your eyes without needing to be told, a quiet trust he doesn’t often receive, but never fails to notice when you offer it.  

He should start the session then. Instead, he finds himself studying the shape of your face in this rare, unguarded pause – the soft dip of your brow, the way your mouth presses together in anticipation. Like you’re bracing for the weight of your own mind. 

He shuts his own eyes, swallowing whatever keeps threatening to burrow it’s way through his own walls, pushing forward in the only way he knows how. 

Everything is soft at first, quietly tucked away in corners. But the moment he starts to pull at the threads, your mind opens into the fragmented constellation he's familiar with now. His own mind is instantly ignited by flashes of your memories scattered like starlight over ink as thoughts you’ve buried resurface, glowing brighter as they’re pulled free. 

He stays still, focusing to keep control of it all.  

Something immediately stands out to him. A memory that seems neutral, one he's seen before. Or at least tried to. It's always the same - revisited often, yet sealed tight every time he gets close.

He reaches for it again, hoping it might help to open up the other threads a bit more, but it doesn't budge. It's like a door just slammed in his face. Again.

It's not broken, damaged, or false. It's not your occlumency instinctively protecting you like before. You're defending it. Consciously.

He opens his eyes briefly. You're frowning, your eyes scrunched up like you're trying to force it closed with your whole body.

It's not his right to pry - not with this. He doesn't need to know. The fragments linked around it tell him enough: you and Jade deep in conversation. You, alone in the library looking absently at the book in front of you. The fire reflecting in your eyes as you stare into the flames of the hearth in the common room. 

Whatever it is, it's recent. And it’s clearly something you don’t want him near. 

Fine. He’ll leave it like he always does.

But while you’re attention is focused on guarding it, he takes the opening, sinking deeper into the darker folds of your mind. 

He’s been doing this more lately, delving beneath the surface while your focus is pulled elsewhere. Sometimes he distracts you on purpose, letting you wander through shallow memories while he digs into the parts you daren’t go near. 

It started with him trying to find the one memory Dumbledore insisted must be there, buried like a root tangled beneath the others. And he does still look for it – the key piece that might explain everything to do with the rumours resurfacing.  

Only now, it’s not the only reason he searches so deep. 

As of late, it’s the false memories that draw him in. The fabricated ones, the ones he knows you’re scared to face again. He sees how carefully you’ve started to question them, how much you think you’re lying to yourself. He knows you’re not ready for them yet - not with the second task rapidly approaching.

So he doesn't interfere. He never touches what's there. Instead, he works quietly, charting the damage he can see while it's still buried, mapping out the edges of the seams where something looks suspiciously too neat, with gaps too clean to be natural. So when the time comes and you're ready to face them again, he'll know exactly how to guide you to them without causing too much distress.

He doesn't like how natural it's become. How effortlessly he can do this without you noticing and how easy it is to move through your thoughts without leaving a trace. It's even worse that you never feel the cold fingers of his intrusion.

But tonight, he pushes that aside. 

He must be getting closer to what Dumbledore wants him to find. Drifting now through the deeper recesses, he searches for anything that might lead him to an answer. A memory of your parents telling you something important. More of your interactions with them. Anything.

As ever, there’s nothing that stands out. Just the endless thrum of your thoughts bleeding into one another like bruises beneath skin. 

He retreats before you can notice anything amiss, feeling your attention starting to divert. The familiar, faint ripple of unease as your mind starts to reach out for his presence.

Empty handed again. 

As he slips back towards your surface, he catches fresher threads forming. Merlin, your mind never stops. Not even when he’s inside it. These new ones are raw, born from the effort it's taking you to hold that damned memory shut. The one you’ve clearly decided he’s not allowed to see. 

He starts untangling the mess around it, the splinters of the week you’ve just lived. He doesn’t touch any of it, just coaxes them out of the knots to keep the weight of it all from dragging you down too much. 

Once he’s satisfied he's done enough, he gently lets go.

The connection breaks, and your thoughts fade from his own. You exhale softly, eyes still closed, your brows knitted together with discomfort as you sit in the silence that always follows. Your head probably hurts, and he knows you’re taking the time to rebalance yourself. 

His gaze drops. 

Somewhere during the session, without meaning to, he's drifted closer. Now, he stands firmly between your legs, with barely any space left between you. 

And then you shift, just a little wriggle forward without thought, adjusting yourself. But it's enough. Enough for your inner thighs to brush against his hips, enough for the proximity between you both to tip into something entirely inappropriate.

His breath catches.

You go still at the same time he does, opening your eyes slowly. Knowingly. In this split, startled second, something silent passes between you both, something he knows neither of you can ever safely claim. The lie of indifference splinters, and the conflict he won't name slips through the cracks. 

He doesn't look away.

For a suspended moment, he just stands there, half pinned between your legs, his breath mingling with yours. Held by the quiet pull of your eyes, and in them, the barest trace of trust and something far more dangerous. 

Want.

It keeps him frozen in place, not because he doesn't know better. But because in this moment, he doesn't care.

His eyes betray him then, dropping to your mouth like a reflex he can't control.

The realisation hits him like a curse. How close he's let this go without even knowing, how easily it all could fall apart. How utterly incapable he is of stopping it.

He moves back like he's been scorched. Not by heat, but by the slow, dawning truth that one day, this whole thing will ruin him.

And it will take you with him.

“We’re finished for tonight,” he says, turning his back on you. Retreating to the safety of routine, distance - anything but this. “Get some rest.” 

He doesn't hear the creak of the desk or the rustle of your bag. No footsteps or shuffling of robes. You're still there, watching him. He can feel your eyes burning into the back of his skull.

Of course you'd make this harder than it already is.

He braces a hand on his desk before daring to look over his shoulder. You haven't moved at all, still right where he left you with your hands on the desk and your legs still parted where he stood. You're watching him with the look you get when you know you've caught him in something. 

It's inescapable.

He could lie or scold you. Say something cruel enough to end this again. But he doesn't, because you're already looking at him like you know better.

And so does he.

"Don't," he says finally, the warning almost lost in the breath it takes him to say it. "Don't make this something it isn't."

You slide off the desk at last, unhurried, walking over slowly to pick up your bag from his desk.

"Leave the draft," he says, feigning focus on anything that isn't you stood next to him. "I'll read it. We'll discuss it when I'm finished."

The rustle of parchment comes from your direction as you pull the parchments free, smoothing them out before offering them to him.

He doesn't move at first, but when you stay there waiting for him to take them, he finally turns himself just enough to meet you. You don't look angry, or tense, or anything he'd expect. There's something almost tired in your eyes, and he doesn't know how to interpret it.

You don't say a word.

He takes the parchments gently from your hands, then turns away at once, moving behind his desk to set them among the rest of his paperwork - refusing to look up again until the door closes behind you.

The moment it does, he exhales, running a hand down his face. 

Fool. He’s an utter fool. 

He should never have let that happen. Not the hesitation, the pause, and certainly not how close he let himself get.

It won’t happen again - it can't. You’re a student. A risk. A problem he’s been tasked with managing, and nothing more. 

He pours himself a drink from the whiskey stashed in the drawer of his desk, pacing the room before he can stop himself.  

No. He can’t afford this. The pull, the curiosity, the line that’s already blurred too far. It’s dangerous. 

He’s told you, he's told himself, that this is nothing. 

It means nothing.  

You’re just a foolish girl with something buried in your mind that could change everything. A girl Dumbledore has handed to him like a broken puzzle he expects him to quietly dismantle. You’re not his to care for, not his to protect. 

So why does it feel like he already is? 

He returns to his desk, intending to shut this all away and return to his rituals of control, when something on the floor catches his eye. 

A slip of parchment, folded and carelessly dropped. Not one of his. 

He bends to retrieve it, making out your unmistakable handwriting on the front. It’s your list. And just beside it, he only just notices, is a flash of silver. One of those ridiculous buttons you decided to scatter across his floor earlier. He rises, turning it over in his fingers.

You seem to lose pieces of yourself without realising. And somehow, it's always him that's left to pick them up.

Hm.  

Brushing the parchment off, he sets it down in the drawer of his desk with the button atop before pushing it shut. Then he straightens his cuffs, retrieves his cloak from the back of his chair, and exhales slowly through his nose. The moment is gone. Whatever just passed in this room, whatever was far too close to happening, it no longer matters. Not when the threat of war is still pressing in and too many eyes are already watching from the shadows.

He slips the cloak over his shoulders, fastening the collar with a controlled hand. One last glance at the room confirming to him that all trace of the encounter is gone. 

Dumbledore is expecting him. And so, like everything else he can't afford to feel, it's locked away securely into the vaults of his mind.

The game must go on, whether he wants to play it or not.

Chapter Text

The sun is only just starting its climb into the sky when you leave the castle the next morning. The forest is eerily quiet at this hour – pale and brittle with the cold of winter. Frost glazes every blade of grass, coating your boots in a soft sheen as you tread through the undergrowth. 

You’ve been out here for a while now, but you’re yet to find any frostnettle. Which would be less infuriating if your brain hadn’t been cycling through the same useless thoughts all morning. All night, actually. 

You dozed at best, twisting in your sheets and spending most of the night huddled in the crevice of the window, staring out into the endless night sky. Replaying every single detail of what happened yesterday. 

Pushing a branch aside, you duck under it, crouching lower to the scan the ground for the faint gleam of frostnettle – this patch in the forest should theoretically be the perfect place for it to grow. The soil is damp enough; it’s out of the shade just enough to catch the most of the morning sun. But there’s no sign of it anywhere. 

You let out a long, frustrated sigh. 

You’ve already wasted enough time combing through the moss and dead leaves, spotting every plant but the one you actually need. Though really, you should’ve known better than to expect anything to go well today. Not when you’re exhausted and your mind is still trying to make sense of last night. Of everything to do with this ‘thing’ you have with Snape – your professor, by the way. 

Honestly, the whole thing is absurd. And annoying. So, very fucking annoying. You’re more angry with yourself than anything, because you keep letting this go on. Letting him pull you in, get comfortable, and then shoving you away when things get complicated. 

The sad part is, you really thought last night would change something – that just for a second, he might have let the moment turn into something else. Something you’ve realised you’ve been unconsciously chasing for a while.  

But now, most likely due to the lack of sleep, you’re just pissed off. You already know how this goes. He’ll go back to giving you the cold, distant treatment again for the next few days.

It never seems to bother him.

And here you are. Standing in the middle of the forest, supposed to be collecting what you need to ensure you don’t drown horribly in the next task, and yet, you’ve just caught yourself staring into the bark of a tree thinking of the same, annoyingly complicated man that has been wrecking your thoughts for far too long now. 

Damn it.  

Damn him.  

You force the thoughts to the back of your mind with another shove of a heavy branch, turning your attention back to the undergrowth. You plow through the dirt and frost, thinking maybe they’ve been covered by the trees shedded leaves. 

Nothing. 

If only you’d brought your notes. But of course, you left them with him last night. He probably didn’t even read the draft. Or if he did, he’s probably picked it apart, line by line already. Then again, he might’ve just thrown the whole thing in the bin as a way to keep you as far away as he can. It wouldn’t surprise you. 

You get back to your feet, kicking a lone stone near your foot and booting it as hard as you can into the wild growth, watching it disappear under one of the heaps of rotting leaves. 

When did this all get so fucking complicated?  

You can’t even have one day alone with him without something happening. 

And where the hell is all the frostnettle?  

You’re half tempted to call it a day already and go back to bed. And maybe you would, if your life didn’t depend on getting this stupid potion done. 

So instead, you head over to another opening in the clearing, ducking beneath more branches to see if you’ll have better luck here. The undergrowth is denser here, but it’s worth a try to check since it’s clearly not in the place you were sure it would be. 

Kneeling slightly, you push aside a clump of snow and dig through the mess with your fingers. 

“[First Name]?” 

You jump, startled by the sudden voice behind you, half standing too fast and wacking the top of your head on the branch you were just under. 

“Fuck-” you hiss through your teeth, rubbing your head as you spin around to glare at whoever just snuck up on you like that. 

Jakob. 

Just as you thought today couldn’t get any worse. 

He slows to a stop just ahead of you, his chest rising and falling in quick succession under his damp hoodie. “Sorry,” he says, frowning. “I did not mean to scare you.” 

“What are you doing here?” you ask. It comes out meaner than you meant for it to, but you’re too annoyed to care. 

“Uh, I always run in the mornings," he says, a little more carefully. “It clears my head.” 

You vaguely remember him mentioning that at one point. Before you started ignoring him. 

“Right,” you mutter, looking down at the ground. 

“What are you doing here?” he asks, more gently now. 

He clearly feels awkward, and you can't blame him. 

“Just looking for something,” you reply, turning around to make a show of searching on the ground, hoping he might just leave you to it. 

“Okay... are you alright?” His voice is quieter now, and the crunch of leaves behind you tell you he’s stepped closer. 

You nod, because it’s easier that way. 

“Are you sure?” 

You sigh, turning back to face him. “Look, it’s not you-” 

His expression changes then, setting into something more cautious. “Is it not?” 

An awkward silence falls, leaving all the unsaid things hovering around you both.  

He sighs. "I am sorry."

Merlin. Can he stop apologising?  

“I should not have.... at the lake.” He glances away, his cheeks flushing a little. “I thought, well-” 

You shake your head before he can say anything else. “No. You don’t need to apologise. I’m the one who messed this up and made it all weird.” 

He looks at you again with those soft eyes you’ve found so much comfort in before. “You did not mess anything up, but... you have been somewhere else lately.” 

“I know” you admit. “I’m sorry. I should’ve said something sooner instead of avoiding it. I just didn’t know what to say. Or how to say anything, really. I’m not good at this.” 

“I did try,” he says. “To talk to you. I thought maybe you did not want to see me anymore.” 

Your stomach turns. “I did want to see you. I do . I’ve just been-” you give a vague hand gesture towards the trees, like that explains anything at all. “Stressed. Very stressed. And I feel horrible about what happened at the lake.” 

He reaches out gently to touch your arm. “It is okay. You know you could have just told me. I would have understood.” 

You open your mouth to say something, then close it again. Your eyes fall back down to the frostbitten leaves at your feet, scattered like all the thoughts you can’t hold in place.

“I just... I feel like everything’s such a mess. The tournament. I’m way behind on assignments. You... It’s just-” you breathe out harshly. “Too much.” 

Jakob stays quiet, but when you look back up, he opens his arms. “Come here,” he smiles, beckoning you closer.

Your chest aches at the sight, but you step into him anyway. He wraps his arms around you, and your let yourself sink into him, tucking your face against his shoulder. It’s everything you didn’t know you needed. Knowing that you haven’t lost him completely is enough to make your throat tighten, like all the feelings you’re holding back might spill out right here in the forest. 

But you don’t let them. 

You pull back quickly, blinking the wet in your eyes before it can go anywhere. 

“I don’t suppose you've seen any frostnettle around here?” you ask, casually wiping your face with your sleeve. “Because I’ve been out here for ages now, and I’m starting to think it doesn’t actually exist.” 

Jakob frowns again. “I think you walked past it.” 

“What?” 

He gestures behind you towards the treeline. “Over there. There is loads.  You must have stepped over it to get here.” 

“Are you serious?” 

“Afraid so,” he laughs. “Your mind was clearly elsewhere.” 

He can say that again. Of course you walked right over it while your thoughts were busy elsewhere. He leads you back over to the treeline, where, yes, there is in fact a shit load of frostnettle just basking in the sunlight. 

Idiot.  

You crouch down, pulling a small blade from your bag. You start with one of the thicker stems, delicately slicing at the base. It’s a slow process - if you go too fast or cut too deep, you’ll ruin the whole thing. The heat inside is fragile, so it has to be drawn out gently or it’ll dissipate before you can store it. 

The stem gives way with a soft snap as you ease it into the container you’ve already lined with a cooling charm. Closing the lid quickly, you set it aside and reach out for the next one. 

Jakob is still behind you, a quick glance over your shoulder confirms it. He’s leaning against one of the trees now, watching you work. 

“You did not tell me,” he says just as you turn back to the nettles. “What is this for?” 

“Well, to cut a long story short... the second task is underwater,” you tell him, snipping the next stem. “It’s... in the lake.” 

He straightens up. “What? In the lake?” 

“Yeah,” you say, brushing a clump of frozen soil off your gloves while coping out your next one.  

“You are going in there again? After what happened last time?” 

“It’s not like I have choice, is it?” You see the rattled look on his face. “It won’t be like last time. I’ll be better prepared.” 

He doesn’t look convinced. 

You turn back to the patch, snipping another icy stem. “Since the task is underwater, I’m making a potion. Something to help me survive it. And this -” you hold up the frostnettle “-is for heat regulation so I won’t nearly freeze to death again.” 

Jakob doesn’t say anything at first, he just watches you store the stem. 

“You really are mad,” he says. 

You give him a flat, deflated look. “Thanks.” 

“No, not like that,” he says, walking towards you. “Mad, yes. But brilliant. You always are.” 

You huff, smiling at him despite everything. When you return to the plants, he crouches down beside you, carefully rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie to help you with some of the smaller clusters. 

“Watch out,” you warn him. “They’ll sting you if you catch the leaves. And you have to cut through the base, not through the middle. They store heat in the centre, and I need to preserve it.” 

He nods, watching you demonstrate before trying it himself with a spare knife you hand him from your bag. 

“Do you do this often?” he muses, gently cutting away.  

“No,” you laugh. “I just read about it, and I really don’t have the luxury of messing this up right now.” 

He takes it more seriously then, helping you harvest as much of the nettles as you can. For a few minutes, the only sound is the wind threading through the trees overhead and the soft crunch of icy snow under your feet when one of you moves. 

It’s calm. Peaceful. 

“How much do you need?” Jakob asks after he’s successfully harvested a few. 

You hold up the container, shaking it to try and count how many you’ve got already. “Just a few more. I want to fill the container, so-” 

“Charming.” 

A voice behind you cuts you off. 

You both turn around. Snape steps out from between two narrow trees like he’s been there for ages, the edges of his cloak brushing over the leaves. 

Great. Just as you were starting to forget about him.  

“A curious method for storing frostnettle,” he observes, eyeing the plastic container in your hands. “Though, I suppose it’s an improvement. I half expected to find you here shoving them into your bag like you do with everything else.” 

You grit your teeth. You don’t care to be pleasant with him if he doesn’t have the decency to do the same. “It’s charmed to keep them cool, actually.” 

“Fascinating.” 

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. Instead, his attention has already moved to Jakob, who’s slowly started to rise to his feet, brushing the frost from his pants. 

You shoot him a look, your eyes wide in that ‘please do not start something right now’ kind of way. He ignores it. 

“Can we help you with something, Professor?” he asks politely, though the edge in his voice is hard to miss. 

“Nothing urgent,” Snape replies, looking back down at you. “Just ensuring my student is staying out of trouble.” 

You scowl at him. 

“She is doing fine,” Jakob interjects before you can say anything. 

Snape arches his brow in a quiet amusement. “How reassuring.” 

You honestly wish the ground would swallow you whole. How is this your life right now: sitting in the dirt, half frozen, crouched over some stupid weeds while both of your most pressing emotional disasters loom over you? 

All you wanted was some damn frostnettle.

“My classroom,” Snape says, half turning away. “After lunch. I trust you haven’t forgotten what we discussed yesterday?” 

“No, Sir.” 

“Don’t be late.” 

Then he’s gone. Vanishing back through the trees towards the castle with his black robes trailing behind him. Leaving you with the fresh and violent urge to scream into your sleeve.

His cold, dismissive treatment has officially started. 

Jakob crouches down again, but you’re already packing the last of the frostnettle and dumping the container into your bag. 

“What was that about?” he queries.  

“No idea,” you sigh. 

He hands his knife over so you can pack it away. “He really does not like me, does he?” 

“To be fair, he doesn’t like anyone,” you mutter, pulling yourself off the ground and brushing the snow off your knees. “I’m gonna get some breakfast. You coming?” 

Jakob hesitates, still clearly confused about what just happened, but walks with you anyway. “Why does he want to see you?” 

You shrug. “Something about my assignments,” you lie. “Like I said, I’m really behind on everything.” 

He gives you a sympathetic look, one you’ve seen more times than you can count. One you hate. But at least he seems to buy it. The last thing you want to do is unpack all of that with him when you can’t even make sense of it yourself. 

You manage to get some breakfast down with Jakob, just enough to stop your stomach feeling like it’s chewing a hole through itself. The quiet between you both is kind of awkward to start with, but you thank him for his help with the frostnettle before heading out to Herbology - where things only get worse.

You’re working with Fred again, which would usually be fun if today wasn’t already hanging together by a thread. He spends half the class whispering on about more of his and George’s joke products, still trying to rope you into being their next tester. You agree just to make him shut up for five minutes. 

And while you’re distracted, again, by thoughts of black cloaks, dark eyes, and infuriating scowls, you fail to realise just how tightly you’re gripping the pot of the Fluxweed you’re half way through planting. It slips sideways, launching a spray of damp soil all over Fred. He flails backwards, his face full of it, and ends up crashing spectacularly into a tray of seedlings behind you, sending them flying across the floor. 

Professor Sprout isn’t pleased. 

You’re too annoyed to even argue with her when she hands you the detention slip for this evening, all while Fred gets sent away with nothing more than a warning and a face full of dirt. 

You skip lunch after that. The thought of sitting in the Great Hall with Fred still laughing about your detention or Jakob wondering what the hell is going on with you is... unbearable, to say the least. 

Alternatively, you head to your dorm for a bit, grabbing the cloak bundled at the end of your bed from where you left it this morning. You’re in a foul mood at this point, and now you have to go to him.

With the cloak in your arms, you eventually decide to head for his classroom. It’s better to just get it over with.  

He doesn’t look up when you enter – a classic him move. He’s seated at his desk, scratching away on a bit of parchment with that impenetrable scowl. You hesitate in the doorway to see if he’ll bother to acknowledge you, but when he doesn’t, you step inside to let the door close loudly behind you. 

Still nothing. 

Fine. 

You cross the room without a word, hopping up onto the desk. The desk. The one you still can’t quite think about without being disappointed and furious about last night in equal measure. 

His quill stops then, and he finally looks up. He meets your eyes with the faintest hint of discontent crossing his face. 

“What took you so long?” 

You shrug. “Lunch ended five minutes ago. I’m not late.” 

“It ended twenty minutes ago.” 

“Did it?” you swing your legs, feigning boredom just to annoy him more. “Well, I had to get my cloak.” You lift the bundle of black cloth up. “Figured I’d better bring some kind of disguise. Wouldn’t want to be seen with you after all the riveting things said about me in the papers, right?” 

You finish the words with a tilt of your head. He just stares at you flatly for way longer than necessary. Then he stands, moving towards his shelves while you fasten your cloak around your neck. When you look back over at him, he’s still there, staring absently into the jars. 

“Are you going to tell me what the plan is?” you ask. “Or am I just expected to follow you around all day like some kind of well-trained shadow?” 

He snaps out of whatever was keeping his mind hostage. “We’ll check the standard apothecary first,” he says coolly, still facing away. “If they don’t have what you need, we’ll make a plan from there.” 

“That’s not much of a plan,” you throw out quietly. 

He whips back around, narrowing his eyes at you. “Then what do you suggest? Do you have a specific location in mind? Or are we just strolling in and hoping your charm will do the rest?” 

You roll your eyes. “It’s not an apothecary. Cedric just said there’s a ‘guy’. He didn’t exactly give me a name – just said to look out for someone who looks shady.” 

Snape lets out a quiet, humourless sound. It makes you realise how stupid you just sounded. “You’ll have to be more specific. In Knockturn Alley, everyone looks ‘shady’ .” 

“Sorry I’m not an expert on dodgy alleys and secret dealings like you clearly are,” you retort, sliding off the desk. 

It’s weak, but the silence between you lands like a blade – just long enough for the implication to land. He doesn’t take his eyes off you, but you don’t miss the way his features tighten up. It clearly struck him somewhere deep, just as you intended. 

Not dignifying you with a reply, he steps away from the shelves to move closer, stopping at a safe distance from you. 

“Let’s go,” he says, extending an arm out. 

As much as it pains you to do, you comply. The second your fingers brush his sleeve, the world seems to collapse inward, and you’re suddenly being dragged through a tight pull of magic. 

You land with a sharp crack in a narrow passage between two crumbling buildings. Your knees nearly buckle from the force of the apparition, making you stagger sideways, catching the damp wall to steady yourself. 

Snape barely gives you enough time to adjust yourself before he starts ordering you around. “Put your hood up. Stay close. And do not speak to anyone unless I say otherwise."

“Yeah, I got that part,” you mutter, tugging the hood over your head. “Loud and clear.” 

He starts walking, and you trail behind him, rounding the corner that opens up into the main part of Knockturn Alley. 

It’s everything Cedric and Cho promised it would be: suffocatingly tight, eerily dim, and just plain wrong. 

The buildings seem to lean inwards, casting crooked shadows over the cobbled pavements. Witches and wizards loiter in the corners, cloaked in layers of dark robes. One man even hisses something at you as you pass, and another watches you far too closely for your liking. 

You keep your head down, a stark contrast to Snape who walks through the alley like he’s done this hundreds of times. He never once seems to acknowledge the looks you’re both getting. His gaze is locked firmly ahead. 

The only apothecary is tucked between a tall trinket stall with questionable looking items and a bordered up tavern that looks like it’s been condemned for decades. The sign is cracked, hanged at an angle, and completely illegible. But the way snape heads straight for it says he’s clearly been here before. 

You step him front of him as he reaches for the handle, pushing yourself through the door ahead of him with a quick “I’ve got this.” 

The second you step inside your senses are hit all at once – a mix of bitter herbs, mildew, and another rancid smell you can’t identify. There’s barely any light, just one lantern hanging in the middle of the shop. A man behind the counter looks up, squinting at you with bloodshot eyes and heavy suspicion. 

“Looking for something?” he rasps, folding his arms across the counter. 

You open your mouth – but Snape cuts in before you get a word out. 

“She isn’t,” he says curtly, pushing himself in front of you. “I am.” 

You give him a look behind his back, but he doesn’t bother to turn around. The shopkeeper clearly knows him. 

“Snape.” 

“Salamander blood. Distilled gillyweed. Selkie lens oil,” Snape reels off. “Do you have them or not?” 

The shop keeper snorts. “Only the blood. Other stuffs too rare. Not stocked on our shelves.” 

Snape gives a short nod, as if that confirmed what he already knew. He still doesn’t bother to look back at you as the shopkeeper places the vials down on the counter. 

“Wait,” you say, stepping up next to him. You bump his shoulder, trying to reclaim some space. His cloak brushes against you, but he doesn’t move an inch. His presence says firmly at your side. 

“Do you know where we can get the rest?” you ask with a forced steadiness, reaching for the vials before Snape can grab them. 

There’s a beat of silence. The shopkeeper leans forward slightly, bowing his head like he’s trying to get a better look at you through the shadow of your hood. 

“Don't think I've seen you before," he says slowly, eyes not blinking as they trail down you. “But I reckon I know you from somewhere.” 

You feel yourself tense up, but refuse to let it show. Shoving a few galleons his way, enough to cover the cost, you ask him again. He scoops up the coins like it’s some kind of game, dragging them towards himself one at a time. “Maybe,” he says with a crooked smile. “Little thing like you. Bet you always get what you want, don’t you?” 

You scowl, caught off guard by his sudden rudeness. You only asked him a simple question.

Just then, the bell above the door jingles and someone else steps in. He’s taller, heavier, and wearing a thick coat with a turned up collar. He doesn’t speak, just nods once at the shopkeeper and walks slowly past the shelves, eyeing everything but also not really looking at anything. 

“You got a name?” the shopkeeper asks you with a grin, baring rows of blackened teeth. 

“She doesn’t,” Snape says sharply, stepping behind you. 

His eyes jerk over to Snape, his mouth twisting into a wicked snarl. “She yours, yeah?” 

The implication sends something cold crawling down your spine. 

“I don’t belong to anyone,” you snap back. 

Snape shifts then, pressing his chest against your back. A warning to hold your tongue, maybe. Or maybe it's the habit he can't seem to break. 

The shopkeeper doesn’t seem to notice. “Shame. The feisty ones always fetch the best coin, don’t they?” 

The browsing man lets out a short laugh, startling you. It’s all so... wrong. 

And then, with no word or warning, you’re suddenly being dragged out of the shop. Snape’s hands clamp around your arms, and he tugs you back, pivots, then spins you towards the door. 

“Hey-” you start, nearly dropping the vials. 

He pushes you out into the street, the force of it knocking your hood down, exposing your face to the alley. With one arm gripped by Snape and the other clutching the vials, you can’t pull it back up. 

Snape doesn’t wait around. He keeps you moving, one hand still locked around your arm like a vice. You stumble to keep up with his pace, half dragged, half steered down the winding road. A few people stop walking to watch, and two cloaked figures outside one of the pubs narrow their eyes at you. 

He still doesn’t stop. 

A woman selling something shrivelled in jars leans out of her stall to get a better look at you. “Oi,” she mutters, elbowing her companion. “Ain’t that-?” 

Snape pulls you into a side alley, his cloak swallowing you both as he pushes you against the brick. 

“What the hell are you doing?” you snap, twisting your arm from his grip. “You can’t just manhandle me like that!” 

“Do you have any idea how many people just looked at you twice? You’ve been recognised already!” he hisses, towering over you. “You’re drawing too much attention.” 

“Maybe because you’re dragging me through the streets like I’ve got something to hide!” 

His eyes flash with anger. “You do. We both do. This was the agreement – you keep quiet. You stay close. And you let me handle it. Somehow, you’ve already managed to break all three.” 

Your blood boils. “No, you decided that was the plan. You just expect me to follow you around like always.” You shove the vials into your pocket, resisting the urge to throw them at the wall. “You never let anyone do anything unless it’s your way. You have to control every bloody thing!” 

“You’re clearly too emotional for his,” he says, calmer now. “You can’t even follow basic instructions without causing a scene.” 

“Don’t talk to me like that!” It’s louder than you intended, but honestly, you’re past caring who hears. 

He throws an arm to the side in a sharp, dismissive motion “You’re proving the point perfectly.” 

“I’m angry,” you say through gritted teeth “Not unstable. And you don’t get to say anything like that when you’re the one always switching up on me.” 

He steps closer. “Don’t. This is not about us.” 

You scoff. “Of course not. It never is, is it? Because that would mean you might have to admit something for once.” 

“We are not doing this here.” 

“Why not?” you demand. “Because it’s not on your terms?” 

He leans closer, his face inches from yours. You've never seen him look at you like this before. It’s pure anger. “I’m responsible for you here,” he says in a low voice. “So you do what I say. No. Exceptions.” 

You hold his stare. You’re about to tell him where to shove his ‘responsibilities’, but a tapping sound down the alley makes the words die in your throat. 

A tall man is approaching you both from the mouth of the alleyway, his silver cane striking against the stone as he moves. It looks like he’s gliding more than walking, dressed in high collared robes trimmed in silver, his long white hair gleaming even in the low light. He carries himself with a posture so effortless you can instantly tell he thinks he’s above everyone else. 

“Severus?” the man drawls, his voice rich and vaguely amused. “Causing a scene in Knockturn Alley? How uncharacteristic.” 

Snape straightens, schooling his expression in a split second. “Lucius.” 

The man’s eyes linger on you, sweeping over the length of you with faint interest. “I wasn’t aware you took students on private outings.” 

“School business,” Snape replies tightly. “Dumbledore’s orders.” 

Lucius arches a brow. “Of course.” His stare doesn’t waver from you. “Ah - Slytherins champion, am I correct?” 

You give him a small nod. 

“Yes... I’ve heard all about you.” His tone dips into something silkier. “Who hasn’t? They’re still whispering about that little stunt you pulled in the first task.” He pauses, then tilts his head. “Impressive work.” 

Snape steps forward just slightly, a silent barrier forming between you and the stranger. “Lucius,” he says again, more firmly. “Shall we?” 

Lucius nods. “By all means.” He sends you one last look. “A pleasure.” 

Snape turns to you, barking another order. “Stay here. Do not move.” 

And then he’s gone, following Lucius around the corner like nothing happened. 

And you’re left standing there alone in some back alley of the most dangerous place in the wizarding world. A place you don’t know. Suddenly surrounded by things and people you shouldn’t be near. 

You cross your arms, seething. Maybe you are feeling emotional. But it’s not for him to comment on. Especially when he’s the reason why you’re so fucking emotional in the first place. You can't believe he's just left you like that. You know he loves pretending you don’t exist, that he’s always looking through you unless it suits him, but this is something else. 

It’s enough to make you snap. 

You turn on your heel, pulling the hood back over your head and heading for the nearest side passage in the opposite direction. Anywhere that gets you as far away from him as possible. 

You’ll find this guy – whoever he is – by your damn self. 

The alley gets more disturbing the deeper you go.

Every shop you pass is more questionable than the last. Broken windows. Cages stacked with unknown creatures. Signs swaying in the breeze with their letters half missing. You even pass a man crouched in the curb of one of the doorways, gnawing on something unidentifiable and... stringy? He doesn’t even flinch when he sees you. He just grins with a bloody smile and keeps chewing. 

You dip your head lower and walk a little faster. 

More grim faced witches and hunched old wizards study you as you pass. Some of them greet you with over-friendly smiles, and others barely try to conceal their look of disdain for you. You haven’t decided which one makes you more uncomfortable. 

You keep your head firmly down, trying to remember the details Cedric told you about the guy you’re looking for. Only now, you’re realising what he said isn’t exactly helpful at all – he doesn’t run a shop. He looks like he’s up to no good. And if you look like you know what you’re after – he'll find you.  

If you make it out of here alive, you’ll be having words with him about what qualifies as ‘direction.’ 

The alley feels like it’s closing in on you now. You’re half tempted to call it quits and turn back, but the potion isn’t going to make itself, and if Snape finds you now you’ve ran off, he’ll take you straight back to Hogwarts empty handed. 

So, you keep walking.

The crowds have thinned by now to the occasional set of footsteps behind you or a door slamming in the distance, and your legs are starting to ache from all the walking you've done today.

After what feels like forever, a warm light catches your eye - a shop door slightly ajar, leaving a soft glow leaking out onto the pavement. Stepping closer, you try to peek inside without being obvious. The windows are covered in grime, but you can just about make out the witch behind the counter. She looks young, maybe a few years older than you, and far more approachable than anyone you’ve seen down here so far. 

You weigh up your options - you're kinda lost, exhausted, and this is the first vaguely human looking face you've seen for a while. Ultimately, you decide the risk is worth taking.

The witch looks up as you head inside. Her pale face and the heavy bags under her eyes give you the impression she hasn’t slept for days. Her blonde hair is tied into a messy braid over her shoulder, and her tired eyes sweep you over slowly. 

“Hi,” you say, forcing a smile. 

“What do you want?” she spits, pulling out a dark, wonky wand from her pocket. 

“Woah-” you step back fast, lifting both of your hands instinctively to show her you’re unarmed. “I- I’m just looking for someone.” 

Why did you have the bright idea to enter some back alley shop without your wand in your hand?  

She doesn’t lower her wand. If anything, she lifts it higher, aiming it just below your neck. Her fingers twitch around the wood like she’s not completely in control of herself. 

“Who sent you?!” she snaps, her voice loud and shaky. 

“What?” you blink. “No one – I'm not here to cause trouble.” 

“Names!” she demands, her eyes flaring wider. “Who sent you, damn it! I won’t ask again!” 

You take another careful, half step back, hands still raised. “Look, I’m just looking for a vendor. He sells potion ingredients. My friend said I can find him around here.” 

She’s shaking now, her voice dropping lower. “You’re lying.” Her eyes dart behind you to the door. “You shouldn’t be here,” she half whispers. “They’re watching...” 

Okay... that’s enough for you. 

“Right,” you say quickly, taking another step back. “Sorry, I- I'll go." 

You don’t wait around, quickly backing out of the door and only turning once you reach a safe enough distance away to avoid a curse in the back.  

After that, you avoid the shops entirely and spend a good few minutes trudging along the pavements again, glancing down each street for a sign of literally anything at all. 

But nothing stands out. 

You curse under your breath, leaning against a dilapidated wall. You’ve been down here for too long now. So long that every street looks the same. Leaving Snape was impulsive – reckless, as he’d put it - and you’re starting to wonder if it was worth it. 

Drawing in a shaky breath, you close your eyes for a second. When you open them again, something catches your eye. 

At the far end of the street, past a dingy little building with blown out windows, there's a dark gap in the wall. There’s no sign above it, but there is a crooked figure standing in opening, leaning against the bricks like they’re watching you. Waiting. 

They definitely weren't there a second ago.

Every bit of sense screams that this is a bad fucking idea, but it’s the only lead you’ve had so far. 

Keeping your head up and securing your hood, you cross the alley with a confidence you don’t feel. The closer you get, the tighter you grip your wand which is now hidden up your sleeve. There's no way you’re going in defenceless this time. 

The figure watches you approach – a man, half shrouded by the shadows, slouches against the wall with his arms tucked into sleeves clearly way too big for his slender frame. His skin is drawn tightly over his cheekbones, and there’s something weirdly twitchy about him. 

Why is everyone here so twitchy?  

“Looking for something?” he asks in a hoarse voice, like he hasn’t spoken for quite some time. 

He’s too gaunt. Too creepy. And he smells really bad, too. 

He stares back at you in offense, like he’s somehow just read your thoughts. “Well?” 

You snap out of it, pushing your head up higher. “I’m looking for a private vendor. Potion ingredients?” 

He leers at you. “You?”  

You ignore the condescension. “I heard about you from a friend.” 

“And what is it you think you need?” 

“Selkie lens oil. And some distilled gillyweed, if you have them.” 

The man frowns, looking down at you through strands of frail ashen hair that’s fallen over his face. “That’s rather expensive for a schoolgirl.” 

“I can afford it,” you counter, matching his tone. “And I’m not a schoolgirl.” 

He twitches again, like something just skittered beneath his skin. Honestly, in a place like this, it just might have. 

Without another word, he pushes himself off the wall, jerking his head back towards the hole in the wall. You don’t trust him at all, but you don’t have any other options, do you?

The hole opens up into a space that barely qualifies as a shop. It’s dark, and the air is thick with smoke and something coppery. The walls are lined with warped shelves, stacked unevenly with unlabelled jars, cracked vials, and broken boxes.  

It looks like half the stuff here has just been left to rot. 

The man shuffles around a makeshift counter – a plank of wood between two crates. Behind it, there’s a patch of wall where the shelves are neater and clearer, but still cluttered with questionable containers. 

Further in, you notice two men hunched around a table at the far back. One of them swirls a vial filled with something sickly and green. The other just stands there, staring at you. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you with the kind of look that makes you feel utterly unsafe. 

Your fingers tighten around your wand still concealed under your sleeve, thick with the sweat that slides down your palm. You pretend you haven’t noticed them, keeping your eyes on the one who brought you here. He’s already rummaging through the vials with shaky hands, almost knocking a few of them clean off the shelf in the process. 

Then, something smashes behind you. 

The crashing of glass to stone almost makes you jump out of your skin. Every instinct screams at you there and then to run, but you take a deep breath and force yourself to stay still, not turning around. 

It could be a trap. 

The man behind the counter turns back to face you again with an unsettling calm, like nothing just broke. He sets three vials down in front of him - two of the oil, one of the gillyweed. His hands stay hovered over them as if he thinks you might lunge forward and snatch them. 

“All I’ve got,” he says flatly. 

“How much?” you ask carefully. 

He strokes the vials, watching his own mellow fingernails scratch along the glass. “One fifty for the gillyweed. Two hundred for the oil. Each.” 

“Each?”  

He grins, showing teeth as yellow as his nails. “You want rare, you pay rare, sweetheart.” 

“Four hundred. For the lot.” 

His grin drops instantly, and he snorts through his nose – an ugly, unnerving sound. “I think you’ve got me confused with one of those knock-off alley rats, missy.” He leans closer over the counter, lowering his voice to a hushed whisper. “Try that again and I might just think you’re insulting me.” 

Your fingers twitch around your wand. You’ve come too far it to all go sideways now, but you’ll be damned if you let this sleaze knock you off and treat you like a child. 

“I only have four hundred,” you say, crossing your arms. “You want to haggle over a few galleons, be my guest. I’ll find someone else willing to sell to me.” 

It’s a bluff, but he doesn’t know that. 

His lips curl into something more calculated. “Got some bite on you, huh?” 

You don’t trust your voice to reply, steeling your expression instead. 

He exhales, then taps a finger on the vials. “Fine. Four hundred.” 

You drop the galleons onto the counter. He counts them quickly, sweeping them into one of his dusty palms before packing the vials into a brown paper parcel. You go to grab it when he slides it over to you, but he doesn’t get go, leaving you stuck staring into his red rimmed eyes. 

“I’d be careful if I were you,” he warns. “Girls like you don’t last long down here.” 

As soon as he lets go, you snatch the parcel and slip it into the pocket of your robes, turning swiftly to get the hell out of there as fast as you can. 

Only when you’ve made it back through the hole and a safe enough distance down the street do you turn to look back. 

You wish you hadn’t. 

He’s there again, watching you from the shadows. And worse – those two men are flanking him, staring you down like they’re waiting to see what direction you go in next. The sight chills you more than anything ever has, and you’re hit with the realisation that they could easily follow you. Overpower you.  

And you wouldn’t stand a chance. 

You turn quickly, blending yourself into the shadows behind some empty buildings, weaving yourself through the streets in erratic, messy directions to try keep out of sight and stay unpredictable. 

Only... now that you’re paying attention, everything looks different. The corners twist in on themselves, and nothing matches the path you took coming in. You head back to the way you think you came, only to find a street you're certain wasn’t here a few minutes ago. 

Shit- which way was it?  

You slow at the end of a darker street, catching your breath. You’re panicking now. There’s still nothing familiar. You head down another backstreet that’s more lit up, attempting to retrace your steps again but only feeling even further away the more you walk. 

You’re half jogging now, trying to keep your breath steady – until you catch something move in the darkness ahead. 

You skid to a stop. 

A man you don’t recognise steps out into your path. He’s tall, with dark, slicked back hair and nicer looking robes than a lot of the folk down here. He might pass for respectable anywhere else. But down here, it can only mean one thing. Power. Influence. Danger.  

You turn around to go back the way you came-  

But there's another. 

He’s shorter, a little older, and way closer than you’d like him to be. He’s blocking the path, twirling a wand between his fingers. 

You’re trapped. 

You step back automatically, brushing your back against the cold bricks to keep them both in your eyeline. 

“Evenin’,” the taller one stays, stepping closer. “Bit late for a stroll, innit?” 

You keep your mouth shut. 

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ down 'ere, then?” the other says, his eyes dropping lower. 

You flinch, the tiniest show of disgust slipping out. You clutch your wand tighter, as they move in closer.

“What do you want?” your voice wobbles, betraying you.

The first one laughs, deep and mocking. “Just a chat. Gets bloody dull round 'ere without...” he looks you up and down, wetting his lower lip with a flick of his tongue. “... interestin’ company.” 

At the same time, the other one reaches out for your hood. You pull away just in time. 

He grins. “Twitchy. That is cute.” 

You very almost pull your wand out then. But first, you try to inch sideways away from them. It’s no good – the taller one spots what you’re trying to do straight away and blocks you in with his arm, planting a palm flat against the stone next to your head. 

“You shouldn’t be out 'ere on your own,” he murmurs in your ear, his sour breath warm against your cheek almost making you again again. “We’ll keep you safe, yeah?” 

The panic that’s been simmering finally gives way to a full blown rage. 

“Get the fuck away from me,” you hiss, shoving at his chest. 

He stumbles back, clearly surprised. You pull your wand from your sleeve, pointing it at him, daring him to try you again.  

“Oh, look at that," the other one laughs cruelly, still somewhere off to your left. "She's got a wand. What d’you reckon she’s gonna do with that then?” 

The one you shoved is back again in a flash, grabbing your wrist before you can do anything. He wraps his fingers tightly around yours, deliberately crushing them against your wand.

He leans in close, so close you can smell the rot in his breath. "Come on, pet," he murmurs, licking his lips with a slow, deliberate grin. "Show us what that sweet little wand of yours can do."

You shove him again, harder. He staggers against the opposite wall, snarling at you with a predatory glare. 

“I said stay the fuck away!” you shout, aiming your wand dead at him. “I’ll do it! Don’t think I won’t!” 

Just then, you feel the unmistakable jab of a wand against your your own temple. 

Slowly, you turn your head. 

Through the fabric of your hood, you can see the smaller one is right beside you now with that same deviant smile stretched across his face. “Well?” he says smugly, cocking his head to the side. “What you gonna do now, pretty thing?” 

Your heart races. Your breathing stutters. You’re fully panicking now – pinned against the wall with a wand to your head. You’re never making it out of here. 

They’re laughing now. Loud and unrelenting, the sound going straight through you. But there’s something else under it. A faint whisper of a sound so quiet you think you might just be imagining it. It feels familiar, threading through your thoughts smoothly, like it knows the path of your mind. 

Rough fingers graze your cheeks. They’re touching you now, tailing their knuckles along your skin down to your neck, slow and possessive. You hone back into their voices for a second. Your heart drops when you realise what they're doing. They're picking which part of you to take first. 

“Fuck, she’s shaking.” The tall one says with a grin. “Don’t worry, love. We’ll take real good care of you.” 

You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to focus on the voice in your head instead. Anything but them. 

And then everything changes. You feel it before you hear it. The absence of their fingers on your face, the sudden empty air where someone was standing a breath ago.  

Then groans, low and pained. 

The whispers unravel too. Peeling back from the edges of your mind like they’ve done so many times in your dreams. You still can’t make out the words, but they feel like fingernails scratching the inside of your skull. 

You force your eyes open, and the whispers cease to exist. 

The men are gone too. They’re on the ground, one slumped awkwardly against a crate, a smear of blood on the bricks behind him. The other is coughing, pulling himself up with a snarl twisted on his face. Both of them are dazed. And furious. 

“You little bitch,” the tall one spits, wiping blood off his chin. “You’re fucking dead! You hear me?” 

You stumble backwards on the uneven cobblestones, trying to back out of the alley while you have the chance, but your legs barely move. You're breathing too frantically. Too panicked. Your chest is searing from the heat of it all. 

You don’t have time to process what the hell just happened. They’re getting up too fast.  

You’re already turning around, ready to run for your life. But just as you do, you crash into something hard. Before you can register what’s happening, hands grip your arms, locking you still. 

You don’t even have time to scream. The alley is already disappearing around you. 

You try to wrench yourself free, but whoever has you is too strong. Their hands are like iron around your arms, holding you so tightly you barely move as you’re sucked through a void of suffocating darkness. 

Your legs give out instantly, and you hit the ground face first. You can’t even lift your head – not with the way your heart is hammering and the way your body is still reeling from the force of the sudden apparition. 

You're not in the alleyway anymore. You can tell by the absence of rot and damp in the air alone. 

But your head hasn’t caught up. It’s still stuck there. Pinned under their weight with their hands on your face. Their rough fingers digging into your skin – trying to reach lower. Their warm, sour breath against your ear- 

You physically recoil, a small cry tearing from your throat. 

You’re still trying to settle yourself when you feel a light touch against your back. It’s barely anything, but it’s enough to remember you’re not alone. 

And to realise you're not just on the floor.  

A chest rises and falls beneath yours. Your face is pressed against what must be someone else's shoulder. 

Your eyes snap open. You’re on top of someone.

You scramble up so fast your head spins, bracing yourself for one of the alleyway wizards. Or maybe one of those sleazy suppliers.  

But it’s not anyone from the alley. 

It’s Snape.  

You’re half straddled over him, both of you sprawled on the floor of his office. His hair’s a mess from the sudden crash landing, dark strands clinging to his face. His breathing is just as ragged as yours, his chest is heaving beneath your hand - your hand which is currently planted flat against his chest, right over the racing of his heart. 

Neither of you move. 

You’ve never felt more relieved to see those eyes. The same cold eyes that always find yours first, even if they do look like they’d rather be anywhere else right now. 

“... Are you planning to stay there?” he asks at last.

It breaks the tension like a breath finally let out, and you feel your cheeks go hot.  

“Right,” you murmur, still breathless for entirely new reasons. You push yourself up, shifting off him awkwardly. “Sorry.” 

You brush yourself off, avoiding his gaze. 

“You’re trembling,” he says. 

He’s right. You hadn’t noticed it until now, but your arms are shaking from the left over adrenaline.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Fuck. I- I really thought you were someone else. I thought they-"

"They nearly did," he says quietly.

When you glance over at him again, he’s already on his feet. Already composed, standing next to the shelves. Like he hadn’t been on the floor with you on top of him a few seconds ago. 

“What were you thinking?” he says, sharper this time. “I told you to stay put. I warned you not to go off alone.” 

“You left me first," you reply, your voice still shaking. "Remember?”  

He doesn’t argue or deny it. 

“Who was that, anyway?” you ask. “That man you left me for?” 

He dips his head slightly, a clear signal that means he’s not going to tell you.

“Whatever,” you say, too tired to care about his stupid secrets right now. “Forget it.” 

You cross the room and drop into the chair next to his desk, skimming your hands over your thighs to shake the tremors from your skin. It barely works. Your fingers absently move, but your mind is already slipping back to the alley.

To the wall pressing into your back. The wand at your temple. The way you were stuck in there like a maze constantly folding in on itself - no way out.  

The scraping of wood on stone pulls you back. Snape’s dragging a chair closer to yours, setting it down opposite you with a sigh before he sits.

“Lucius Malfoy,” he says eventually. “He’s an old friend of mine. One I need to stay on the right side of, for reasons that are none of your concern.” 

The name rings a bell. 

“Draco’s father?” 

He nods once. “I didn’t know he would be there. I didn’t intend to leave you. And yes,” he looks at you directly, “I didn’t want him to see you."

He pauses, like there's more he wants to say. "He’s not someone I want near you.” 

You let his words settle between your frustration and the left over panic. 

Then, tentatively, he asks, “they didn’t... hurt you?” 

“No,” you say quickly, fiddling with the edge of your sleeve. 

He nods again. 

You glance down at your lap, twisting your fingers tighter into the hem. As you do, you feel the bulge of the parcel still stuffed in your pocket. In the heat of everything happening so fast, you completely forgot about it. Carefully, you pull it out, half expecting the vials to be crushed or broken. But they somehow survived the ordeal. You take a moment to check over them. 

“You found him?” Snape asks, watching you. 

“Yeah. Well,” you grimace, “he kinda found me.” 

“Found you?” 

“It’s a long story,” you say quickly, not remotely in the mood to relive the moments you almost got kidnapped or cursed. “I’m not sure if they’re genuine. It wasn’t exactly a shop, and he definitely tried to rip me off.” 

He leans closer, plucking one of the vials of oil from your hands. 

“Please tell me,” he says, his voice laced with that signature edge of disapproval, “you did not try to haggle with black market traders.” 

“I wasn’t about to let him take advantage” you confess. “And I didn’t exactly have his asking price. I gave him all I had.” 

He doesn’t look happy with your answer. 

“The point is I got them, okay?” you say quickly. “It seems I didn’t need your help after all.” 

He narrows his eyes at you. “Need I remind you that when I found you, you were halfway to being cursed into oblivion, or worse, by two alleyway snatchers? Or had that detail already escaped you?” 

You glare at him. “It had actually. But thanks for reminding me.” 

He shakes his head, turning back to the vials again. “They might be real,” he says, lifting the vial to the light. “They also might rot a hole through my cauldron. I’ll test them this evening.” 

You nod. “Okay.” 

He moves over to his desk, placing the vials down before glancing back over to you, still slouched in one of his armchairs. “It’s late. You missed dinner.” 

You shrug. “I’m not really hungry.” 

“That wasn’t a question,” he replies. “You look ready to fall over.” 

“So would you if you were having the day I’ve had,” you mutter. “Besides, I have detention soon.” 

"Detention?” he rolls his eyes. “What have you done this time?” 

“Almost killed Fred in herbology, apparently,” you sigh, rubbing a hand over your eyes. 

He gives you a look as close to amused you think he could ever get. “She’s punishing you for that?” 

You give him a tired smile. “Seems so. I have to go though, I can’t afford any more assignments. I already can’t keep up with the ones I have.” 

“You don’t need to push yourself so hard,” he says quietly. “You know you’re exempt from exams this year?” 

“I know... I just don’t want to fall behind. If I don’t keep up with everything, my head spirals too much.” 

“So you choose to exhaust yourself instead?” 

You shrug again. “It’s one or the other, and I’d prefer a clear head right now.” 

He doesn’t seem to warrant a response to that. Instead, he sits at his desk, shuffling through paperwork and rooting through his drawers. 

You push yourself up, understanding his silent cue – time for you to leave. 

“Sit down,” he says, not even looking up.

“What?” 

“I’ll inform Professor Sprout you’re serving detention with me.” 

You hesitate, still standing. “You don’t have to-” 

“I’m not doing you a favour,” he interrupts. “You’re a disaster tonight. You can barely walk straight, let alone follow Sprout’s instructions. You’ll only make things worse.” 

You stare at him, torn between silent gratitude and embarrassment. “I don’t need your pity, Sir.” 

“It’s not pity, Miss [Last Name]. Now sit.” He pulls out a stack of parchment, along with some ink and a quill, placing them at the opposite end of his desk. “Finish what you can.” 

You pause again for a second. Then you slowly push the chair closer to his desk and sink back down into it cautiously, half expecting him to tell you to move away. After all, he's never been this nice to you.

But he doesn’t. 

He sits himself back down at the other side and starts marking assignments, scratching red ink across the pages. You pretend to focus on the thick textbook he's let you borrow, flipping through the pages to find the one you need, but your eyes keep drifting up to where he's working.

His fingers move across the parchment, crossing lines through answers and scrawling notes at the edges. Every so often he'll scowl, like he's just read something stupid. You don't know how long you've been watching, but when he flips the paper over, his eyes flick up to you for just a second.

You don't look at him again after that. 

Eventually, you make a start on your own work. Potion assignments mostly since you don't have your other books with you. It's not herbology, but at least it's something to lessen the workload.

At some point, without noticing, a sandwich appears at the edge of your workspace. You glance at it, then over to Snape. He hasn't moved, he's still sat there working away. You don't know how it got there, but you tear it in half anyway and it eat it absently while you work, leaving the other half untouched.

When you finally finish your essays, you let out a groan and lean back in the chair. You’re so tired at this point.

You must have actually dozed off, because the next thing you know you're waking up to the sound of the bell signalling curfew. It draws you out of your sleep slowly, and you stretch out your back with a wince.

Snape's still across the desk. He doesn't say anything when you move to get up, just stands when you do. Neither of you speak as he moves past you to open the door, holding it for you like it's any other evening and you didn't just fall asleep in his office. And he let you.

Just before you step out, he reaches into his robes and pulls out a small glass vial filled with a purple swirling liquid.

“Take it before you sleep,” he says quietly, not quite looking at you as he hands it over. “You may need it tonight.” 

You look down at the vial. 

Dreamless sleep.  

Chapter Text

“So, how was detention?”  

Fred's already making himself at home next to you, sprawling himself across the bench and leaving you squished at the edge. George follows suit, leaning against the wall on your other side while he peels an orange. Up until now, your day was going okay, mostly thanks to the proper nights sleep you had last night, curtesy of Snape. Everything else that happened yesterday has been stuffed into that quiet little nook in your head reserved for all the things you're not ready to deal with yet.

“Great, actually,” you say, shoving Fred's dirty shoe off your leg. “Thanks for asking.” 

“That bad, huh?” George asks, amused.

You shrug. “Let’s just say it didn’t exactly go how I thought it would.” 

Fred grins. “Sprout made you repot those seedlings?” 

“Sure. Something like that.” You avoid his eyes, keeping your expression as normal as you can while stretching your legs out in front of you. “Anyway, you were the one who faceplanted the tray. How’s your ego holding up?” 

“It’s bruised,” he says solemnly. “Still got soil in my ears, too.”  

He prods a finger in one and pulls it out to inspect. 

“You’re disgusting,” you laugh, shoving his leg again. 

George smirks, flicking a piece of orange peel at Fred. “Anyway, heard from this idiot you’ve finally agreed to be our tester.” 

“What?” 

“For our new line of products,” Fred adds helpfully. “You said you’d do it yesterday, remember? Don’t back out now. You’ll hurt our feelings.” 

Oh, yeah. You did agree to that. 

You groan, dropping your head back against the bench. “Alright. Remind me what I have to do again?” 

“Well,” George begins, popping a segment into his mouth. “As you know, we’re in the development stages of a very advanced line of sweets that’ll get you out of class. Nose bleeds, puking, dramatic fainting - the lot.” 

“But you’re not testing those, as such,” Fred cuts in. “You’ll be our tester for the cures.” 

You wince. “You want me to eat the sweets, get sick, and then... there's a chance I might get better?” 

Fred beams. “Exactly! But you’ll be totally fine. Worst case, you spend an hour in the hospital wing. No biggie."

“Seriously?” 

Fred shrugs, and you shoot him a look before turning to George. He’s the more reasonable one, you’ve come to realise. “And you’re sure these 'antidotes' will end up working?” 

“Almost,” George says. 

You snort, lifting your head and folding your arms. “Fine. But I’m not taking anything from you two until after the second task.” 

“You don’t trust us?” Fred says playfully, nudging you with his foot. 

“Not even a little,” you reply sweetly. “And I'll need all my organs functioning if I want to survive it, thank you very much.”

George nods thoughtfully. “Fair enough. How’s prep going anyway?” 

You hesitate. You can’t be bothered explaining the potion, and you don’t really want to think about anything related to that line of your life right now. 

Luckily, you’re saved from it. 

Cedric’s voice breaks through the courtyard, calling your name. He jogs over, windswept and breathless. “Did you guys see what happened at dinner last night?” 

George chokes on his orange, laughing. “Oh, we saw.” 

You frown. “Wait what? What happened?” 

Fred leans in, his eyes twinkling in that mischievous way. “Karkaroff lost it. Like, full volume, threatening hexes meltdown.” 

Your mouth hangs open. “No way.” 

“Yeah,” Cedric says, “he got into it with Krum in front of everyone. Started yelling something in Russian and everything. Dumbledore had to step in.” 

“Didn’t help much though, did he?” Fred adds.

George tips his head. “He stormed out. Whole hall went silent. It was incredible.” 

You make a face, somewhere between a pout and a scowl. “Why does all the good stuff happen when I’m not there?” 

Fred turns to you. "Where were you?” 

You pause, trying to think of something fast. “Had to catch up on some stuff,” you say vaguely. “Potions. Boring.” 

Fred smirks again. “Right. Boring. Just catching up with a certain professor, yeah?” 

George perks up instantly. “Snape? You have been going mysteriously quiet when someone mentions his name lately.” 

You roll your eyes. “Shut up, you idiots.” 

Thankfully, the bell rings before they can come up with any more nonsense. You head to potions with Cedric, arriving before most of the others. You're halfway through pulling out your textbooks when you notice him staring at you with what can only be described as a very creepy grin. 

That's never a good sign.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

He raises his eyebrows. “You said you were busy with potion stuff yesterday. You went to Knockturn, didn’t you?” 

You sigh, dropping the books on the desk with a thud. “Yeah, I went.” 

“And?” 

You glance around. No sign of Snape yet. “And you’re shit at giving directions!” you say under your breath. “I wandered around for ages, nearly got lost, and only then did this guy ‘find me’.” 

Just saying it out loud makes your stomach churn again.

Cedric stifles a laugh. “Hey, I told you he’s strange. That’s just how he does stuff.” 

“Right,” you mutter, setting your bag down on the floor. “Would've been helpful to mention he’s also a total creep.” 

The grin fades from his face. “Wait, what?” 

“He made me follow him into a hole in the wall... that lead to this place where two other guys were just watching,” you say, lowering your voice as more of the class start to file in. “It felt more like some weird den than anything. And, get this, he even tried to over charge me by loads.” 

Cedric looks confused. “Hang on. Hole in the wall?” 

“Yeah...?” 

“Was it near the White Wyvern?” 

“What? No.” 

He frowns. “That’s... not right. The guy I meant usually works out of a back room near the pub. Bit sketchy, sure, but not like that. I said he’d find you in the street, but-” 

The classroom door slams closed. 

Snape sweeps into the room, his robes flaring around him as he heads straight for the front without looking at anyone. 

You try to ignore the way something in your chest flutters. 

“Open your textbooks. Page two hundred and nineteen,” he snaps, swishing his wand at the board behind him. “Today you’ll be brewing a memory potion. Useful, though clearly wasted on most of you," he pauses, sweeping his eyes over the class. "And let me be absolutely clear: anyone foolish enough to use it during exams will be expelled."

Everyone gets into motion, moving around the room to gather what they need. You and Cedric grab your own stuff and start working in silence. It’s an easy-ish brew, so you claim the job of preparing the ingredients before he can offer. 

As you work, your thoughts start drifting to the alley, the direction Cedric gave you and the fact you were nowhere near the White Wyvern. You can't even remember him telling you that part. 

Now the preparation is done, you sit with your chin propped in your hand, staring at the gold liquid swirling around inside the cauldron. Lost in your thoughts.

Cedric turns to you. “You don’t think...” he starts, hesitantly. “You met the wrong guy, do you?” 

You turn to face him slowly. “I don’t know. Have you actually ever met him?” 

Cedric shakes his head. “No. My father’s mentioned him. Says he’s young, decent enough if you don’t piss him off. What did your guy look like?” 

You make a disgusted face. “Old. Corpse level old. Like, it genuinely looked like he was about to die any second. And he smelled like... well, like he already had.” 

Cedric stares at you, and then he bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, no” he laughs, trying to cover his mouth with his hand. “You're joking.” 

“I’m not!” you say, barely resisting your own grin. “God, you’re as bad as the twins for getting me into trouble.” 

He laughs harder. “I can’t believe you ended up at a completely different dealer-” 

“I could’ve died!” you hiss, but now you’re laughing too because the whole thing is just completely ridiculous, and if you don't laugh, you’ll probably cry. “I’m never trusting anything you say again. I hope you know that.” 

He raises his hands. “Alright, fair enough. But hey, you got what you needed. That's the main thing.” 

You’re both still laughing when a shadow casts over your bench. 

You glance over your shoulder, and there he is. Snape doesn’t speak right away, just looks down into your cauldron with his usual disdainful expression. 

“You clearly find this all very amusing,” he says at last, silencing you both. “Unfortunately for you, I’m less entertained.” With a wave of his wand, the cauldrons flame cuts out. “And that is not what this potion is supposed to look like.” 

You look down. The once smooth golden liquid has thickened into something tacky and bubbling, like it’s seconds away from tar. 

“Shit,” you mutter, grabbing the stirring rod in a futile attempt to fix it. It’s no use. It’s beyond saving. 

“I expected better from the both of you,” he says, displeased. 

“Sorry, sir,” Cedric offers quickly. “That was me. I was the one stirring.” 

Snape doesn’t even hesitate. “Five points from Hufflepuff,” he says, ignoring Cedric’s protest. Then his eyes cut to you. “And you, detention this evening. Since you clearly have energy to spare today, you can use it scrubbing this mess.” 

You bristle. “But-” 

His look shuts you down immediately. It’s not a warning, per se, but you know what it means. 

He wants to see you tonight. 

“Understood?” 

"Yes, sir.” 

He turns and sweeps away without another word. 

Cedric nudges you. “At least he doesn’t know where you were yesterday,” he whispers, grinning again. “Bet he’d give you more than detention for that.” 

You smile faintly, thinking - oh, he absolutely knows. In fact, he’s the one who saved you, let you stay in his office until late, and didn't shove you off when you landed on top of him. 

Nope. That’s not something you’ll ever tell anyone. 

As class ends, you draw out the process of packing up your stuff, hovering just long enough to be the last one to hand in your written work. Cedric waits by the door, throwing you a curious look. You give him a small nod to let him know you haven't forgotten your plan to sit with him and Cho this evening. 

When you reach the front, Snape doesn't look up. He slides a folded piece of parchment across the desk towards you without a word. You trade it for yours without saying anything, tucking it into your sleeve before walking away.

Cedric walks beside you as you head up to the Great Hall together. He doesn't mention the delay, too busy talking about something that happened in the Hufflepuff common room last week.

Their table is quieter than Slytherins, and certainly more so than Gryffindors with the twins holding court. But it’s more than welcome. It's calm, especially with Cho sitting nearby. 

Cedric’s already deep into the story, recounting your Knockturn Alley misadventure. Cho, unsurprisingly, looks horrified by it all. You do your best to assure her you're fine, like smiling at Cedric's very unfunny jokes. You don't want to make him feel bad for it, it's not his fault, and it's easier than remembering the way you could have vanished down there and no one would have known where to look.

All the while, you can feel the note burning a hole up your sleeve. 

You wait until the conversation shifts to something quiet between the two of them before slipping your hand under the table. Easing the parchment free, you check to make sure they haven't noticed, then slowly unfold the note on your lap. 

My office. After dinner. Bring everything.  

Bring everything. You assume he means the ingredients, because what else would it mean? 

Before you can stop them, your eyes shift over to the staff table. He’s already looking you, and he doesn’t look pleased. 

Then again... when does he? 

Well. Maybe tonight’s the night he finally lays into you for what happened yesterday. Maybe he’s waited until you’re no longer shaking and falling apart to scold you. 

Your lips feel like they're in shreds since you've been chewing them raw all the way here without realising. You don't even know why you're so nervous, it's not like you haven't been in his office, alone with him, more times than you can count now. You just can't get over the way last night felt so different. Any normal person would be more concerned with the fact you were almost killed, but no, your stupid brain only wants to fixate on what came after. How he was... almost kind. Instead of kicking you out. 

Would he have just done that for any other student? Was it just a duty of care?

After standing outside for way too long, too hung up on that thought, you finally make yourself step inside. He’s seated behind the desk when you enter, his attention fixed on a roll of parchment in front of him.

“I’ve set up a station for you,” he says, simply. “Start when you’re ready.” 

A small table has been pulled into the back corner of the room, separate from the main workbench. Atop it, a cauldron simmers over a pale blue flame with your ingredients lined up neatly beside it, along with glassware, tools, and your notes - now marked with his own handwriting .

“I’ve reviewed your draft,” he adds. “I made some minor adjustments. Next time, spare yourself the trouble and keep Diggory's hand out of it."

You pick up the notes, reading over his clean annotations. He’s drawn lines through some of the things Cedric added, which makes you snort quietly. Annoyingly, the changes do make sense. 

“Thanks,” you murmur, barely audible.  

“You don't have the luxury of time,” he continues as if you didn’t already know that. “A successful brew will take no less than three days to stabilise. If you're lucky.” 

“Three days?” you frown, turning to him. “That’s... close.” 

His eyes finally shoot up to yours, just for a second. “Then I suggest you get on with it.” 

As soon as he looks back down, you roll your eyes lightly and turn away yourself. Whatever tenderness existed between you two last night clearly isn’t welcome here. 

You pull out what you need - the container of frostnettle and a jar of the essence you bartered for from Valeria earlier this morning. The blood, selkie oil and gillyweed essence are already set out. 

“The oil is pure," his voice cuts in again while you're sorting through it all. "The gillyweed is poorly distilled, but it should still do.” 

You nod silently. At least that's one less thing to worry about.

For a moment, you just stare at everything, feeling the sudden pressure of it all. Now you know there's not much room for error, your focus is starting to fray under the stress of it all. 

You don’t have time to overthink this.

Forcing yourself into it, you start with the base. A quick glance at your notes shows Snape has adjusted the dosage from a quarter vial to half, so you follow it. Measuring it out, you slowly add it to the water he's already preheated for you, stirring it anti-clockwise five times in thirty second intervals and tracking each one by watching the clock just above his desk. 

Once that’s done, you set it aside to thicken and move to preparing the frostnettle, picking out the strongest stems. Without your gloves, you have to handle them delicately, avoiding the leaves. The last thing you need is to come out in a rash right now.  

You’re deep in concentration, slicing the stalks carefully when his voice comes from behind you. 

“Angle your wrist more. You’re bruising the core that way.” 

It makes you jump, and you narrowly miss severing your whole thumb. 

“I know how to cut plants,” you mutter under your breath, subtly adjusting your hold on the blade.  

“Evidently.” 

You glare at him over your shoulder, but he isn’t phased by it. He stays behind you, like he doesn’t trust you not to make a mess of it. Even though it’s your work, and he's clearly approved of your process. 

You try to ignore him. 

Adding three of the cores to the cauldron, you stir it clockwise slowly until the mixture shifts from blue to a soft amber. 

You perch on the edge of your stool, leaning over to measure out the next step. The gillyweed – two drops only. Any less, it’ll be ineffective. Any more, and you risk sprouting gills permanently. You’re not sure you could handle that on top of everything else. 

Skimming back over your notes, you trace your finger over the page to make sure you’re getting this absolutely correct. 

“There’s something I wish to discuss with you,” Snape says suddenly. 

You glance back, feeling your stomach already tightening. He’s moved a bit farther away, pacing the middle of the room.  

“About last night.” 

Your thoughts immediately scatter in ten different directions. Last night? Which part?  

“The alley,” he clarifies. “The... spell.” 

You narrow your eyes. “The spell?” 

“Yes. The one you used on the snatchers," he's watching you cautiously now. "Don't pretend you don't know what I mean.” 

You swivel around on the stool, facing him fully. “I thought that was you?” 

He gives you a flat look. “It certainly was not me."

“That’s... not possible,” you say slowly. “I think I’d know if I cast something. I didn't even say anything-” 

“You didn’t speak, no,” he cuts in. “But your wand was raised. The spell, whatever it was, emanated from you.” He pauses before continuing. "I was about to intervene. And then... I realised I didn't need to."

You turn away from him back to the cauldron, keeping quiet. Your head is on fire with the reminder of that night, but you push past it all, adding the two drops to the potion. It turns green and hisses softly – just as Snape wrote it would. 

“Did you feel anything?” he asks, coming up beside you. “A pull?” 

You stir the potion slowly.

“Did your wand feel different?” he presses. “Anything that relates to the first task, perhaps?” 

You snap your head towards him. “It wasn’t like that,” you say quickly. “It can’t have been.” 

But your thoughts are piling up – it was the same. The whispers, the silence before the spell hit. And your wand. It had been in your hand both times. 

Snape’s gaze sharpens on you. “Then something must have provoked it,” he says in a low voice. “Are you absolutely certain you didn’t feel anything unusual?” 

You shake your head. 

“I cannot help you figure this out if you keep things from me." 

You look back up at him. He’s just starting to trust you again and he even gave you the space to work here in his office. He’s finally treating you like you’re capable. You can't let that go again. You can't tell him. 

“There wasn’t anything," you say softly. "It was probably just the panic.” 

As always, he doesn't look convinced. But he lets it go.

“Fine, forget it. Finish the potion.” 

You nod, feeling a singe of guilt for lying to him, but reach for the salamander blood and uncap it gently. You know this one already – four drops in three second intervals. On the second drop, the mixture darkens into a deep grey. The surface turns sticky, fizzing over the rim of the cauldron. Snape's already moving before you can act, cutting out the flame with a wave of his wand.

“That was not five seconds.” 

“Five?” you argue, pointing at the notes. “It's three.” 

He points just above it to a note he's made himself. “I altered it.” 

“Shit,” you say quietly, rubbing your forehead with your fingers. You’re too distracted now. 

“We have room for error, but do not rely on it,” he says, vanishing the mess. “Focus this time.” 

He sets up a new cauldron for you, settling it into the stand. You watch as he unexpectedly starts to set up everything else for you too, placing the ingredients in sequence and adjusting the flame.

It’s strangely calming, watching him work. 

“Lucky I’ve got you as my assistant after all,” you tease lightly, daring a look over to him with a small smile. 

He doesn’t look at you. But the faintest shift of his mouth tells you he heard it. Tolerated it, even. 

“Get back to work.” 

That attempt ends up being a disaster too. You manage to get as far as adding the oil on the third day, but you must have added it too early after casting the stasis charm, because the minute it hits the cauldron, the whole thing curdles into a sludgy mess. 

You’re furious. Even more so because Snape’s been standing beside you the entire time and doesn’t say a word. You’re fairly sure he wasn’t even watching. 

Strangely, he doesn’t scold you for it. He vanishes the mess without comment and sets up a fresh cauldron like it’s nothing. That’s when something changes. 

At first, you think it’s just his patience wearing thin. The second task is less than a week away, and you’ve basically taken over half of his office. Your notes are scattered everywhere, even encroaching onto his own workspace. You assume he’s more focused because he wants you gone as fast as possible. 

On the third attempt, your hands feel like lead and your legs ache from a full day of classes while still trying to look after the potion whenever you can. That evening, he offers, in that cool tone of his, to finish the stirring for you so you can go back to your dorm and sleep. 

For once, you don’t argue. 

You regret that choice the instant you return to it the next morning, because the entire thing is ruined. The colour is wrong, and it smells sour and disgusting. It didn’t look like that when you left it. 

Naturally, you blame him. You’re convinced he botched it after you left. He denies it, of course. Claims you added something he hadn’t seen before he took over. 

Your anger doesn’t last long. Mostly because he’s already starting a new batch for you with some fresh frostnettle in his hands. He even leaves your notes sprawled out in the way you keep assuring him is the best way for you, instead of stacking them into neat, annoying piles like he usually does when you’re not around. 

He hasn’t brought up the alley again either, which you’re grateful for. You don’t want to talk about it, especially not with him. You can tell he wants to, though, because you’ve caught him staring at your wand again more than once – usually when you’re distracted, twirling it in your fingers while waiting for the potion to simmer. It’s frustrating. It feels like the trust you hoped you got back from him is fading again. 

Despite it all, he’s present now in a way he’s never been. He stands close behind you, muttering corrections under his breath when you need them, sometimes leaning a little too close. It distracts you – Merlin, it distracts you – and you’re almost certain he knows it, because how couldn’t he? 

Either way, you haven’t mentioned any of it. You’ve told yourself it’s probably still the guilt from the brew he messed up, or maybe it’s the time limit that’s finally pushing the stakes too high for him not to help you. 

But that small, traitorous part of you hopes that it might be for another reason. 

Today marks the day before the next task. You’ve been holed up in Snape’s quarters for most of the day, watching over the potion. He had the idea to move it in here earlier so you could still keep an eye on it while he helped you with another mind clearing session. Your last one before tomorrow.

Now, you’re sat cross-legged on the rug, your outer robes discarded to just your blouse and skirt, eyeing the slow bubbling of the potions surface. It’s still suspended by a faint stasis charm to ensure the cooling period is slow and effective to avoid destroying the fragility of it. It’s going well. There’s only an hour or so until it should be complete. 

The session has just ended, and for once, you’re actually not feeling so cracked open afterwards. Your thoughts had been full to bursting point when he started  - still brimming with the aftershocks of Knockturn Alley, and the whole emotional storm brewing over the potion and the failed attempts. You barely had the energy to guard yourself this time, but you hadn’t felt him digging too much either. He’d stayed at the edge of your thoughts, helping to reorganise them rather than probing. 

You stifle a small yawn as you stretch your legs out across the rug. 

“You should sleep,” Snape says quietly. “You’ll need it.” 

Your eyes move up to him. He’s still sat opposite you, observing you. “I could say the same thing to you.” 

His eyes are dark around the edges, and you can tell he’s been sleeping less these last few days. You suspect he’s been watching the potion during the nights, though he hasn’t admitted that fact to you. 

“I’m not leaving,” you add, crossing your legs again. “I don’t trust you not to ruin it again now it’s this close to being done.” 

He arches a brow at you. “I told you that was not my doing.” 

You give him a look – a quiet smile that says exactly what you think of that. 

He doesn’t appreciate it, because his mouth twists in visible offence. “Don't look at me like that. You ignored my instructions and clearly added something incorrectly. Frankly, I'd say it’s down to the fact you can’t seem to keep your eyes open in my office these days.” 

“Maybe you shouldn’t keep letting me in there then,” you retort, not being able to help your smile growing wider at the way he looks so irritated. 

His nostrils flare. “If you don’t stop speaking, I’ll throw you out right now. Regardless of the potions state.” 

You laugh, and, as it’s been lately, he doesn’t snap back. He doesn’t scowl. There’s a new rhythm settling between you both. Something strange and precarious. 

He looks away from you to the fire. The light dances in his eyes, catching on something beneath them – tired, yes, but still burning. You always wonder what he’s thinking in times like this. 

If maybe he’s thinking about you.  

You move a little closer, testing the edge. His eyes find yours again at the sudden movement, throwing you a questioning look. 

“Can I try?” 

He narrows his eyes. “Try?” 

“Legilimency.” 

His answer is immediate. "No."

You tilt your head, the smile creeping back onto your face. "Oh, come on."

"Absolutely not."

"You don't think I could?"

“I know you couldn't.” His voice sharpens instantly. “And I'm not letting you fumble through my head to prove it. You're a sufficient nuisance without invading my thoughts." 

Rude.

“Maybe I have a gift for it," you shrug. 

“Unlikely," he disagrees, "and even if you did, I am not volunteering." 

"Just for a second?"

"No."

You pause. And then, very deliberately, you say, "I might not be here after tomorrow. The least you could do is give me this."

It’s a cruel card to play, but you don’t care. And going by the shift of his expression, you've clearly hit something.

"Don’t joke about that,” he warns. 

But you don’t let up. 

“If I see anything, what would it matter?” you murmur, your eyes trailing down to the floor for added effect. “I’ll be at the bottom of the lake, won’t I? Whatever secrets I find, they’ll be down there with me.” 

"Merlin,” he mutters under this breath. “You really are insufferable.” 

You glance up through your eyelashes, throwing him the most innocent look you can manage. “Please?” 

He stares you down for a bit longer, then exhales slowly, a breath that sounds more like defeat than agreement. “One attempt. And only to put an end to this nonsense.” 

You grin, scooting a little closer to him. “You have to be fair though. Give me a chance.” 

He adjusts himself, straightening his posture as if he’s trying to show you he’s the one back in control. 

“Look at me,” he says. 

You give him a puzzled look. “I am.” 

“Not at my face,” he says sharply. "Through it. Focus." 

“What does that even mean?" 

“It means Legilimency isn’t about brute force," he says in a tone that suggests you should already know. "It’s precision. Stillness. You find the thread, even if you don't understand it, and you follow it."

Your eyes narrow. “That makes no sense.” 

He gives you the driest look. “If you spent half as much time focusing as you do arguing with me, you might understand."

You don't get a chance to respond to that.

"Open your mind,” he says, softer now. “Let everything else fall away.” 

You watch his eyes close, followed by the subtle shift of his facial features. He’s clearly working through something inside that head of his – not that you can even begin to guess what. 

You take a deep breath, then close your own eyes. 

It doesn't come easily. At first, it's just the strain in your shoulders and the ache behind your eyes from trying too hard. You don't even know what exactly it is that you're searching for, he wasn't very good at explaining that part. All you know is that you're trying, searching through the darkness for the threads of him.

And then, just for a split second, you think you might be feeling something. A thought, drifting past that definitely wasn't yours. Whatever it was, it was snatched away before you could touch it. 

Your shoulders sink as you let out the breath you've unconsciously been holding. When you open your eyes, he's leaning back on his hands with his head cocked to the side, taking you in with a rather relaxed look that say's he's been like that for a while now.

“Have you been watching me this entire time?” you ask, suddenly feeling self conscious.

“Don't flatter yourself,” he says dryly. “I opened my eyes and found yours so aggressively scrunched, I thought you might rupture something. It was... impressive. The most concentration I’ve seen you muster, dare I say.” 

You scowl at him. “You’re such a cheat. You didn’t even give me a real chance.” 

“I believe I gave you several minutes.” 

“Yeah, while you were sat there silently judging me," you mutter. "I swear I was onto something, too.” 

He raises one brow raising in that maddening, challenging way. 

You're not so easily deterred. “Let me try one more time.” 

He sighs again, long and drawn out. "Very well," he says, even though you can hear the reluctance in his voice. "Once more. But this time, it's on my terms."

As he straightens up, you clear your throat, lifting your hands nervously.

“Can I?" you ask awkwardly, and then quickly add, "you did say it can help with the connection, and I'll get the full experience.” 

His eyes drop to your hands. For a second, you’re worried you've pushed your luck. But after a long pause, to your utmost surprise, he dips his head in the smallest nod. 

His reaction stuns you. You hadn't expected him to agree to any of this, especially not that. 

You reach up, slowly, just in case you imagined it. Your fingers stay suspended in the air next to his head for a little longer before you finally rest them against his temples, your palms skimming the lines of his cheekbones. 

His skin is surprisingly warm for someone like him. 

He doesn’t flinch. In fact, he doesn’t move at all. He’s watching you, completely still, and this, you realise, is the closest you’ve ever been to him. It feels so different to the times he’s touched you in this way. 

Your breathing comes in shallow, fluttering against your ribs like something desperate to be freed. You inch closer to manage the distance you’re having to lean, and he mirrors it subtly, closing the space so you don’t have to stretch so far. 

He closes his eyes, and you follow. 

You clear your mind again, but it’s harder this time. You're distracted by everything. The impossible warmth of his skin beneath your hands. The faint, familiar scent of his robes. The fact he’s letting you touch him at all. The way he’s letting you inside his head.  

How did you get here? With him, the one person who knows every part of you, and never once let you see a single part of him. Who told you he didn't owe you that. And now, here he is, offering it to you.

For a moment, all you can do is feel the gravity of it all.

This time, it doesn’t take as long for something to appear. A presence greets you, softly, like fingers trailing through water. He’s not resisting you; he’s helping you. Guiding you forward into his thoughts. 

His mind unfolds before you like a library. It’s so quiet, so neat and tidy. You almost laugh at the comparison to your own – where your thoughts tangle like vines and stack like clutter on a shelf, his are arranged and organised.

He shows you flashes of his day. A brief conversation with Sprout. A lecture in his classroom. A memory of him walking the corridors alone. It’s all routine things, familiar things. Things he’s letting you see. 

You try to push a little deeper, gently testing how far he’ll let you go - if he'll let you move around at all. His resistance starts to bleed through quickly as soon as you try to derail from what he's showing you, applying pressure to hold the doors closed.

He’s telling you firmly: no.   

You should stop. But this is the closest you’ll probably ever get to knowing anything real about him, and you’ve learned a few sneaky tricks from him and his time inside your head. You don’t go for what he gives, you search subtly for something he’s most recently visited and subsequently isn't so fiercely guarded – a tactic you’ve noticed him pulling on you. 

There's not much, but as you narrow your focus, you eventually pull on something. The door swings open faster than you expected. 

And suddenly, you’re inside a memory. 

You're inside his office. He’s at your side, standing close. The sleeves of your blouse are rolled up to your elbows, and your hair is scraped back messily. It’s late, you remember the tiredness behind your eyes this day. 

You remember this moment.

You’re at the final stage of the potion, about to add the selkie lens oil. You know what happens next – you add it too soon and the whole thing spoils.

And he doesn’t stop you.  

You feel your heart start to race as you watch it all unfold, catching the way you move in the memory. You're not watching this from your view, you're seeing it all through his eyes.

He’s not even looking at the cauldron. He’s watching you. The way you’re so deep in focus, brushing a stray strand of hair behind your ear. The faint flush of your cheeks from the warmth of the brew. The way you tilt your head, concentrating on the one thing he missed.

You're completely unaware of his attention. Just as he is of your mistake.

The memory abruptly distorts, the connection severing with a violent snap as his face draws back from your hands. 

Your eyes fly open, your head instantly throbbing from the force of him throwing you out. His dark eyes freeze you in place. And now, all you can think about is what you just saw. It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but it was enough to burn itself into you.

A whole memory of you, untouched, exactly as he saw you. You, through him. 

His breath touches yours in the narrow space between you, and in it, you see everything. The fracture in his mask he’s always hiding himself behind. The rawness in his eyes. It feeds whatever it is that’s been blooming in your chest for a while now. 

You shouldn't. But the way he's looking at you feels like an invitation.

Before you lose your nerve, and before he can even think of putting space between you, you lean in closer until your lips are ghosting over his in the whisper of a kiss. 

His breath stutters, and in that horrifying second, your heart drops. You’ve made a terrible mistake. He’s going to pull away. He’s going to think you’re insane. 

You almost pull back first, flushed with embarrassment - until his hand lifts. His fingertips trail along your jaw with the same, gentle touch he gave your scar at the yule ball. The sensation you’ve been craving ever since. 

It sets a fresh wave of butterflies free in your stomach. 

Your noses brush as he closes the distance, pressing his lips against yours softly. The world around you falls away. His hand cradles your jaw, tilting your head to fit more comfortably against him. His other hand hovers at your waist, barely touching the fabric of your blouse. 

The way his mouth moves against yours makes you feel hot and dizzy. You shouldn’t be doing this - but nothing has ever felt so right. 

Your fingers move instinctively, sliding around to the back of his neck and into the soft, dark hair there. The silky strands slither through your knuckles, allowing you to give the faintest tug, drawing a rough sound from deep in his chest, muffled against your mouth. 

And that’s all it takes for the restraint to shatter. 

His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer like he can’t bear the distance he’s so insistent on setting between you. Your knees bump his awkwardly, but you don’t care. Neither does he. His tongue traces your upper lip, igniting sparks under your skin. When you let him in, his tongue sweeps against yours with a quiet devotion, as if he’s learning a whole new layer of you. 

You’re so, utterly lost in the heat of him. Even though somewhere in the back of your mind, you know it will soon come to an inevitable end. 

And then, as if the universe is listening to every thought- 

The cauldron hisses, like it’s condemning you for the moment you’re sharing. 

Your lips break apart instantly as the both of you snap your heads towards the sound. Steam curls up from the cauldron in a thick ribbon. Your potion is frothing violently. 

Your heart sinks. 

You try to move, but you're still tangled together - your fingers buried in his hair, his own hands still holding you in place. When his eyes meet yours again, something twists. Suddenly, his hands drop away as if scorched by the mere sight of you. You pull back from him too, and before you know it, you're rushing over to the cauldron with a dozen thoughts raging through your head.

The potion's overheated. Your stasis charm must have slipped.

Snape appears beside you. He watches you reach for your wand to recast the charm - but before you can, he moves to stop you. His hand gets half way to your wrist when he pulls back suddenly, his fingers curling into a fist as it drops back to his side.

"I'll handle it." 

He resets the stasis charm and the potion stops bubbling, settling back into its usual calm swirl. He slips the rod from your fingers without touching you, guiding it through the mixture – once, twice. There's a faint tremor in his movements. 

“Is it ruined?” you ask, desperately. Breathlessly.

“It’ll stabilise.” He places the rod down slowly onto the table. “We caught it just in time.” 

You breathe out, relieved. The silence that follows, however, is almost haunting. The potion has settled, but you haven’t come close. Your heart is still racing, your lips still tingling from the absence of his.  

You risk a glance over at him as the reality sets back in, but he’s not looking at you. He’s staring down into the cauldron, his face hidden from the fall of his hair, but the way his fists are still tightly clenched by his side tell you everything. 

He’s angry. 

“...Professor?” 

You don’t know what you’re about to say. An apology? Or maybe you just need him to look at you. To see if he regrets it. 

He almost turns around. Instead, his voice cuts through the silence, loud and sharp. “Do not call me that." 

It stings. He's never raised his voice at you like this.

Then, he’s moving. He uncorks one of the clean vials on the table with a swift motion, bottling the potion. As soon as the stopper is in place, he sets it down on the table so harshly it’s a wonder it didn’t shatter from the force of it. 

And he still can’t look at you. 

“Take it,” he says coldly, already moving away. “And leave.” 

“Wait- I-” 

“Get. Out.” 

Chapter Text

They always say your first kiss should leave something behind. Something you'll carry with you forever. And maybe, in some way, whatever happened with Jakob at the lake did that. Not because it was right, but because it proved to you that some things aren't. 

It hadn’t even come close to comparing how it felt to kiss him .   

With Snape, it wasn’t a spark. It was a fucking thunderstorm. The kind that swallows you whole in the best possible way. The moment his lips met yours, the rest of the world didn’t matter anymore. He’d opened you up in ways his Legilimency never could – he held you in a way even your memories never have.  

It was incredible. 

And now all that remains is the hollow aftershock. The abatement of the storm. It’s a mess, you know that. You’ve probably just broke every rule in the book.

But maybe the real crime is wanting something that makes sense for once.  

He still can't look at you, and you didn’t survive the storm just to watch him walk away again.  

“No," you say quietly.  

He pauses mid-step, halfway to his desk. “I won’t tell you again,” he says without turning. ”Leave. You’re only making this more difficult.”  

You step forward, as if the movement alone might close the already widening distance between you. “No,” you repeat, louder this time. “You're not really going to do this again, are you?"  

He doesn’t move. “Do what, exactly?”  

“You know what” you say, trying to keep the annoyance in your voice at bay. “You do this every single time. When something happens, you push me away and ignore me until you feel less guilty or whatever, and I’m left wondering if I even exist to you at all.”  

He turns slowly, his face composed as if carved from ice. “You don’t,” he says coldly, “and it’s better that way.” 

His words crack something open in your chest. “So when you kissed me, when you touched me like that, what was that, then?”  

"A lapse in judgement.”  

And there it is. The wall you finally managed to breach has been rebuilt in the blink of an eye.  

You scoff, wounded. “You’re such a fucking liar.”  

His eyes visibly darken. "Watch your language," he warns.

"Oh, fuck off," you say, crossing your arms. "As if that's the biggest issue here."

“You're being ridiculous,” he asserts. “This changes nothing. You are my student, and this conversation is over."  

He turns away again in a swirl of his robes.

“I’m being ridiculous? You're the one who brought me in here!” Your voice rises. “You let me in over and over again. You drew things out of me, you let me see you! And now you're just going to stand there and expect me to believe that means nothing?”  

"It is nothing,” he says, turning back to you sharply. “It was my job. You were assigned to my house, and I did what I was told to do. That's all it was.”  

“You’re unbelievable,” you breathe. “So, what? All this – all you helping me... was just because you were asked to? By who? Dumbledore?”  

He doesn’t answer, and the silence feels worse than anything he could've said. He just stares at you, blankly, like he’s already rewritten this narrative in his head to make himself believe it.

You explode. “Say something! You’ve been watching me for months. You’ve seen everything. I-I thought-”  

“You thought what?” he cuts you off, stepping closer. “That this was some kind of salvation? That you could come to me and find someone who’d hold your hand while you lie to everyone, including yourself?”  

“It was your idea to help me!” you say, exasperated. “You’re the one who offered. I never asked!”  

“I had to,” he hisses. “You never stop to think, you just throw yourself into danger at every opportunity. I was managing a liability, not forming a bond.”  

“Right,” you nod slowly, and then shake your head in disbelief. In anger. “If that's really what you think of me, then why the fuck did you kiss me?”  

"It was a mistake,” he says tightly, and you can tell he’s barely restraining himself. 

“Of course it was,” you laugh, bitterly. “Merlin forbid you let anyone think you actually feel something. That’d mean you have to stop pretending for once, wouldn’t it?”  

He rounds on you. “You are deluded if you still think any of this means anything.”  

“Oh, so I'm delusional now, too?”  

"Yes!" he shouts, startling you. "Yes, you are! You distort things, you take the pieces you don't like and you mould them into whatever suits you. You don't see what is real, you see exactly what you want to see."

You stare at him, stunned. 

Did he seriously just go that fucking low?   

"You kissed me," you remind him. "I didn't make that up.”  

He lowers his head with a sigh, closing his eyes briefly. "And I shouldn’t have. I should’ve known better.”  

“Yeah,” you huff angrily, “you must've missed the part where Dumbledore told you not to shove your tongue down my throat.”  

His eyes shoot back up. “Careful.” 

“Or what? You’ll give me detention? More quiet nights in your office where we pretend nothing’s out of line?”  

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”  

“Then enlighten me, professor, ” you spit, emphasising the title just to annoy him more. “Do you do this with your other students? Make them cosy in your private quarters while you go through the deepest parts of them? Or is that just for the broken ones Dumbledore asks you to take special care of?”  

He straightens up slowly. “Go on,” he says, his voice quiet but laced with venom. “Let’s see how far you’re willing to take this.” 

You give him a too-sweet smile. Fine. If he wants to play this game, you’ll play. 

“You’re right,” tilting your head to the side, “It's terribly inappropriate of me to talk to my professor like this, isn't it?” You pause, smiling wider. “I probably shouldn’t kiss him either, but-” 

He moves before you can finish. His hand snaps out, closing around yours in a tight grip, and in the next breath, he pushes you into the edge of the table with his body. He places his other hand down on the wood next to your hip, caging you in.

You gasp, not from the pain searing down your spine, but from how fast he’s on you. 

His chest presses against yours, and the heat of his body only adds fuel to the fire burning inside you. Your stomach flips in a way it never has.

“You really want to do this?” he asks roughly, his face now only inches from yours - and, God, it does something to you. “Do you really want me to show you what happens when you push me too far?" 

His eyes burn like wildfire. Dark, hungry, but so very him. You can’t even think straight as you stare into them. All you can do is wish – wish he’d pull you in again and bring you back into the storm, even if he is right. Even if it will destroy you both. 

“Maybe,” you say, leaning closer until your voice is barely a whisper against his lips. “You’re the one always getting too close. I think you should start asking yourself why that keeps happening.” 

As the last word leaves your lips, his eyes widen. The surprise on his face is evident, but it only lasts a split second before a cruel sound follows. A bitter, empty laugh that makes your heart sink, because you know what’s coming.  

“Stop flattering yourself,” he sneers, releasing your arm and shoving you back against the table. “You’ve built yourself a fantasy, Miss [Last Name], and you decided I'd play the saviour in it. That's not on me." 

You catch yourself on the desk, breathless.

“You truly think I want this?” he spits. “You think I want you?” He steps back further, looking at you like he can’t stand the sight of you. “I was there because someone had to be. I stepped in when I needed to. And you-” he stops, taking in a deep breath - almost a sigh, “you made that something it never was.”  

You look at him through the tears suddenly pooling in your eyes, swallowing the growing lump in your throat.

You reach down to pick your bag up off the floor, then turn and head for the door. Just before you storm out, you look over your shoulder at him one last time, meeting those black, suppressive eyes.

"Fuck you."

In the five months you’ve been at Hogwarts, your mind has slowly gone from a refuge to a ruin. Last night only proved that fact. After the catastrophe that was the first task, you swore to yourself you'd do better this time. That you'd sleep early, wake up rested and ready, and maybe even stomach some breakfast if you really pushed yourself.  

Yet, you've barely slept. You haven’t eaten breakfast. And you’re far, far from ready for this.

You’re standing in the middle of your dorm half dressed, angry and gutted at the same time. Still thinking about him. 

You huff, wrestling yourself into the swimming costume they’ve provided you with – emerald green house colours with your last name sewn onto the back. It’s nowhere near as comfy as the clothes they gave you in the first task, and you haven’t entertained the idea of standing in front of the whole school in just this. But truthfully, it’s the last thing on your mind right now. 

His voice echoes in your head for what must be the hundredth time this morning, like a poison you can no longer counter. Not a thought has been dedicated to the task – like any sane person would be doing in your situation. No. It’s just been him and those horrible words you’re sure he meant. 

Your chest tightens as it all replays again. 

Are you just some stupid girl who imagined it all out of grief, or desperation, or some pathetic urge to feel wanted? 

Is that all you’ve ever done? 

Because he’s helped you prove that already. You are the type of person to wrap every pain, every heartache and splintered memory away and spin it into something prettier. Something easier. You did it with your father. So the question is, have you been doing it all along with Snape? 

Have all he looks, the times he stayed far too close, the way he kissed you- was it all just another fantasy you created?

You let out a long breath through your nose. There’s no time for this today. 

You’ve spent weeks working for this task – risked your life in the alley, wasted countless evenings making the potion in his damn office. You were so ready. You were going to fucking win. 

And now, thanks to him, it’s all one huge mess. 

Snatching your wand from the desk, you shove it into the back pocket of your jeans with trembling fingers that you don't think have stopped shaking since last night. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

You sigh, closing your eyes for a moment to recompose.

Okay. No more thinking about him.

You turn to your bedside table to fetch the potion, frowning when you see it's not there - where did you put it again?

Pulling up your bag up, you rummage through the clutter and books with no luck. Next, you try the pile of clothes on the floor, shaking each item out in case it got caught up, tangled in a sleeve or pocket somewhere. 

It's not there. 

You throw back the sheets on your bed, tossing the pillows off one by one to see if it might've somehow slipped between them. It all adds to the growing heap of stuff on the floor, but there’s still no sign of it. 

Dropping to your knees, you start sweeping your arm blindly beneath the bed, hoping it might have rolled under there at some point – it hasn’t.  

You get back to your feet in a panic - it has to be here somewhere.  

You glance around the rest of the room, eyeing the other girls’ spaces. They’d already gone down to breakfast by the time you came out of the bathroom, not that you've been in a rush to see them this morning. Admittedly, you did spend way too long brushing your teeth just to avoid the inevitable small talk about the task.

Maybe one of them saw it on the floor and moved it?

Your gaze lingers at Ivy’s space since she’s absolutely the type of person who would move it just to annoy you today. But it doesn’t look like she’s taken it either. 

Where the hell is it?

You frown, frantically retracing the details of last night after you left Snape’s quarters – the walk down the corridors, the risky escape from Filch’s cat. Did you drop it? Leave it somewhere? 

Then, the horrifying realisation dawns on you as it all clicks into place. It was never in your hands at all. 

Oh no.  

You left it in his quarters. On his table. 

The anger swells again, but this time, it's at yourself. You left behind the only damn thing that might save your life today – and you left it with the worst person you possibly could. How could you be so fucking stupid? 

Now you’re going to have to go back and knock on his door like some idiot and ask for it back. But how are you supposed to look him in the eye again after last night? After the things he said? And what would you even say? Hi, can I have the potion so I don’t drown today? Thanks. Oh- and by the way, fuck you.  

No. You can’t do it. 

Besides, he’s delivered stuff to your dorm before – those terse little notes summoning you to his office. What's stopping him now? Is he really waiting for you to go crawling back to him?

If he is, he’ll be waiting a long fucking time because that’s definitely not happening. 

Which leaves you with... what, exactly?

You slump back onto your bed, staring out of the window into the grey sky.

You're already cutting it fine. All of the champions should be at the lake by now.

Could you try it without the potion? Probably not. You guess you could attempt the bubblehead charm and risk it...

You close your eyes. There's also another option.

You could withdraw, go to Dumbledore right now and ask if you can pull out altogether. You'll have to face the consequences, sure - humiliation, disappointment, punishment. You can handle that if it means not having to face him again and let him hand over that vial like he's your white knight.

And if Dumbledore says no... well, at least that solves things for Snape. Perhaps that’s what he’s hoping for. You, disappearing under the water, so he never has to think about the kiss or you ever again. 

After what he said last night, you almost believe it.

The castle grounds are already alive with the excitement of students heading over to the old stands from the first task, now repurposed to tower over the lake. Even from here, you can see the enchanted banners waving in the sky and the faint chants being carried by the chilly breeze. 

Trudging through the grass, you head towards the lake, trying to come up with something believable to say to Dumbledore. You obviously can’t confess the reason you don’t have the potion is because you kissed Snape and he was horrible about it. Then again, he already knows Snape was helping you with it, so he’ll definitely suspect something. 

Ugh. 

You pick up your pace knowing if you’re late, you’ll have no chance even trying to sway him into letting you drop out. You’re halfway through the grounds when someone jumps out in front of you from behind a tree, almost making you slip backwards into the mud. 

“Holy shit-!” you gasp, clutching your chest as Fred makes himself known. “What are you doing?!” 

Fred grins, brandishing something wand shaped and sparkling at the tip in your face. “Look! We’ve got something for you.” 

George rounds the other side of the trunk, hauling a crate full of items that look suspiciously like explosives. 

“Fireworks,” he grins, pulling a rather wonky shaped one and holding it up proudly. “A custom blend for when you win. One of these beauties will be going up the second you come out of that lake looking all victorious.” 

You lower your hand, flashing them a weak and tired smile. “Thanks. But you might want to hold off on those.” 

“Hold off?” George asks, frowning as he sets the green and silver firework back into the box. “You haven’t shut up about this all week, running your mouth to us all about winning. What’s with the sudden switch up?” 

You shake your head, already trying to step around them. “I- I’m sorry. I really need to go."

“Hey - wait,” Fred calls. “You alright?” 

You glance back at them. Their confused, expectant faces only make the guilt you're already feeling burn a deeper hole. They'll be so disappointed when they hear you've dropped out... you can't deal with that right now. 

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice catching. “I’m just... late. I gotta go.” 

You turn before they can ask anything else, breaking into a sprint to try and outrun the sickly and anxious feeling in your chest. It's not long until you arrive at the shoreline, and as you pass the stands, the Slytherins, of course, erupt when they see you. 

It only reminds you of how many more people you're about to let down.

You don't want to, but you look through the faces anyway, hoping for a glimpse of dark hair and green eyes. But Jade isn’t here. She hasn’t been to see you all morning, which is... not like her. At all. Especially on the day of a task.  

Where else could she be?

You turn away, facing the lake again. The judge’s platform comes into view, packed with a mix of Ministry Officials and Hogwarts staff. Dumbledore is impossible to miss, standing right in the centre in his extravagant purple robes.  

Your stomach twists when your eyes catch the sight beside him. 

Snape’s here.

You didn't think he'd bother to show.

He’s half-turned towards Dumbledore in a quiet conversation involving Fudge, too. By the way his robes are crumpled and creased, it looks like he slept in them last night. If he slept at all. 

The temptation to stop and turn around here and now is painfully high. Just the sight of him knocks the breath out of you, and your body aches with the sting of last night all over again. For a terrifying second, you think you might actually cry. 

God, get it together. You're not giving him that.

You inhale a deep breath, drawing whatever strength you have left into your lungs and force your walls up brick by brick. You just need to get through today. After that, you can fall apart as much as you need to.  

With your chin up and steady steps, you approach the judges, doing everything in your power not to look at him again. It's hard. Your traitorous eyes keep twitching towards him out of habit - a habit you're determined to kill.

You're so focused on the effort that you don't notice the crowd parting beside you until it's already happened.

Karkaroff saunters through with Krum a few paces behind him, both of them wearing matching glares. Krum doesn't say anything, but he eyes you long enough to make his point. You haven't really seen him since that day in the hospital wing, and to be honest, you wouldn't even know he ended up there at all. All he's left with is one small scar just below his eye. A damn sight less than what you've been left with. 

Karkaroff, on the other hand, is never one to hold back, is he?

“Didn’t think you were going to show, little snake,” he mocks, deliberately loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in earshot.

Dumbledore glances over, followed by Snape – and then Fudge, who stares at you like you're about to draw your wand at him and start a war. The distrust still seethes out of him.

You ignore them all and keep walking, stopping just in front of Dumbledore. He smiles at you warmly, the same way he always does. “Ah Miss [Last Name],” he greets you. “We were beginning to worry. Are you ready?” 

“Professor,” you say, forcing a tight smile even though you’d rather not be speaking to him either. “I’d actually like to talk to you.” Your eyes finally betray you then, shifting sideways to Snape before you can stop them. Damn it. You throw him a quick glare before turning back to Dumbledore. “Privately.” 

Dumbledore doesn’t even hesitate. He inclines his head and guides you towards the edge of the stands, away from the prying eyes of the growing crowds. Your nerves catch up fast, and by the time you reach the quiet corner, you’re blurting out the words before they can crawl back down your throat and disappear for good. 

“Professor, I need to withdraw from the Tournament. I can’t do this.” 

His impossibly kind eyes settle on you, and it’s the last thing you want to see right now. He folds his hands calmly in front of him. “May I ask why?” 

“I-...,” you hesitate, feeling your face heat up. “I don’t have what I need.” 

It’s simple. Honest. And hopefully enough to stop him asking anything more. 

His eyes narrow beneath those half-moon spectacles. “I was under the impression Professor Snape was assisting you with your preparations, no?” 

Your heart drops. You have no idea what to tell him. You open your mouth, fumbling for something to say, but you’re sure your face says it all for you. You’re half a second away from breaking down again, and the man who misses nothing can clearly see it. 

“Give me a moment, Miss [Last Name],” he says softly, then heads out from under the stands. He's probably going to bring Crouch here, or worse - Fudge. 

You turn your back on the world, pressing the heel of your palms into your eyes to stop the sting, furious at yourself for being weak enough to let any of this get to you. You should’ve known better than to trust Snape. He never cared, and now you’re stuck in this huge lie to the headmaster, of all people.  

What a disaster.

You squeeze your eyes closed and try – you try so damn hard to cram it all to the back of your mind and welcome the headache it brings, because at least that means it's working. 

You stay like that until you hear the shuffle of footsteps approaching again. When you turn around, Dumbledore isn’t alone. Though, he hasn’t brought Crouch. Or Fudge.

Snape follows closely behind him, his expression as emotionless as it always is. His presence alone almost cracks you completely – and it would have, if you hadn’t just shoved everything back. 

You look down quickly, concentrating on anything but the man you’ve spent all night thinking about. 

“Severus,” Dumbledore begins, “Miss [Last Name] claims she can’t compete. Has something gone amiss with the potion?” 

You wince. There goes your story. 

Snape doesn’t even hesitate. “No, Headmaster,” he says smoothly. “The potion was completed last night. Under my instruction, she left early to rest. I intended to deliver it to her this morning, but I was delayed. The fault is mine.” 

Your eyes lift. He’s... lying? He’s covering for himself and making it look like he’s doing you a favour. He must think you’re stupid, because you know he’s not protecting you at all. He’s only protecting himself.  

You grit your teeth. Of course he's spun it like this. The dutiful professor, still playing the part under Dumbledore's orders. He gets to look responsible, capable. While you're just the stupid student who couldn't manage without him. 

How fucking typical of him to manage to make himself completely innocent while proving Dumbledore right about you without actually saying it. 

He reaches into his robes, pulling out the small glass vial that contains your potion. He holds it out, but you make no move to take it - your eyes lock on his with a fresh surge of resentment.

He responds with a silent look, one that says: take it, do not cause a scene here. 

Fuck that. 

You look away from him, directing your next words to Dumbledore. “I still want to withdraw.” 

Dumbledore regards you carefully, a sympathetic gleam catching his eye. You hate him and his pity. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Miss [Last Name].” 

“Why not?” you challenge him. “It’s my choice.” 

“Your participation in the Triwizard Tournament is bound by magical contract. Your name was drawn by the goblet, and therefore, you must compete.” 

You open your mouth to argue, but he continues before you can. 

"I understand you may be scared," he says quietly. "Truly. But this task... it was not designed with mercy in mind. What lies beneath the lake is not only a challenge, it is connected to you in ways that will become clear." He holds your eyes. "I do not ask you to be brave. I only ask that you do not run from this. You can't, Miss [Last Name], because if you do, you will face consequences I would very much prefer you not face." 

You stare at him, incredulous. “What’s so important down there?” 

Dumbledore doesn’t answer right away. His serious expression doesn’t waver, but his silence says enough. He’s not going to tell you. 

You clench your fists at your side, fighting the urge to scream and shout and argue with them. Or to grab the stupid potion from Snape’s hands and throw it into the mud. 

You need to calm down.

Swallowing hard, you turn away and steel your face to stay as neutral as possible. A fresh swell of tears is already starting to burn behind your eyes, and your head throbs with the effort it's taking to hold it all back.

“Miss,” Dumbledore says quietly, reaching out to touch your shoulder with a featherlight touch. “I know this is difficult, but we have every confidence in you. You-” 

“-Albus?" a voice comes before Dumbledore can finish his words. "Is there a problem?” 

“No problem at all, Cornelius,” Dumbledore says, squeezing your shoulder lightly before removing his touch. “We were simply offering Miss [Last Name] here a moment of reassurance before the task begins.” 

You hear Fudge scoff, and you’re glad you can’t see his irritating face right now. It might just be the thing that throws you over the edge. 

“A moment of reassurance?” he echoes. “Hmph. I’d say what that girl needs is a tighter leash. After that display in the first task, be assured, all eyes are firmly on her today.” 

You very nearly turn around and tell him exactly what he can do with his fucking leash. 

“Come, Cornelius,” Dumbledore says, as if he senses your intentions. “Let’s not keep the others waiting. Miss [Last Name], we’ll leave you to prepare.” 

You stay there, back turned, listening to their footsteps fade until you’re sure they’ve gone. You rub at your eyes with a sigh, wishing you were anywhere but here. 

When you finally turn around again, bracing yourself for solitude, you’re not alone after all.

Snape is still here, standing exactly where he was, half shadowed by the towering stands. You catch his eyes across the distance through the blur in yours – a mess of unshed tears and the consequence of rubbing them too hard. 

The wind tousles his robes, but other than that, he doesn't move. The silence stretches on, verging on uncomfortable, until he finally lifts his arm and offers the potion out to you. 

"Take it all at once," he says quietly. "You'll have an hour. No more."

You scowl at him. "Really? That's all you've got to say?"

He holds the vial out further, like that's all he has to give you now.

You step towards him and snatch it from his hand without a word. He doesn’t even get a thank you. Just the low, furious breath as you shoulder past him and head for the water where the other Champions are already waiting. 

You refuse to look back at him as you stomp across the grass, downing the potion in one go. You barely suppress a gag. It tastes absolutely foul. If you couldn't hear the sound of his own footsteps closely behind you, you might've just stopped to throw it all back up.

“Ah! And now that all our champions are present –,” Bagman's voice booms the moment he spots you, far too loud for the pounding in your head. “We're just ten minutes away from the start of the second task!” He makes a sweeping gesture towards the water, grinning like a madman. “In mere moments, they’ll plunge into the icy waters of the Black Lake to recover something very precious to them, indeed! I can assure you, it won’t be easy!” 

The crowd erupts in cheers and anticipation. Meanwhile, you’re still fighting the bitter taste in your mouth and the overwhelming urge to sink into ground. 

Krum, Harry and Fleur are already assembled at the far end of the narrow makeshift dock that's been built off to the side of the stands, scaling out towards the lake like a diving board.

You lower yourself to sit at the edge of it, bending forward to deal with the tangled mess of your laces. You tug at them – or try to – but your fingers are already twitching too much for you to get a proper grip. 

Fucking perfect. 

You glance around, but no one’s paying you any attention. The crowds are too busy shouting, and the judges are too busy pretending they aren’t some kind of bloody wizard sadists scheming between themselves. You sigh, trying again, but your nails slip uselessly against the knot. 

You probably should’ve taken these off before you drank the stupid potion. And what’s with the twitching, anyway? Snape said the ratios were fine. This shouldn’t even be happening. 

Another thing you shouldn’t have blindly trusted him with. 

You're still messing around with the knot, muttering a curse under your breath when a quiet voice cuts in from beside you sounding half amused.

“There is always something with you, isn’t there?” 

You jump, startled by the sudden voice. Jakob crouches beside you, his face bearing a warming smile.

“What are you doing here?” you ask quietly, peering over your shoulder. Krum is still deep in conversation with Krum, thankfully.

"I saw you from the stands,” he replies, just as quiet. “You look like you need some help.” 

You snort softy. It's not the grand rescue you imagined, but it's still something. Honestly, you're just grateful someone is noticing how much of a disaster you are today, even if you aren't back on the best terms with him yet.

He shifts a little closer. “Here. Let me help.” 

You push your foot closer to him, and he gets to work straight away, coaxing the laces free with fingers that are far more steadier than yours.

“Why are you shaking so much?” he asks, undoing the first one. 

“It’s the potion,” you say defeatedly. “It has some... side effects.” 

He pauses, glancing up. “It does not look pleasant.” 

“Yeah, well.” you say, watching his fingers, “nothing about this is.” 

He gets your second boot half unlaced before he speaks again. “You do not have to tell me anything if you do not want to... but are you ok?” 

“I will be when this is over,” you mumble. 

He tugs off your second boot and sets it beside you, then holds out a hand. You take it, letting him pull you back on your feet. 

“Thanks,” you say softly. 

You move to the button on your jeans, trying to pry it through the hole, but your fingers are useless. You huff in frustration, lifting your eyes to Jakob in a silent plea.

His face turns a faint shade of pink as he catches on to what you're asking. He steps closer, reaching out but keeping his eyes fixed somewhere behind you as he works the button loose without a word, helping you to shimmy yourself out of them.

The potion fends off the frigid cold against your bare skin, but it does little for the heat rising in your face at the awkwardness of it all.

Jakob's eyes drop down to the pile of belongings you've shed, clearing his throat. “Do you want me to hold onto those?” 

“No, it’s fine. You don’t have to-” 

“Stop,” he says gently. “I want to help.” 

You don't know what to say next. You haven't exactly been a good friend to him lately, and yet, here he is - still showing up for you like he always does.

Almost without thinking, you lean into him, wrapping your arms around his middle and pressing your cheek into the warmth of his chest. He doesn't respond immediately, but when he does, he rests a hand at the back of your head as he holds you close, letting you have this.

You close your eyes. You don’t care if this is awkward – you just need it. There's something about him that always calms you down. You wish you could stay like this. Just for a bit longer. Let the whole mess in your mind pour out into the safety of his arms.

But you know you can’t. You don’t get that privilege. 

You sniffle quietly into his jumper, hoping he doesn’t notice. But of course he does. 

“Hey,” he whispers soothingly in your ear, “I do not know what is going on... but I do know you. And I know you can do this." He leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a thumb gently under your eye. "You can do anything.”

You manage a smile and a nod. He bends down to scoop up your boots and jeans, cradling them in one arm.

"Good luck," he smiles, nudging your shoulder playfully. "I will be right here when you come out first."

He winks, then slips off through the crowd, ducking behind the officials and weaving between students out of Karkaroff's line of sight just in time.

You don’t even realise you’re still watching him until another voice rings out loudly, wiping the smile right off your face as the reality of what's happening kicks in again. 

“The Ministry is most gratified to witness the continued enthusiasm for the Triwizard Tournament,” Barty Crouch announces in his magically amplified voice.  “I regret that I was unable to attend the first task due to pressing Ministry obligations, but I have been thoroughly briefed.” He smiles stiffly. “I wish to assure you all that the Ministry is monitoring this competition with the utmost scrutiny and interest.”

Seriously? He might as well just say your name and be done with it. He's not looking at you, sure, but it's clear he's talking about what happened in the first task. 

And it only makes Snape's words feel more true.

You breathe out slowly. Jakob's right. You can do this.  

It's not like you have a choice.

“Champions!” he continues, turning to face you all now, “please step forward and line up. The task will commence at the sound of the cannon!” 

One minute, you’re on the edge of the dock, regretting every decision that lead you here. The next, it all becomes a blur of cold and serene silence as the lake consumes you.

The potion's effects kick in almost instantly, searing through your chest like a fire catching on kindling. A warmth envelops you, chasing away the cold before it even has a chance to take over. 

You open your eyes slowly. 

The underwater world unfolds with perfect clarity. There’s no eerie shadows or murk like last time. Instead, your vision is crystal clear, revealing a glowing green scenery of weeds that are suspended like ghostly fingers, swaying in the water. 

It actually worked. 

Despite Snape bottling it too soon, despite the ingredients you weren’t sure would really work, despite everything – the potion is doing what it needs to. And somehow, you’re breathing. Not in the normal way, but whatever magic is surging through your body, it’s keeping your lungs alive. 

You turn your head to look around.

To your left, Harry's convulsing. His neck bulges grotesquely as gills rip through his skin. You grimace, recognising the effects of gillyweed. You made the right call avoiding that. On your other side, Fleur drifts away with a surreal elegance and a shimmering bubble of air caressing her face. Of course she knows how to keep up the bubblehead charm. 

You search around for Krum, but he’s already gone. You catch the last of his form disappearing into the darkness below, making his way through the water like he already knows where he’s going. 

Well... that's suspicious as hell.

You’re definitely going to follow him. 

You swim fast, enhanced by the potion, chasing the ripples in the water he’s leaving behind before you lose him. The green glow starts to fade gradually as you descend, giving way to a deeper and heavier darkness. The curtains of weeds rise up in veils, the curious fingers brushing against your skin and threaten to coil around you. 

The silence down here would usually be unbearable, but after the day you’ve had, it's a welcoming relief. It drowns out every unwanted thought, and for the first time in a while, your mind is so blissfully still.

You keep pushing forward, moving through the water and the columns of weeds carefully. Krum was just ahead a second ago... but now he's not. You turn in a slow circle, looking around. You can feel your heart starting to beat faster with every second you can't see him. 

Where did he go?

When you turn around again, something flashes past your face - a silver fish drifts by, staring at you with an almost human curiosity. You stare back, confused, but something seems to startle it, because it scurries away quickly.

Out of nowhere, the water bursts into life around you. A whole school of them rush past, darting around you in a wave of silver scales and flurrying bubbles. You flinch back just in time to avoid the scatter... but what the hell are they running from?

You spin around, turning to whatever sent them fleeing, but you're too slow.

All of a sudden, you’re knocked violently backwards, spinning into a disorientating whirl of weeds and darkness. It takes a few seconds to fight the water and right yourself, and when you do, Krum is closer. Floating in front of you. Watching. His gross transfigured shark head fixed on you. 

The fuck? Did he really just attack you?  

You glower at him, raising your wand, readying yourself to throw a hex back at him – but you’re stuck. One of the thick weeds has wrapped itself around your legs, keeping you from moving.  

You twist and turn, trying to kick it free, but the hold only tightens. You reach down to claw at the slick vines, only for your fingers to slip on the fibrous skin –  

 – and then, the light above changes. 

It dims. Fast. Plunging you into an almost total darkness.

Gryindylows. There's dozens of them. Circling above you, silent but watching with their bulbous eyes that glow terrifyingly in the dark. They must have sensed the magic from Krum’s spell and wandered over, but he’s not the one they’re interested in.  

You go still, thinking maybe, hopefully, if you don't move, they won’t see you as a threat and move on. 

In the distance, Krum turns back to you, and you swear you see that ugly shark heads mouth twist into a smile before he vanishes into the dark. 

Is he really just going to leave you like this? 

Who are you kidding? Of course he is. 

You kick at the weeds again, seething that he’s just sabotaged you like that.

It's a mistake.

Before you know it, the Grindylows are on you.  

One dives in, sinking its teeth into your lower leg. You yelp, trying to kick it off, only to be met with another one that claws at your arm.

You desperately bring your wand up, bracing it ahead of you as best you can. You’re about to cast when- 

A whisper. 

No, no, no. Not here. Not now.  

It invades your skull exactly as it had the last two times. There's no clear words, just a voice you don't understand, pressing into every corner of your head.

You try to drown it out, but it's impossible when the Grindylows are still swarming you and pulling at your body. You manage to kick a few off - only for more to take their place.

You panic. You know you need to cast something, but you can't risk it with that voice in your head. You know what happens now, and you know Fudge is watching. Another dark spell from your wand, and you’ll be thrown in Azkaban before the task even ends. 

Another bite tears across your calf.

You choke on a gasp, stifling a cry as the water around you clouds with a tinge of blood and silt from the struggle of you thrashing around. 

They’re going to kill you if you don’t do something. 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to think of something, anything – but the whispers dig in, making themselves front and centre, urging you to give in. 

No.  

You grit your teeth, ignoring the pain.

Okay, come on.

Reducto. That's all you need. Reducto. Only Reducto.  

You keep thinking it, over and over until it drowns out the whispers and it’s the only sound you hear in your head. 

Then, with every bit of your magic, it unleashes. 

A violent blast rips from your wand, exploding through the water in a perfect radius around you. The Gryindylows go flying, shrieking high pitched sounds as they scatter wildly - until, at last, you’re alone again.

Your Reducto was so powerful it ripped through the weeds, slicing the one that wrapped itself around you, leaving only the end of the sickly plant wrapped around your ankle. Your leg throbs – it's already starting to bruise into an ugly shade of blue and black, and you're bleeding.

It's not bad enough to kill you, but it might slow you down.

You curse under your breath and force yourself to move through the pain.

There’s no chance in hell you’re letting Krum win after that. 

It feels like you’ve been swimming for ages when you catch sight of something off in the distance. 

Shapes. Structures. An entire village carved from stone, half-swallowed by the lakebed. Small statues watch over the sanctuary with judgemental eyes, and murmuring silhouettes flit between the small buildings carrying spears and tridents. 

The merpeople village. 

You’ve read about this – these underwater creatures. Although they look kind of scary up close with their jagged fins and weapons, the books say they're only territorial, not hostile. If you leave them alone and don’t touch what’s theirs, they should leave you alone. 

You hope so, anyway.

Swimming through the village feels like you're passing into something sacred. Eyes follow your every move, peeking out from behind the crumbling stones and shadows. The deeper you go, the more the village seems to come alive.

You venture around cautiously, admiring the beauty of it all while avoiding eye contact as much as possible. Krum doesn't seem to be here, but you're sure this must be the place to be. The clue from the egg was a song created by these people, so whatever it is you have to find must be here somewhere, right?

You scan around, trying to find what it could possibly be. A relic? Another egg? Dumbledore said it means something to you... but how on earth can something of yours fit in a place like this?

And there's literally nothing to go off - just water, sediment, and stone.

You carry on swimming, keeping an eye out for anything that might be a clue while doubling back on yourself and searching areas where it looks like something could be hidden. You check around the merpeoples houses, between the algae covered rocks, and you even get a bit too close to one of the pet Grindylows tied up in a garden, only just managing to escape in time - still, with no luck.

You decide to retreat, stopping just in front of the massive statue in the middle of the village. As your eyes trail over it in awe, you frown, noticing something strange.

Four, heavy chains are embedded into the statue, anchored into the ancient stone. You stare at them, perplexed, kicking yourself up through the water until you see what they're keeping hostage.

People. 

You gasp silently, inhaling a mouth full of water that, for reasons you don't quite understand, doesn’t make you choke. Four figures float lifelessly at the end of the chains, suspended in the water with their eyes closed in a dreamlike stillness.

Ron Wesley. Hermione Granger. A little girl you don’t recognise... and Jade. 

Oh my God.  

This is what Dumbledore meant? This is what they buried down here?! 

You move closer to Jade, stroking her cheek with a light touch. She doesn’t respond. Her eyes stay closed and her dark hair fans around her like ink swelling it water.

She’s freezing. 

You gently try to wake her, tapping on her cheek and squeezing her hand, all the while wondering how fucked up the Ministry has to be to put students down here.

But that's not the only thing crossing your mind. Another thought scratches in your head - the part of you that still wants to win this.

There's four people still here... so that means you're the first.

It also means you need to be quick. If Krum comes back, things will likely get ugly again, and fast.

You reach for the chain wrapped around Jade’s ankle. It's all rusted and old looking, but a simple unlocking charm seems to do the trick. 

The shackle slips loose.

The moment she’s free, the magic of the chain leaves her, and her body begins to sink. You swim forward, grabbing her under the arms to hook your elbow beneath hers while kicking hard to keep both of you afloat. She’s heavier than you expected – deadweight, quite literally – and it pulls you down as you try to swim for the surface. 

As you move, heaving her along with you, you pass by the little girl. Her arms drift weightlessly next to her, her face still and pale like a ghost suspended in this cruel game she's been forced to play.

You hesitate, looking around you. There’s no sign of anyone... and you’re not sure how you feel about leaving a child down here.

Will you be allowed to take her, too?

Swimming closer, you shift your grip on Jade so you can use your wand on the chains holding the girl. You’re about to speak the incantation again, aiming at the shackle around her ankle, when a sharp movement cuts across your vision.

One of the merpeople darts in front of you with its trident raised, pointing it directly at your throat. 

This one is not yours to take, it warns, its face contorting menacingly. You flinch back, making sure Jade is shielded from the sharpened tips. 

“She’s a child,” you try to say, and the words come, though slightly muffled by the water.  

It bares its teeth in reply – whether it's a snarl or a smile, you can’t tell. 

You glance back at the girl with a pained expression, still caught in the cold stasis of this place. God, this task is beyond cruel. You kind of get the danger for the people who actually consented to this – but to drag others in just because they’re something to the champions? That's just... wrong. 

Someone will come for her, won't they?

They have to.

Your heart thuds from the effort of keeping Jade up while battling with your conscience. You know you should take her with you, but you're bleeding and weak. If you had to fight the merpeople - would you even manage it?

You can't take that risk, not when it's only your life at stake here.

Twisting away from the trident, you reluctantly start to kick towards the surface. The water feels thicker and colder the further up your swim, and your lungs are starting to feel the pressure.  

...Is the potion running out?

It can't have been an hour already - nobody else has got their person yet.

You don’t let yourself panic, because if you learnt one thing from the tournament so far, it's that panicking only makes it worse. You move your hands down to Jade's waist, using the rest of your strength to shove her upwards. Just in case.

If you don’t make it out of here, you’re not taking her down with you. 

You try to follow her, but your legs ache more than ever. The bruises hurt more, and your arms fail uselessly ahead of you, trying to pull the weight of your body through the water.

Your lungs burn. Your eyes start to dim. And the cold that's been close at bay starts to reclaim it's hold.

The world doesn't return to you all at once. It appears in pieces, clusters of sound and flashes of light - all out of sync, like you're still stuck in a dream you weren't ready to come out of. Your body feels wrong. Too heavy. As if someone's opened you up and stuffed you with lead. 

You open your eyes again, slowly, blinking against the light yours eyes are struggling to readjust to.

You're not under the water anymore. Rather, above it.

You made it.

...but how?

Around you, the noise is deafening. Yet, at the same time, it all feels weirdly distant, as if some parts of you are still trying to catch up. Your lungs seize, creating a wave of panic that makes you lurch forward. You choke on wet gasps as your body tries to remember how to breathe manually again.

"Hey! Merlin, finally- It's okay- I've got you."

Jade.

She's holding you up with both her arms locked under yours, dragging you through the water. She's struggling. You can tell by the way her body is trembling against yours, but you feel so weak, you can't even move. You're only just managing to keep your head above the water, and even that is proving a struggle.

The sounds around you grow even more muffled as you drift there on your back, staring up at the overcast sky.

Everything is so bright and dizzying. 

You eyes fall closed as you drift back into the haze, letting the water ripple against your cheeks in gentle and broken waves.

You could stay like this forever.

And just when you're losing yourself again-

The trance breaks, and the noise rushes in fast.

You feel more hands grab at your body, lifting you out of the water. Solid wood appears under your feet and your legs try to hold the weight of you, but they're too wobbly. You collapse into a soaked, shivering heap on the dock.

Someone drops to their knees against you, holding you in a tight hug. It's Jade again - she's saying things you can't quite understand through her sobs, but it's her. You found her. You cling back, shaking so hard everything hurts. 

Voices are shouting now, multiple, all around you. Over the crowd you hear your name being announced again and again.

"She's done it! [First Name] [Last Name] has completed the task first!"

You... won?

It doesn't feel real. Your brain isn't working, and Merlin, your head hurts so much.

But you won.

Another person comes up behind you and drapes a towel around your shivering form. You lift your head, wincing at the light - vaguely making it out to be Jakob. He crouches beside you, brushing the wet hair out of your eyes.

"Breathe," he says, his voice a calming difference to the chaos around you. "You did it," he laughs, breathless and awed. "I knew you would. You are incredible!"

You barely hear the rest of what he says. The words dissolve under the crashing tide of adrenaline and the sea still roaring in your head. The wind cools on your cheeks, bringing attention to the tears you didn't realise were falling.

In the blink of an eye, Jakob is replaced by a swarm of Mediwitches. They surround you, but their voices sound weird, like you're underwater again. One of them pulls Jade away while another helps you move into a more comfortable seated position, wrapping a bandage around your leg while they ask you questions you nod at without really hearing. 

You're not paying attention anymore. Your eyes just caught something - someone - standing just beyond the stands.

A tall figure, cloaked in black and still as stone stands on their own, watching. You squint, knowing who it is but you're sceptical. Is he real, or is he just a trick of your drowning mind?

He doesn't move at all... but he also isn't disappearing when you blink. 

And then the sky behind him bursts open in a flurry of green and silver lights -  a crown of serpents, hissing their triumph across the clouds. They writhe against the darkening sky, venomous and victorious.

You can't tell if they're yours or his.

Chapter Text

Severus told himself he wouldn’t come. He knows shouldn’t be here, not after what happened the previous night. But even the strongest occlumens isn’t immune to the betrayals of his own mind. 

It’s just past one in the morning when he steps foot inside the hospital wing. It’s quiet and dark, lit dimly by the thin strips of moonlight peeking through the high arched windows. 

You’re curled on your side under the blankets in the bed closest to the door. He observes the slow rise and fall of your breathing and then gradually drifts his eyes up to your face. You look... peaceful. Or at least, a damn sight better than you had earlier when you were dragged out of the lake, half frozen to the bone. 

He knew you’d make it, despite the odds against you. You went into the task a broken mess, using a potion that hadn’t been allowed to fully finish correctly (all credits to him) and you still won. 

You brilliant little witch. 

You shift then under the covers, curling further into the pillow as your face scrunches up like you're lost in some troubled dream.

“Gave you lot quite the fright, didn’t she?” Pomfrey appears, scuttling out of the office to your bedside. She checks the diagnostic scan floating above your body, casting green lights over the bed. 

Severus stays quiet. She isn’t wrong – when Jade had surfaced alone at first, he hadn’t expected to feel so much. 

“They’ll be fine,” Pomfrey says assuringly, glancing over her should at him while she heads over to Jade, who sleeps soundly in the bed beside you. “Your Slytherins are tougher than they look. I reckon they’ll be out tomorrow.” 

He nods politely, still fixated on the fragile shape of your body under the covers. He selfishly allows himself this quiet indulgence, knowing once you wake, he won’t get this again.

He stays for a few more minutes, watching your face until your brow twitches for a second time, and your mouth opens slightly like you’re on the verge of consciousness. It leads him to the thought that maybe, you know that somewhere, deep in your fogged mind, that he’s here. 

He doesn’t risk staying long enough to find out. 

Back in his office, the Wolfsbane simmers low in the cauldron. He tends to it mechanically, moving on auto pilot as he reaches for the next ingredient. It’s all muscle memory by now, so he doesn’t need to offer it much thought. 

Which is a dangerous thing, because when his mind refuses to focus, it wanders. 

He quickly finds himself entrapped by the sound of your voice, too bright for the dullness of his office, spilling over the sound of the potion bubbling as you filled the silence with your chatter. The cheeky look you’d throw him before you half demanded he tell you about his day after sharing yours. The way you’d breeze into his space like you belonged there, never knocking, and dropping your notes wherever you pleased to the point it still felt like you were around when you’d left for the evening. 

During those few weeks you'd spent together, his office became yours as much as his, and he didn’t mind. Somewhere, something had gone very wrong because he’d started to look forward to it. To your sharp tongue and even shaper mind, and the way your curious eyes were always on the verge of saying something he wouldn’t be able to ignore. 

And then it came, the request that started this disaster. Gods - why did he let you try legilimency on him? Why didn’t he stop you? He’d expected a flimsy, harmless attempt, not that you’d be able to get anything from him.  

He stirs the potion too hard, nearly spilling some of the silver liquid over the rim. He curses under this breath, setting the rod aside as he closes his eyes with a sigh. 

It doesn’t help. Because there, burned behind his eyelids is a familiar picture that's kept him awake recently, simultaneously haunting his dreams whenever his body finally decides to give into exhaustion. Your pink, flushed face, framed by loose strands of your hair that have fallen out of your bobble, gazing up at him with those damning eyes like he was something worth wanting.

He's had other witches before. One night flings in dark corners of bars when he'd needed a release, driven by bitterness and loneliness. They'd never meant anything, and he'd never recognise them if he saw them again. He'd long lost that old desire to feel truly wanted.

That was, until he had the taste of you. 

He remembers your lips, sweet and wicked, pressed to his like you didn’t see the monster under his skin so many do. The way you pulled him closer, and the little shiver in your breath when he’d kissed you back. It still stirs something unholy inside him. 

Truth be told, if the potion hadn’t boiled over and ruined the moment, every line he'd ever drawn would have gone up in flames. He knows it. And he knows damn well you would have let it, too.

It terrifies him.

Because even now, he can't help himself. His mind slips further into forbidden territory, remembering the way you had looked today in that ridiculous swimming costume. He had no right to look. Especially not when he knew how much you hated him. It was wrong, so wrong, but Merlin, he took you in like a bloody fool.

He drags a hand over his face, feeling the burn of shame under his skin.

Running a hand through his hair, he forces his eyes open and instead reminds himself of the cruel, unforgiving things he'd thrown at you. The words that had left you looking at him with those wide, wet and furious eyes, staring at him like you didn't recognise him anymore.

It was the price he had to pay.

He picks up the rod and resumes stirring, keeping his eyes fixed on the ticking hand of the clock to keep himself focused.

What a fucking mess.  

The next few weeks go by in a soulless haze, as far as Severus is concerned. 

He keeps himself busy with back to back classes, marking assignments, and brewing for the hospital wing. There's barely enough time in the day to think. Which, if he’s honest, is a relief. Thinking leads to memory, and memory leads to you. 

But even with his thoughts locked down tight beneath the layers of his well practised occlusion, you always find your way in.

You pass him in the corridors, sometimes alone, other times with your usual companions. More often than not, though, it's the Durmstrang boy beside you. Severus can't decide whether it's the accent or that insufferable grin that keeps drawing you in - not that either is particularly impressive.

Either way, he tells himself, firmly, that it’s none of his business. It's no concern to him who you decide to spend your time with. He notices, though, because of course he does. He sees the way the boy waits outside his classroom some days for you. How you’re always sitting beside him in the Great Hall, occasionally giggling at something he whispers in your ear. 

He’s had his suspicions for a while now, and he'd be blind not to suspect something between you. In the late nights you would spend together brewing the potion, you told him so many things about your personal life. What you got up to with your other friends, gossip about relationships you knew about – things he quite frankly did not care about in the slightest – but nothing about the Durmstrang. You never mentioned him once, and Severus is not a man so easily decieved. 

He didn’t ask then. He doesn't care now. And he certainly doesn’t dwell on it. 

Its none of his business. 

You’re fine, and that’s enough for him. He’s stopped looking at you when you hand in your work, and he never calls on you in class. Everything is kept strictly professional, as it should have been from the start. A line redrawn, and this time, he vows to himself to keep it in place. 

It’s for the best. Safer, for both of you. 

He’s busier as the days go by. Dumbledore calls for him more often now, and he spends hours in his office most evenings, sharing quiet conversations and pouring themselves over theories, books, and plans. Some nights, Dumbledore doesn’t even speak. He just sits there across from him, his mind elsewhere while Severus tries to keep up with his elusive thoughts. 

The signs of the Dark Lord's return are mounting, and though nothing remains certain, Severus can't deny the fact he's disquieted. If things end up going the way the rumours suspect... well. He’ll want you as far away from it as possible. 

Two weeks after the second task on a late Friday evening, Severus finds himself in Dumbledore’s office once again. 

“It’s worsening,” Severus says, rolling back his sleeve just enough to catch a glimpse of the mark on his forearm. “It’s not constant, but it's no longer just a mild discomfort.” 

Dumbledore’s eyes linger on the dark outline. “And Igor?” 

“The same. He’s agitated, paranoid,” he replies, pulling his sleeve back down and adjusting his cuff. “He’s always looking over his shoulder, and he still seeks me out most evenings.” 

Dumbledore nods slowly. “He’s scared.” 

“He’s a coward,” Severus corrects him. “I suspect he knows time is short. He'll run at the first sight of trouble, you know it as well as I do." 

Dumbledore exhales slowly. “He isn’t the only one who’s rattled.” 

Severus studies him. “Still no word from the Department?” 

“No word worth believing. Ludo still insists there’s no cause for concern. They’ve decided Bertha Jorkins simply wandered off,” he narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “A woman who couldn’t stop talking, suddenly gone silent.” He shakes his head, and Severus catches the unease creep onto his face. "She must have known something. And now she’s vanished.” 

Severus doesn’t say anything to that. What more can he offer? The Bertha Jorkins matter is a dead end, one both of them have discussed too many times already with no avail.

“And the third task?” he asks instead, shifting the conversation. “It’s going ahead?”  

Dumbledore gives him a look. “You know the answer to that.”  

He expected the answer, yes, but the confirmation still sits wrong. He'll be glad when this damned tournament is done with. 

“It’s a maze,” Dumbledore says after a moment, settling himself into his chair. 

Severus frowns. “I beg your pardon?” 

“The third task is a maze,” he repeats, fixating his eyes somewhere just past Severus. “It will prove much more difficult than the first two."

A short silence stretches between them.

“What are you saying?” Severus asks, his irritation blooming from the vagueness of the man's answers. "What happens in the maze?"

"It's designed in a way to isolate and disorient its participants. The champions will not only lose themselves in it, but they may lose themselves along the way. It plays on the mind, gravely."

Severus listens as he outlines the rest of the task, and by the time he finishes, a chill settles so deeply in his body, it leaves him with nothing to say.

"This brings me to my next concern, Severus," Dumbledore continues. "Miss [Last Name]. I’ve received complaints this week. She’s falling behind, missing assignments, and her other professors have reported a notable lack of focus.” 

That doesn’t make sense. You're top of the class in potions, and he's seen you around plenty of times – not recently, perhaps, but enough. If you were struggling in any way, he’d know. Wouldn't he?   

“I haven’t observed anything unusual myself,” he says calmly, watching Dumbledore’s expression. “This maze, do you think she will survive it?” 

“As I told her in the last task, I have my full faith in her. With that being said, I am worried. If she’s struggling mentally when the time comes, it may prove more difficult for her than the others. Has anything else come to light in your sessions together?” 

“We haven’t met for a while,” Severus admits, choosing his words carefully. “But she hasn’t raised any concerns with me. 

“I see,” Dumbledore says softly. “Perhaps I will speak to her myself, just to-” 

“That won’t be necessary,” Severus interrupts evenly. “I will follow up with her.” 

“Prepare her,” Dumbledore tells him. “Discreetly. I trust I do not need to remind you of the rules here.” Dumbledore gives him a firm look, to which Severus replies with an understanding nod. “Very well. Do let me know if she needs anything you cannot offer.” 

“Of course - if there’s nothing else?” 

“Nothing pressing,” the headmaster replies, already turning back to his mountain of parchments on the desk.  

Severus leaves the office with this fresh information whirring around in his head. He has no idea how to approach whatever it is going on with you. He didn’t even realise something was wrong with you. Are you spiralling again? Struggling with your memories? Or is there another reason?

Mondays are always intolerable. 

Severus stands at the front of his classroom, arms folded as his sixth years trickle in with tired and weary faces. His patience is already running thin today from a disastrous lesson with his first years this morning, so the bar is on the floor in terms of what he can put up with this afternoon.

Once everyone is seated, he sweeps the room, taking a mental headcount. It doesn’t take him long to notice it.  

Your seat is empty. 

Late.  

His jaw ticks. You’re never late. For detentions, maybe, but never his lessons. 

He turns to the board, masking his concern, flicking his wand at it once to scrawl on the notes. “Today, we’ll be revisiting Polyjuice Potion. If any of you have retained even a fraction of what I’ve taught this year, this will not pose a challenge. Instructions are on the board. Begin.” 

While the class gets started, he makes his way over to your station to enquire with Diggory as to your whereabouts. He gets halfway there when the door creaks open.

You step inside with your head down, closing it quietly behind you. 

“Ah,” he drawls, stopping mid-step. “How generous of you to finally join us.” 

"Sorry, professor," you mutter, not looking at him as you make your way to your seat.

He watches you, noting absolutely nothing about your appearance or tone to suggest you're anything Dumbledore suggested. You look fine, tidy, put together. You shake off your outer robe, draping it over the chair before you sit down.

He realises he's still staring when he sees something shift behind you. Selwyn smirks, whispering quietly to her friend. He doesn't need to hear to to know it's probably at your expense.

“Miss Selwyn.” He snaps, sharply. “If you have enough time to socialise in my class, I assume your potion will be flawless. Do enlighten the rest of the class with your expertise or get to work.” 

“Yes, Sir,” she says, flashing him a smile before she peers down at her textbook. 

He paces, keeping a close eye on your corner of the room. You’re working, barely, too busy talking to Diggory when you think he's not looking. Thankfully, the rest of the class are on task. Though, the usual clumsy work of the double Gryffindor pair at the front are arguing over Merlin knows what this time. He breaks it up swiftly with a stern look. 

He moves over to the table of a lone Hufflepuff girl who’s exchanging a frown between her fluxweed and her textbook. “What’s the problem, Miss Everley?” 

“N-nothing, Sir,” she stutters, flushing red. “I’m just double checking the measurements.” 

“Three measures,” he confirms, “cut the stems evenly, like this-” he leans closer, adjusting her wrist to get a better grip on the knife that trembles in her hand. 

She nods, keeping her eyes lowered as she gets back to work. He stays until she finishes, ensuring she doesn’t mess the whole thing up before he straightens himself, ready to move onto the next imbecile that needs his help.

He instinctively glances over to your direction.

Your back is turned, facing Selwyn's table. He can't see your expression, but he does catch the sneer Selwyn throws your way at whatever you've just said.

He almost sighs. Will whatever this petty rivalry is between you two ever end? 

Severus starts to head over, intending to intervene before one of you explodes again, because he knows exactly how this goes by now – but a knock at the door interrupts him.

“Continue your work,” he tells the class, passing by yours and Selwyn's stations on the way there. “I will return shortly, and if I return to any signs of immaturity, I will be assigning punishments that will make you regret it,” he says quietly, glaring down at you both. “No excuses. You have been warned.” 

Outside, McGonagall is waiting for him wearing a distressed expression with grey hairs flying our of her normally pristine high bun. “Oh, Severus,” she says, breathless. “Sorry for the interruption. Filius has had to drop out of the next Hogsmeade weekend, and Paloma’s tied up at the greenhouses. There’s no one-” 

“I will cover it,” he says, though he has absolutely no desire to do so. Hogsmeade is the least of his worries right now. 

“Oh, thank you,” she breathes with a smile, but it fades, quickly replaced by the crease of her brow. “You look tired, Severus. Is everything ok?” 

“I’m fine.” 

She nods, clearly sceptical, and gives him one final glance before she disappears down the corridor.

Severus finds himself blissfully alone.

He takes the brief moment to recompose. Today has been too stressful, and now the brewing tension in his classroom is only going to make his day worse. 

He turns back to the door, reaching for the handle when it bursts open unexpectedly. You barge through, almost crashing right into him. When you realise he's there, you stop short, staring up at him with bewildered eyes, clearly not expecting him to be there. 

For a second, neither of you exchange a word. He can see the tension in you and the anger in your eyes.  

Selwyn has done something.

Before he gets the chance to say anything, you’re already off, storming down the corridor. 

“Miss [Last Name]!” he calls after you. “Get back here, or I promise you’ll be serving detention for a month!”  

You don’t even flinch, you just keep on walking further away from him until you’re out of view and he’s left wondering what on earth just went down in his classroom to make you react like that.

He sighs angrily, stepping back into the classroom. Inside, his suspicions are only confirmed when he sees Selwyn sitting there with a smirk plastered across her face.

“What happened?” he demands, stopping at her side. 

She shrugs, playing her innocence. “I only made a comment, Sir. She’s just being too touchy... as usual.” 

He gives her a look that wipes the pretence right off her face. “What kind of comment?” 

“She just kept going on with her usual rubbish,” Diggory says, glaring at her, "she never knows when to shut it." 

“Careful, Diggory,” he warns, and Diggory huffs, getting back to the work he's been left to handle alone. He turns back to Selwyn. “Detention. For a week. Starting this evening.” 

She gasps. “That’s not fair! I-” 

“I’ll make it two.” 

She goes silent, dropping her head with scowl.  

Severus spends the rest of the lesson trying to regain control of the class and keep his professional mask on, but it’s hard. The thoughts of you stay front and centre, and he knows after this, he has no choice but to approach you now. And he needs to make it quick, because if Dumbledore finds out about this and seeks you out first, he doesn’t like to think what you might unintentionally let slip.

As the last student finally leaves the room, Severus steadies himself against the desk, one hand braced on the wood, the other pinching at the tension behind his eyes. The whole thing has left him with that same, low burning frustration – because what the hell is he supposed to do with you? 

He lifts his eyes, noting a mess left behind at one of his tables. Yours. Of course you’ve left your things behind. Your wand lies on the desk next to your text books, your bag is open on the floor beside the chair, its contents half spilled over the stone, and your robes dangle carelessly over the back of your chair.

Typical. 

You still haven’t come back, and he doubts you even will. He moves over to the mess, crouching down to gather it all up. He reaches for the last book curiously, concluding it’s not one of your usual textbooks. The cover is plain, black leather. He flips it over in his hands, scanning the spine. 

Mind and Memory: Practices of Mental Discipline in Complex States. 

A folded bit of parchment sticks out from the book, and he opens it up to that page. 

Chapter Twelve: Exercises in Emotional Detachment

His eyes skim the words, as well as the notes you’ve made on the parchment you’re using as a bookmark. He turns back to the front cover. It's a library book, stamped and dated from a few days ago. A flicker of amusement crosses his mind - at least this one was ethically taken out, unlike the last.

He stares for a while, then shuts it, tucking it into his robes discreetly. Then, he grabs your bag, slinging the strap over his shoulder and reaches for your robe. The second he picks it up, he's hit with the unmistakable scent of your perfume. Vanilla - sweet, but subtle. So very you. He tucks it into your bag and swiftly leaves the room.

The corridors are fairly busy at this hour, and even though he has no idea where to even start looking for you, students don’t slow him down. As he walks, they part to the side before he can get close, staring at him or looking away in fear. Being him definitely has it’s advantages in cases such as this – not that he’s ever been in this specific predicament before. 

Eventually, he spots one of his prefects tending to a couple of teary-eyed first years. 

“You,” he calls out, making the girl face him at once. “Have you seen Miss [Last Name]?” 

“Uh - yes, Professor,” she nods her head. “She was in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor about five minutes ago. Er, she looked a bit upset. Is everything ok?"

"She's fine," he affirms, dismissing her back to the sobbing children.

The girls bathroom. Of course you have to be in there. 

By the time he makes it to the second floor, he's already regretting this absurd choice he's making. Here he is, chasing after you like an overgrown owl, posting himself outside the girls' bathroom like some sort of creep. 

Merlin, he'll be surprised if he doesn't end up in Dumbledore's office for this.

He tries to ignore the looks, the wide-eyes glances from the occasional lower years who pass by, throwing him the odd questioning look and scurrying off when he returns a glare. 

The indignities he suffers on your behalf.

Ridiculous. 

When the bathroom door finally opens, you emerge, but you don’t notice him at first, too busy wiping your red and puffy eyes. When you look up, you stop blank when you see him. He sees the shock flare across your face before you can hide it from him.

“Stand outside the girls’ bathroom often, Professor?” you ask, crossing your arms. 

Always the attitude. 

He refuses to rise to it. Instead, he slips your bag off his shoulder, offering it out to you without a word.

Just as you reach for it, he pulls it back. “My office.” 

“No.” 

“I will not do this in the corridor. My office. Now. Or you do not get these back.” 

You narrow your eyes, flickering them between him and the bag as if you’re deciding whether it’s really worth it. Then, he sees the way you look behind you – to the stairs? Or the corridor? 

“Don’t even think about it,” he warns, sensing your plan to run off. “Come with me. Now.” 

Severus turns, heading back to the dungeons. He doesn’t need to look back to check if you're following, the sound of your dragged footsteps behind him is confirmation enough.

The walk is silent, which suits him. He needs it, because he still hasn’t decided which side of him will take over for this. The part of him that said none of it mattered – or the part that nearly bolted to the dock, ready to raise hell when Jade surfaced alone. 

When the two of you reach his office, he holds the door open for you. 

“After you.” 

You brush past him, catching him with your shoulder as you go. Deliberately, he assumes. He wards the door closed behind him, followed by the usual silencing charm.  

“Sit,” he instructs, dumping your bag on his desk with thud.

You refuse, as expected. 

“What happened in there?” he asks without preamble. “What did she say to you?” 

You shrug, keeping your eyes on anything but him. “Nothing.” 

“That’s not what it looked like." 

“It’s not a big deal,” you look over his shoulder at your things on the desk. “Can I have my stuff?” 

He ignores that, because he knows it is a big deal, even if you won't admit it.

“What’s going on?” 

“I told you. It’s nothing.” 

“You stormed out of my class and left your belongings. I wouldn’t classify that as nothing, Miss [Last Name].” 

“Forgive me if I wasn’t in the mood to listen to Ivy run her fucking mouth for another hour,” you snap back, finally looking up at him. “Not like you ever say anything to her. Why is it always me that ends up in here?” 

He blinks at you - this again? He thought this old theory of yours, this jealous streak you had in your head thinking he favours Selwyn, had long since died. 

“She's receiving a week’s detention," he clarifies, cocking an eyebrow. "Which you would have seen, had you not thrown a tantrum. You will be joining her, by the way.” 

You roll your eyes, muttering a ‘great’ under your breath.  

He exhales sharply. “What’s going on?” he repeats, less patient this time. “I’ve heard your other professors have expressed their concerns too.” 

“Then why don’t you go and ask them?” 

“I’m asking you.” 

“And I said there’s nothing going on,” you say, sharper now. “Can I leave?” 

“No. Not until you talk to me and stop acting like a child.” 

You scoff. “I’m not the one acting like a child.” 

He doesn't entertain your remark. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” 

“I didn't ask for your help," you fire back. "Did I?"

He narrows his eyes, then reaches into his robes. "No," he says, producing the book, "but this tells me you need it." 

You move towards him faster than he expects, reaching out to take it, but he pulls back at the last second. The motion throws you off, making you stumble into him. You steady yourself with a firm hand on his chest, and he almost forgets to breathe.

You pull away immediately, glowering at him like it was his fault.

“You went through my stuff?" you demand, your face turning red. "You can't just-!” 

You lunge for it again, but it’s no use. He holds it above his head, too far from your reach. “Actually, you left it on my floor,” he replies coolly, already recomposing himself. “The nightmares. They're happening again, aren't they?” 

He hears the way your breath catches. Your anger slips, freezing you in place. “Why do you care?” 

“Something's going on,” he continues, clinically. “It’s obvious. And to be expected. We haven’t had a session in a while, and this,” he says, waving the book again, “tells me you’re trying to figure it out on your own. Unsuccessfully.” 

“I’m managing perfectly fine," you say defiantly. He glances down, noting the way your fingers move restlessly against the hem of your skirt. 

You're lying.

“Is it as bad as before?” 

“Stop it!” you shout at him. “You don’t get to do this! Do you think you can just pretend to care, or whatever the fuck this is, and I’ll let you in again? After all the things you said to me? Are you really that stupid?” 

He stares at you, stunned by the force of it. He opens his mouth, ready to reprimand you for your disrespect, but you're faster. In his hesitation, he lowers the book without realising, and you manage to snatch it from his hand. His own arm darts out to take it back, but you take a step back and quickly and hide it behind your back.

Childish.

He exhales deeply again, grasping onto any edge of calm he has left in his body after today.

“I’m not here to argue with you,” he tries to say it gently, but the words come out rougher than he'd like. "Believe what you like, but I am trying to help you."

You shake your head. “I don’t want anything from you!” you hiss, shoving past him to your things. You throw your bag over your shoulder without so much as a glance in his direction.

He steps in front of you as you turn around, blocking you from moving any further. You meet his eyes with the same fury he's seen before, but this time, he can tell it's too close to burning out. Your mouth opens, but nothing comes - just a single, stray tear falls from your eye.

You wipe it away with the sleeve of your jumper and push your way past him.

He lets you go this time, and he watches, helplessly, as you walk away from him for a second time today.

Good job, Severus.

Chapter Text

“... [First Name]?”  

Your heavy eyes drift open at the sound of the familiar voice.  

Was that...?  

No. It couldn’t have been.  

You blink your vision into focus and realise you’re staring up at the ceiling of your bedroom. Not your dorm at Hogwarts, but your room back at home. Home – a place you haven’t seen for a long time now. Sitting yourself up, you gaze around the room, confused. Everything is back in place. Nothing is broken or burnt to cinders. In fact, the only difference is the pale fog that seems to fill the air, obscuring your view.

“[First Name]?”  

The voice comes again, quieter, but it’s no less real. You’re definitely not imagining it.  

You push up off the floor and stagger over towards the door, gripping the handle. It doesn’t open straight away, but after a few frantic tugs, it swings open with a low groan.   

You’re on the landing now, trying to squint through the veiled mist. The fog is much worse out here. You can’t see a damn thing. You stretch your arms out at either side of you, running your fingertips along the walls to feel your way over to the staircase that should be just ahead.  

Once you're there, you wrap your fingers around it tightly, leaning your body over the rail. The iron digs into your stomach as you try to see beneath you into the foyer – certain that the voice came from down there.  

“Mother...?” you ask into the silence. “Where are you?”  

After a few seconds of complete stillness, you step over to the stairs and carefully take them one by one while keeping your ears open for any other sounds.

“[First Name]?”  

Your head wrenches to the right just as you’re coming off the final step. You break into a run, desperately chasing after the sound of the voice you thought you’d long forgotten by now. Your socks skid on the slippery floor, almost making you slip as you rush through the living room and straight into the kitchen.  

If she’s really here, this is where she’ll be.  

She’s not. The kitchen, once filled with the scent of her baking or the fresh aroma of lilies, is barren. All that remains is the mysterious fog, cutting out any of the home comforts you’d once be able to see.  

“Mother?” your voice cracks, shaking under the confusion of what’s going on. “I - I can’t see you. Why can’t I see you?”  

Tears spill from your eyes as you turn in place, breathing heavier as the loneliness creeps in. You turn from the kitchen, running aimlessly to the only other place she might be.  

Father’s study.  

“[First Name]!”  

As soon as you open the heavy wooden door, his stern voice commands the room from the high backed armchair in the corner of the room, now facing the walls. You take tiny, cautious steps inside, creeping over to it.  

“Father...?” you whisper, voice trembling. You scoot closer as slowly as you can, afraid of what might - or might not - be there.

You brace yourself, placing your trembling fingers on the worn leather at the top of the chair before turning it slowly towards you.  

Empty.  

Your chest caves in at the sight. “What?" you spin around, snapping your eyes to every empty corner of the room. “What is this-? Where are you?”  

You sob loudly, crumpling to the floor in a heap of despair. 

“[First Name]...?” your mothers voice calls out for you again.  

You turn quickly, but there's nothing. Only her voice, facelessly taunting you with a closeness you'll never be able to reach. You grasp your hand out into the emptiness, watching as it disappears into the mist.  

You’d give anything just to see her again.

“No...” you sob into your hands, listening to their voices call your name over and over again until they’re overlapping so much it all just becomes a blur of noise – too loud for you to bear.

You stay there on the floor as your breathing becomes a frenzied mess, eyes scrunched closed while covering your ears tightly. 

Suddenly, the window to the side of you explodes, sending shards of glass through the office. You cower, covering your head as you sob harder, as the very spaces of your comfort are torn apart again right in front of your eyes. A strong wind penetrates the room, stealing every bit of paper, every open book, snatching them into a whirlwind in the centre of the room.   

You stare up at it as the floor shakes beneath you, and the hands of loss itself pull at your clothes, your hair, at every single part of your being until you’re completely bare. It tears away everything - until only the echo of your piercing screams remain.

.

..

... 

“[First Name]?” 

You wake with a gasp, throwing your head up, startled by the sudden touch on your shoulder. Jade stares down at you sympathetically. 

“Calm down, it’s just me. Are you okay?” she asks, glancing down at the articles you were just using as a pillow. “Did you fall asleep reading those again?” 

You did. This makes it the second time this week you’ve fallen asleep in the library after hours, and it’s only Tuesday. 

You groan, and she squeezes your arm helpfully to shake the sleepiness. 

“Yeah, I guess I did,” you reply. Running a hand over your aching forehead. “Sorry.” 

She lets out a small laugh. “You’re hopeless. Come on, it’s almost curfew. Here – let me get those for you.” 

She swats your hand away, clearing the articles away herself and filing them back into the cabinets behind you. Then, she starts packing your things and carefully slots everything back into your bag. 

You pull yourself up from the chair with another groan, stretching your limbs out before following her out of the library. 

She leans in closer just as you’re passing Madam Pince, who gives the two of you a barbed glare. “That old cow just told me off for being up here, even though she knows I’m on rounds tonight,” she complains in a quiet hiss. “Can you believe that? I actually hate her.” 

You huff a laugh, unsurprised. You’ve had enough run-ins with the librarian by now to know she’s probably not exaggerating at all, and you completely agree with her.  

As you walk through the corridors, your mind goes back to the dream. You can’t seem to fully remember it, but it’s familiar enough by now to get the gist. You’ve had near enough that exact dream every day for the past week now.

“You can’t keep doing this, you know,” she chides as you step into the dungeons. 

You glance over at her. “What?” 

“Missing detention? You know Snape’s gonna have your head when he finds you. You can’t avoid him forever.” 

Oh, that. Yeah, she’s probably right, but you’re determined to keep it up for as long as you can. 

“He’ll have mine too if he sees me helping you back to the common room like this,” she says with a vague amusement in her tone. “I'm not supposed to tell you this, but he told all the prefects to keep an eye out for you today. If any of us see you, we have to bring you to him.” 

Your heart skips a beat at that. “What? Seriously?” 

“Yeah, but you know I'd never rat you out like that," she smiles proudly. "So, here I am, breaking the rules as head girl, just for you." 

You smile back, leaning into her. “Thanks.” 

She wraps her arm around your shoulder, and you walk like that together the rest of the way to the common room while she tells you, impersonation and all, exactly what Madam Pince said to her back there while you were asleep. 

You fall through the door of the common room in a fit of laughs. It’s safe to say your spirits have lifted – you’ve been feeling so down in the dumps lately, but Jade always brings the brightness of life back to you. 

As you’re both heading over to the stairs leading to the dorms, she stops you suddenly. “Go to detention tomorrow, alright?” she pleads, back to her serious head girl act. “I know you don’t want to go because Ivy’s there, but trust me, the wrath of Snape is not worth it.” 

If only she knew you couldn’t care less about Ivy and it's him you’re avoiding. 

“I’ll think about it,” you yawn, knowing absolutely full well you will not. “Hey,” you call, as she takes the first few steps, “can I... stay with you again tonight?” 

She turns to you, grinning excitedly. “You’re really asking me if I want to have another sleepover? Of course I do!” 

She takes your hand, tugging you up the stairs and through the dorms, already launching herself into a ramble about how lonely she gets, and how she wishes you could stay with her all the time. 

When you get to her private room – yet another grand perk of being head girl – you throw your shoes off, chuck your robe into the nearest chair, and dive into the bed, wrapping yourself in the green plush blankets. Jade laughs at you as she kicks the door closed behind her and joins you, sprawling herself across the duvet of her double bed. 

“Can I ask you something?” she says after a moment, tilting her head to look over at you. 

You lift your eyes, meeting her gaze. “What is it?” 

“Why are you reading that stuff? In the library?” she turns onto her side to face you fully, bracing a hand under her head.  

“What?” 

“I know what you’re looking at. It’s the death archives, right? You were going through them yesterday when I found you, too. What are you looking for?” 

“Oh.” You close your eyes, feeling your heart beat faster. 

The truth is, you’ve been searching for any information on your parents. The dreams have only left you wondering where they are. Obviously they’re dead, but you want to know where they’re buried… if they even were ever laid to rest. 

“I... I was just curious about my family,” you tell her, trying to seem casual about it. 

“Oh." Her expression softens. "Did you find anything?” 

“Not really,” you say, sinking yourself further into the blankets. “It's not really important. I was just interested, that’s all.” 

She hums, rolling onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. “Have you asked your parents? Maybe they know the history of the [Last Names].” 

If only you could.  

You smile sadly, glad she’s not looking at you anymore. “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, how was that flying thing today?” 

“Oh my god, it was so good,” she beams, shifting herself onto her stomach excitedly. “Jakob kept saying how much he wished you were there, by the way.” She smirks, dropping her voice playfully. “You know, he said he’d have loved to take you for a ride on his broom.” 

You roll your eyes, knowing exactly what she’s insinuating with that. “You’re disgusting.” 

Jade laughs. “Okay, but seriously. He was insane today! I didn't know he could fly like that!” 

You’re disappointed you missed the Durmstrangs showing off at the lake earlier, but you were far too busy stuck in the library catching up on work and trudging through the archives.   

“I’m glad things are back to normal between you two. Eirik's relieved Jakob's back to himself too,” she says sincerely. 

“Me too,” you say, and you mean it. “But don’t get any ideas, alright? We’re just friends. So stop looking at me like that.” 

"Alright fine,” she says, raising her brows like she doesn’t believe you. “Just friends... for now,” she winks. 

You throw a pillow at her face, and the rest of the night is spent in the comfort of her room, talking about anything and everything. At some point, as it so often does, the conversation shifts to her and Eirik. You listen and take in every little detail, giggling when her face turns a cute  shade of pink as she goes into some very specific details you definitely didn’t ask for. 

Eventually, you both drift off, curled in the soothing warmth of the blankets. It’s strange – because for the two nights you’ve now spent in Jade’s bed, the dreams feel so much lighter and easier to handle. You haven’t woken up terrified or drenched in your own sweat once. 

The next day comes quicker than you’d like. Wednesday. Which means tomorrow you have potions, and you’re going to have to face Snape. 

You sneak back into your dorm just after breakfast to brush your teeth and change into a clean uniform. After that, you spend your free period this morning weighing up your options on what work you’re going to focus on today. You’re in deep shit with the other professors, and now Snape knows, you can’t avoid it any longer. 

And if you’re going to start making amends for all those missed assignments, you might as well be strategic about it. 

Astronomy? Well, it’s too early to do any star gazing. And by the time the evening rolls around, you know you’ll be dead on your feet, like usual. Just the one late night class a week leaves you feeling absolutely useless the next day. 

Defence against the dark arts? Absolutely not. Moody’s been weirder than usual lately – and that’s saying something. He gives you the creeps, and there’s definitely something about him that you don't trust. You just can't figure out exactly what it is yet. Strangely enough, he hasn’t said a word about your missing work since the conversation in the library with Harry. You wonder, quite regularly, if Snape has anything to do with that. 

So that just leaves Herbology.  

That’s okay. Sprout’s been surprisingly supportive, more so than the others, and she seems to understand the pressure the tournament is having on you better than most people. It’s the excuse you can lean on with her, and she never presses you for more. 

“Ah, there you are,” Sprout says brightly as you step into the greenhouse, shrugging off your robes. “I’ve left your backlog here-” she pats a stack of parchments on a spare desk “- and I've nearly finished marking through your others, too.” 

You smile at her, hoping she doesn’t see the way your eyes drift over to the pile with a mild pit of dread in your stomach. 

“I do need to pop out for a moment, Dear,” she adds, talking to you over her shoulder as she heads to the door. “Would you mind just  keeping an eye on that little fella for me?” 

You glance over to where she nods her head to a small, leafy plant in a wide pot. Its stems twitch every few seconds. 

“Sure,” you say, frowning at it. It doesn’t look like it needs much looking after. 

“I won’t be long!” She coos, disappearing through the door. 

You lean against the workbench, watching intentively as the leaves of the plant occasionally shiver. Your mind, as usual, refuses to stay docile. It drifts again, back to the thoughts that have been gnawing away at you recently – where your parents might be, if anywhere at all.

You slump into the stool, resting your head in the palm of your hand, deep in thought. You can’t risk another late night visit to the library – not after Jade caught you twice in a row now. She’s getting a little too suspicious, and you hate having to lie to her. Besides, the archives have been a dead end so far, and you're losing faith in that approach.

You could ask Dumbledore about it. He did say you could go and see him any time, and the man knows absolutely everything. 

The door creaks open as you’re stuck on that thought, and you turn, expecting to see Sprout. Instead, Neville sneaks inside, clutching his battered notebook like usual. 

“Oh - hi,” he stutters, clearly startled to see you in here. “Professor Sprout’s not here?” 

“No. She just stepped out for a sec,” you reply. 

He nods and shuffles further in, his eyes flicking over to the plant. “Er... careful with that one. It snaps out when you least expect it.” He lifts his sleeve, showing you a hole in the elbow. “Figured that out yesterday.” 

You huff out a laugh, backing away from the plant a little. “Noted. Thanks.”  

He makes his way over, planting himself just beside the table you’re sitting at. He hesitates awkwardly before blurting out his next words. 

“You look tired.” 

You side eye him. “Thanks.” 

“Oh. No- I didn’t mean-” he stumbles over his words, his face turning beet red. “I saw you yawning the other day. I- well, I brought this for you.” He extends a shaky hand, holding a piece of parchment to you. “If you want it.” 

You upwrap the paper, scanning over Neville's scribbled hand written notes on it. It's a list of simple plant based remedies - not potions, but teas and salves - that might help encourage sleep. There's a surprising amount of detail, which tells you he's thoroughly researched this.

When you glance up at him again, he’s clutching the notebook, terrified. “I- I didn’t mean it offensively. Har-Harry's been struggling, too. I thought it’s probably the tournament. Sorry. I just- I thought it might help.” 

"Don't apologise." You smile at him appreciatively as you tuck the note into your pocket. “Seriously, I'm definitely gonna give some of these a try. Thanks."

He shrugs, a relieved smile plastering his face.  

“Hey, Neville,” you call out just as he’s heading over to a workbench in the corner. “I don't suppose you could watch this for me? I’ve got a ton of work to do, and I've really gotta get started on it.” 

“Sure,” he says, rushing over to the desk. He sets his notebook down and drags a stool over, siting at a safe distance as he takes over. 

You thank him again while heading over to the pile of stuff Sprout has left for you. It'll take you forever to catch up with all this, and your thoughts are already shifting back to the same questions you've been mulling over for a few days. You try to shake them off, dragging your stool closer to the bench. If you don't keep yourself busy, you'll sink too far again.

Neville's occasional mutter from across the room kind of helps to keep you in the right headspace, and by the time Sprout comes back in, he's fully sitting at your table with you with his notebook open between you both. For a fourth year, he's really fucking clever with plants. In fact, you learn more from him in this brief study period than you have in some of Sprout's actual classes. 

After spending the rest of the day doing an acceptable amount of catching up and attending your other classes, you decide to seek out Dumbledore late in the evening. You don’t want to get told off by going after curfew, so thirty minutes beforehand, you set off to the headmaster’s office. 

On the way, you run through what you’re going to say. You pretty much rehearsed the words all through dinner, but you’re acutely aware of the fact that you still feel resentful towards Dumbledore because of what Snape told you. Realistically though, who else can you ask about this? There's only two people who might know - Snape, the man you’re enormously pissed off at and avoiding completely, or Dumbledore – the man you’re just mildly pissed off at.

It's an easy decision when you look at it that way.

As soon as you make it to the gargoyle guarding his office, you’re racking your brain for the password when the statue starts to move on its own. You step back, dumbfounded. Does he know you’re here like last time? 

The spiral stairs come into view, but as you duck slightly to look up, you catch sight of a black shape descending them.  

You freeze, knowing it’s already too late to move. You’ve been spotted. 

“Miss [Last Name].” 

Of fucking course. 

Your eyes widen, and your heart feels like it’s running a mile. You weren’t expecting to see anyone else here, let alone him. Snape stops dead on the final step, looking down at you through the slight curls of his raven hair. 

You take a step backwards, and he follows you, stepping out into the corridor as the gargoyle seals off your way to safety behind him. 

“What are you doing here at this hour?” he asks, folding his arms authoritively. 

You’re sure he must be stalking you at this point, because how does he always manage to conveniently find you? 

“It’s none of your business,” you say, holding your head high. 

“I think you’ll find that one of my students roaming the castle this close to curfew, is, in fact, my business,” he replies, matter of factly. 

God, you hate him and his tendency to always be annoyingly correct all the time. 

“I came to speak to the headmaster about something private,” you tell him, enphasising the last word. 

He squints, as if trying to suss you out. “I’m assuming this ‘private’ matter doesn’t include the fact you’ve missed two consecutive detentions with me now, no?” 

You shuffle on the spot, diverting your eyes to the floor, clinging to the naive hope that if you don’t talk to him, he might just leave you alone. 

As if that brilliant plan would ever work. 

“Did you get my note?” he asks, curtly.

You lift your head back up, frowning. “Note?” 

“Yes,” he says, resting his arms at his side now. “In your dormitory. I assumed you'd be competent enough to find it.” 

“Oh.” 

He tilts his head to the side. “Well?” 

“No. I haven’t seen it. I haven’t been in my dorm much these last few days."

“Oh? And why is that?” 

“None of your business,” you repeat, already looking past him at the gargoyle. “Now, if you’d kindly fuck off, I need to speak to Dumbledore.” 

His jaw clenches, and he lets out a sharp breath. “He’s unavailable at the moment.” 

“What? But you were just in there – “ 

“Yes,” he cuts in, condescendingly. “And I saw with my own eyes that he’s very busy.” 

You sigh, exasperated. “Fine! I’ll just come back tomorrow.” 

“Or,” he says, low and drawn out, stepping closer. “You could explain the matter to me.” 

You scoff, folding your arms – is he really trying this again? 

“No thanks,” you shrug, trying to sound less bothered than you are.

“It may have escaped your notice, but I am capable of assisting my own students,” he says. 

“And it may have escaped your notice, Professor, but I don’t want your help,” you reply, irritated at his persistency.  

He goes silent, but his dark, captivating eyes never leave yours. It makes you feel so overwhelmingly sad. For reasons you can't explain, you miss him and those little conversations you shared in his office or in his quarters, and the way he’d always know how to make you feel better in that ‘ I don’t care but I always have the right thing to say’ kind of way. 

It's infuriatingly stupid. After everything he said, you should despise him. You want to.

You sigh again in frustration, shaking your head to force it all away while you move around him to go back the way you came. 

“[Last Name],” he growls behind you. “Get back here.” 

His footsteps clink against the stone behind you. You pretend not to hear him, moving your legs faster and faster. Your throat tightens traitorously, and your damned eyes are already starting to water. 

For god’s sake, stop getting so emotional.  

His footsteps continue to follow uninterrupted behind you. “Stop walking away from me.” 

Your legs feel like jelly by now, but you keep yourself moving forwards. You just need to get to the moving staircase ahead, and then, hopefully, you’ll be able to escape him. 

“Stop this.” His hand grabs your wrist from behind – again, always the fucking wrist – and pulls you back just enough to make you turn around. 

You spin, wild with anger. “What?! What do you want from me?” Your voice wavers at the edges, and it only makes you angrier. “I’m sorry for missing detention. I’ll come tomorrow, alright? Now, can you just leave me alone and go back to pretending I don’t exist again?” 

You shake off his hand, still seething, and stomp away again. You’re walking so vigorously that you nearly stumble over when your foot hits the edge of the staircase - which is already groaning like it’s seconds from moving.

“[First Name].” 

The scowl on your face instantly softens. You stop, one foot half on the step, half off. Your heart feels like it’s stopped beating all together. 

Did he just...?  

You turn around slowly. His dark, shadowed figure looms in the distance, not far, staring you down with an almost sombre expression. It says what his words never will – he feels bad. 

Good. You think. He should.  

And looking at him now, after hearing your name on his tongue – something you never realised you longed to hear – you hate how much you want to hear him say it again. 

A deep rumble cuts through the silence from behind. You glace over your shoulder at the staircase, stumbling forward a steps as it moves away, leaving you trapped between Snape and a rather large drop. 

When you turn back to him, he’s already stepped closer. The edge of the usual severity in his face has dulled significantly. 

“Come away from there,” he says sharply, his eyes dropping to the empty space where the staircase just was. 

You stay where you are, rooted, torn between the urge to tell him to sod off and the knowledge that, if you do, he’ll only keep coming back. 

Letting out a defeated sigh, you step away from the edge. “Fine. I’m not talking about it here, though.” 

You glare over at the nearest portrait that you know has been gawping at you both since this began. The old wizard looks away, pretending innocence, but more faces have already crowded the nearby frames too. The nosey inhabitants are clearly invested by this whole charade. 

Snape’s eyes follow yours, and with it, he gives the faintest incline of his head in agreement. “Lead the way.” 

You start walking, not quite sure where your legs are taking you as you trace the familiar turns without thinking. Snape stays silent but close behind you, and before you know it, the low archway of the courtyard outside comes into view. You lead him through it and out into the cold evening air until you reach the stone wall overlooking the grounds of Hogwarts. 

You hoist yourself onto it, resting your hands on the cool stone as the night breeze sweeps through your hair. From here, you can just about make out the dark ripples of the lake, the silhouette of the Durmstrang ship sitting a top it, and the faint warm lights of Hogsmeade in the distance. 

Snape rests himself against the wall beside you, his hands folded in front of him as he takes in the beauty of the night too. He doesn’t say anything. You can tell he’s waiting for you to lead this conversation. 

“I’ve been looking in the library,” you begin, still staring out into the dark. “That's where I've been going instead of detention. I'm trying to find something, but I don't think it's in there. I thought Dumbledore might have some answers, since he knows a lot." 

Snape doesn’t turn to look at you. “What is it you’re looking for?” 

You take a steadying breath, feeling the cold air bite at your lungs. “I want to know where my parents are – where they’re buried, I mean. If they even were.” 

In your peripheral vision, you catch the way his head drops to the flag stones at his feet. He doesn’t move nor speak, but you can tell he knows something. Just like you suspected. 

You wait patiently for him to come out with it. 

“I imagined you would ask me this eventually,” he says at last. “Why now?” 

You swallow, trying to ditch that annoying tightening of your throat. “I keep dreaming of them,” you admit quietly. “It’s different than the nightmares from before. It’s not memories this time, it’s just me at home trying to find them, but I never can...” you trail off, struggling to find your next words. “I see her, too – my mother. Sometimes she’ll just be there in the corridors, and yesterday, she was waiting for me in the library.” He turns his head then, regarding you with concern. “I know she’s not really there,” you assure him quickly, “I know it’s just my head being fucked up, but when I blink and she’s suddenly gone... I just... it hurts.” 

The horrific ache in your chest that hasn’t left since you learnt of their deaths suddenly feels like it’s been there forever. Your eyes drift back out into the night, up to the scattered stars in the sky. You wonder if she’s out there right now, clinging to the possibility that she might be looking back down at you. 

Snape stays quiet, but you can feel the heavy stare of his eyes burning into the side of your face. You’re scared to look at him again, worried that he might think you’re insane now for confessing that. 

“She was buried,” he confirms after a while.

You avert your eyes from the stars to face him.

“I will take you to see her – if that is what you truly want,” he continues calmly, “but not before I intervene with whatever is going on in your head. I will not take you anywhere that risks hurting your mind further.” 

He doesn’t say it meanly, but you can tell it’s a condition he isn’t willing to negotiate. You don't understand why he's doing this, why he's so insistent on helping after everything, but if it brings you even a step closer to that closure you've been chasing...

“Alright,” you say quietly. The single word almost feels like a relief, even though talking to him again was the last thing you wanted thirty minutes ago. 

Neither of you say anything for a long while after that. He stays silently beside you, giving you the time to let this new information settle.

Eventually, the bell for curfew echoes over the grounds.

“We should go inside,” he says when the sound fades, glancing over at you. "Come on."

Back inside the castle, Snape moves silently around his office, clearing some space in the centre. He drags two armchairs into the middle, angling them so they face eachother. You can tell he’s buying time, because he could easily have done all this with his wand in seconds. 

You shed your outer robes, hovering awkwardly at the door until he finally gestures for you to sit. He takes your robes from you, hooking them on the back of the door as you shuffle forward and sink yourself into the chair nervously - why are you so nervous? 

He takes the other seat, drawing his knees close to yours but not touching. 

“As I said, before I take you there, you need to be more prepared.” His voice is calm, measured. “Do you remember when we went back to the manor, just after you arrived here?” 

Of course you do. How could you forget? 

“Yeah,” you murmur. “You told me you used legilimency on me when I was unconscious. It was the first time I realised I shouldn’t trust you.” 

You regret the words as soon as they fall from your mouth, but you can’t help it. You’re tired. 

He fixes you with one pointed stare. “I have already admitted I was wrong to do that. I would not dare cross that line now without your consent. You know that.” You glare at him, but he doesn’t allow you to interject him. “I asked only because that encounter drained you more than you were willing to admit. You may continue to pretend otherwise, if it so pleases you, but I see it clearly. You cannot occlude emotions of this magnitude forever. At some point, you must let yourself feel them. It is the only way your mind stands any chance of recovering from this.” 

You take a deep breath, looking away from him.

He’s right, you do have to face it head on, and it’s fucking unbearable. The grief, the horrible ache that constantly sits in your chest, the one you’ve been trying to outrun from the start. You thought, foolishly, that you could keep doing this, keep relying on your occlumency, your school work and the tournament to distract you – anything but actually let yourself feel it. 

“Will you allow me to see?” 

Your eyes flick back up his, and you give him an accepting nod, knowing you don’t really have a choice in the matter. As painful as it is to admit, you need his help with this. 

“Sit still.” He says, his tone all back to business again. 

He starts to lift his hands, and you panic, blurting out the first thing that comes to mind without taking time to rationally think it through. 

“Wait -- please don’t.” 

His eyes hold yours long enough to make your stomach knot, and then he looks down at his lap. “As you wish.” 

Your eyes close in a fleet of guilt. You hadn’t meant it like that . Truthfully, you’ve thought far too often about his touch, and you know all too well how utterly distracting the feeling is. You can’t afford that when your head feels mushy enough as it is. 

You don’t know what he does, but in an instant, you’re plunged deeply back into the abyss of your mind. 

You’ve done this more times than you can count now, and even found such comfort in it on a few occasions, but this times feels completely different. Everything flashes through your head so quickly you don’t get a glimpse of a single thing. 

And it fucking hurts. It feels like he’s tearing through your head with his bear hands. 

“ Stop! ” you scream, but it comes out as helpless as a whisper. 

You gasp as the connection severs and throws you back so violently that you almost tip backwards in the chair. His arm shoots out, gripping your shoulder to steady you before than can happen.  

Screwing your eyes closed, you clutch your head in your palms, sucking in deep breaths as you fight the wave of pain currently cascading through your skull. You’ve never felt legilimency like that before. 

You can vaguely make out the shape of Snape sitting opposite you through the colourful spots flooding your vision when you open your eyes again.

“Forgive me,” he says in a tone which sounds far too gentle for him. “No contact legilimency can be... unpleasant. Especially for a mind already under strain. This is why is initially chose contact with you.” 

You expel a steadying breath. “Is it always that bad?” 

“Not typically that painful, I admit. Your mind was determined to keep me away, which didn’t help matters. Resistance will make it worse."

You sit quietly for a few seconds, rubbing the side of your head. 

"Let's try again."

His eyes narrow. "I do not recommend-"

"Just do it," you snap.

He doesn't argue further. You shut your eyes closed and will yourself to open up to him, even if your mind doesn't want to.

This time is worse.

The intrusion feels like your head is being flayed open- iron claws shred at your skull, tearing the memories from the crooks of your mind before you can even see them.

The pain is too overwhelming.

You start to feel lightheaded and nauseous, but you don't want to admit it to him again. Instead, you choke on a strangled sound as you clutch the arms of the chair so hard your fingers hurt.

"That's enough." His voice cuts through your desperate breaths, and the connection severs so sharply it throws you forward this time, causing you to collapse in on yourself. You press your heels to your eyes, swallowing down the left over nausea. 

Across from you, Snape's chair scrapes against the stone. He crouches in front of you, speaking to you quietly. "I warned you. You cannot withstand this. Not without contact."

You shake your head weakly. "Okay. Yeah. I- I can't do that again."

When you lift your head, he's searching your face. Waiting. 

“We can do it the normal way."  

"You're certain?" he checks.

You straighten up, wincing as the movement spikes a fresh wave of pain. "Yeah. Just do it."

The second he lifts his hands, you hold your breath. When his palms and fingers finally meet your skin, a spark of heat shoots through your stomach. It makes you realise just how much you missed his touch, even though you’d rather die than ever admit it. 

You squeeze your eyes closed, trying to find focus in literally anything other than the feel of him. Luckily, he gets to work straight away, and the pressure makes for an uncomfortable but welcomed distraction. 

It’s more pleasant this time, you can tell that much. It still hurts, but it’s definitely more bearable. You submit your mind to him completely, letting him see everything that you can't. You just don't have the energy to hide things from him this time even if you tried.

It continues this way for what feels like hours. He carefully combs through your mind, delicately putting all the pieces back together.  

As soon as it’s over and his hands fall away, you take your head into your hands to massage your temples gently. 

You feel ten times better already. 

When you glance back up, Snape’s still crouched in front of you, slightly leaning back against the chair. His hands are clasped together in his lap now, with his eyes locked unfocused on the floor just behind you.

That’s.... weird.  

You rub at the side of your temple again, still feeling that annoying pressure. “Is everything okay?” 

He blinks, focusing his eyes on you again. “Yes.”  

He pulls himself up as you sit there, waiting for him to say more. You expect him to come out with the usual - to tell you how much of a mess your mind is, to reprimand you on relying on your occlumency too much. But he doesn’t say a word. He supports himself behind the chair, clamping his hands around the wood at the top.

His eyes drift back to yours and his mouth twitches like he’s about to say something, but he draws in a breath instead. 

“What? Was it really that bad?” you try to make it sound jokey, because honestly, he’s kinda freaking you out. He’s never acted like this before. 

“It was certainly instructive,” he says finally in an unbothered tone. 

You stare at him, frowning at his odd behaviour. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

He says nothing, and his eyes fix on somewhere past you. 

“Seriously - what’s going on?” you push, standing up. “You’re being weird. Did you see something bad?” 

“It’s nothing.” 

“It doesn’t seem like nothing. If you saw something in my head, I have a right to know.” 

“It’s nothing,” he repeats in a serious tone. “Do not worry.” 

You sigh as the silence stretches between you again. You could push him for more, but you know that tone he's using.  So you let it go - for now.

“Fine.” You pause, wondering if you should ask or not – but then you do anyway. “Can we go now?” 

He glances above your head at the clock. “It’s almost midnight.” 

“And?”  

He exhales impatiently. “And most people consider that an unreasonable hour for a trip to a graveyard.” 

“But you promised,” you splutter.  

“I did,” he agrees, pushing himself fully upright and smoothing out his robes. “But I did not say we will go tonight. It’s far too late.” 

“Please,” you beg, “I can’t face another night of those dreams, and this will really help.” 

He bows his head defeatedly, probably knowing by now you’ll keep insisting until he gives in. It’s a losing battle for him.

When he talks next, he’s back to his usual in control persona. “You will stay close. You cannot wander. And if there’s even the faintest sign of... trouble, we are leaving. Immediately. Is that understood?” 

“Trouble...? What are you expecting?” 

His eyes shift to yours, his voice dropping darker. “Graveyards attract more than the dead.” 

You laugh weakly, a little unsettled by his sudden demeanour. “I didn’t have you down as the superstitious type, Sir.” 

His serious expression doesn’t change as he sweeps past you towards the door. “Don’t forget your robes. It’s cold tonight, and you’re hardly dressed for the occasion as it is.” 

You look down at your skirt, short socks and bare legs. Okay, you can agree with him on that one. You pull your robes off the hook on the way out, wrapping yourself in them as you mentally prepare for what’s coming, not knowing at all what to expect. 

You follow Snape out of the castle and back into the grounds which are now plunged in a deeper kind of darkness. He holds his wand up, lighting the way with a bright Lumos. You try to keep close, almost jogging behind him to keep up with his long strides. 

He comes to a sudden stop where the grass ends and opens out into a stone pathway. He crouches down, muttering something under his breath while he makes precise movements with his wand.  

You watch him curiously, your eyes widening in surprise when you figure out what he’s doing. “Are we allowed be to doing this?” 

“No,” he says, as if the answer should be perfectly obvious. 

“Oh,” you can’t help but smile at the small thrill of sneaking around with him like this. “So... you’re breaking the rules for me?” 

His wand hovers mid spell as he turns his head, giving you a placid look over his shoulder. “This stays between us.” 

You grin at him, and he turns back to his wand, disarming the final ward before he walks over the apparition boundary. Then, he tucks his wand back into his robes and holds an arm out for you. 

“Hurry up,” he says impatiently. “We do not have all night.” 

He reaches further, catching your elbow forcefully and guides you over the invisible line. As soon as you’re over, the grounds vanish. The world around you is replaced instantly by the sickly, crushing motion of apparition.  

Once it subsides, you catch yourself on an iron fence. You clutch onto it for dear life while your body recovers. 

“You should be used to that by now,” Snape quips, completely unaffected himself. 

“I wasn’t ready,” you glare at him, catching your breath. “Anyway, you should try being like... six inches shorter. It throws the balance off, you know?” 

His mouth twitches – almost a smile, you think, but it could also be the glow of the moonlight warping his features. Either way, his expression flattens out as he speaks again. “Are you certain you’re prepared for this?” 

A wave of unease rolls through your stomach. “Mmhm,” you reply, nodding your head. You do feel ready, but you’re also terrified. 

He narrows his eyes at you before walking on beyond the gates and down the dimly lit path of the graveyard. The graves stretch out before you in evenly spaced rows, each one carved with beautifully bittersweet words. 

You walk slowly behind him, stopping occasionally to read some of headstones. The words often make you smile, and you wonder what words might have been written about your parents. You can think of so many things that describe them wonderfully. 

Snape doesn’t look around like you do, which you find curious. His pace remains the same, steady and focused ahead, like he’s been here before already. The prescence of the dead doesn’t seem to affect him at all, and you wonder, if he’s avoiding it all because he’s lost someone too. 

You let the thoughts carry you through the graveyard until he stops at a smaller gate. 

“Your mother’s grave is through here,” he says in a low voice. “Promise me you’re ready for this.” 

“I promise." 

You step through the gate carefully, following him beneath the sweeping boughs of an old willow tree. Its long branches almost touch the ground, veiling this corner of the graveyard in a curtain of shade. Beneath it, set apart from the other graves, lies a small mound of dirt.

Your breath catches when he stops beside it.

The grave is marked only by a rough, uncut stone. It's void of any name, any date, any words at all. Like it's already been forgotten.

“Why is it like that?” you glance back over at the other graves, at their carvings, their dried out flowers and pretty trinkets. “And where’s fathers?” 

“There isn’t one for him,” he admits. “He was branded a traitor, as all Death Eaters are. It’s likely his remains were simply... disposed of.” He pauses, his eyes never leaving yours. “Your mother’s burial was permitted since witches are often shown more leniency. Her grave remains unmarked – for her protection, not disgrace. If it were known to be hers, it wouldn’t survive the week. People would defile it.” 

Your heart shatters at his words. Your father wasn't even worthy of a grave, and your mother's has been left like she meant nothing.

“Defile it?” You crouch down beside the unmarked stone, tracing your fingertips along the rough stone where her name should be. “Why would anyone do that?” 

“People often have no shame,” he says quietly. 

Your head drops down to the dirt your mother’s body lays beneath. She didn’t deserve an end like this - neither of them did. 

A swell of emotions twist inside your chest, a tangled mixture of sadness and anger. Silently, you pull your wand from the waistband of your skirt and wave it at the stone. Flowers begin to unfurl from nothing as your mother’s favourite flowers start to take shape. Red and white lilies, delicate and alluring – perfectly her – curl gently around the headstone. You smile sadly at the sight. It makes your chest ache terribly, but at least you can give her this. 

Snape steps closer. “What are you doing?” 

“Decorating,” you murmur, looking up at him. “I can’t leave her headstone like this, all lifeless and empty. Her memory is worth more than that, isn’t it?” 

His gaze lowers to the flowers, brows knitting together. “You shouldn’t do that.” 

“Why not?” 

“If anyone sees it’s been disturbed, they’ll know someone visited.” 

Looking at the flowers again, you brush your finger over one of the petals that has curled inwards, unfolding it gently. “Can I not just have this?” 

There’s a long pause. When he speaks again, his voice is much softer. “You know what it means if any of this is traced back to you. The risk it far too great.” 

You stare at the flowers, willing yourself not to cry. “Fine. I’ll burn them when we leave, okay? Can I just keep them for now? Until we go?” 

He nods his head respectfully. “Just until then.” 

He steps back again, allowing you some space to be alone with her. You stay there, kneeling in the dirt for a long while. You talk to her quietly at first, but the words come to you easier the longer you speak. You tell her everything. All the things that have happened in your life since she’s been gone – the tournament, Hogwarts - replaying every moment you wish she could’ve seen. 

Eventually, it doesn’t even feel like you’re talking to a grave anymore. Just to her. 

You don’t know if there’s anything beyond this life. There’s no certainty of what comes next, after all. But you hope, wherever she is, that somehow she hears you. 

“I miss you.” You sniffle quietly, pressing your palm into the rough stone and wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your other. The lilies sway in the breeze, as if she’s trying to answer you. 

You pull yourself up before you can fall apart completely, brushing the dirt from robes. As you stand there, quietly contemplating things, Snape joins you by your side again.  

The silence between you both stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. It’s nice to just have him here with you. 

“Have you ever lost someone?” you ask him quietly, watching the way his eyes linger on the lilies. 

He doesn’t respond straight away, leaving you worrying that you might have overstepped.

He draws in a delicate breath. “Yes.” 

“Sorry,” you say, flustered. “I didn’t mean to pry, I just-” 

“You may feel alone in your grief, Miss [Last Name],” he cuts in gently, “but I understand you far more than you know.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “Is that why you brought me here?” 

He doesn't answer you at once, only glances at you from the corner of his eye. “Partly.” 

You draw in a slow breath and back up a few steps to prop yourself up onto the low stone wall that overlooks your mother's grave. When Snape turns and catches your eye, you pat the stone beside you with a faint smile.

Astonishingly, he accepts. He lowers himself onto the wall next to you, sitting far closer than you expected. His hand almost touches yours.

It’s him who breaks the quiet again. 

“My mother was a patient witch,” he says, his voice low and meaningful. “Too kind for the likes of my father. She taught me potions. Much of what I know began with her. She always wanted more for me, even when she couldn’t give it.” 

The pain in his words echoes the familiarity of your own. “Are they... gone, too?” 

He nods once. “Yes.” 

You look down at your hands, fiddling with your fingers. “I didn’t realise we had so much in common,” you murmur, nudging your shoulder lightly into his. He almost smiles at you. 

His gaze returns to your mother’s grave. “The lilies,” he says, nodding towards them. “Why those?” 

“Oh. Lilies were her favourite... but I never did understand why,” you huff. “I mean, they’re pretty, yeah. But there’s better ones, aren't there?” 

“And what would be your preference?” 

Is he, Professor Snape, really asking you what your favourite flower is? 

You frown in thought. “Erm, I dunno,” you shrug. “Roses, I guess.”  

“Roses,” he smirks at you, and it might be the first time you’ve ever seen him amused like this. “I must admit, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“What’s wrong with roses?” you ask him, trying to sound offended but the smile on your face is a dead give away. “They’re romantic, timeless. What’s not to like?” 

“Mm. I suppose they do suit you. Prone to drawing attention,” he pauses, looking at you again, “and a little sharp to handle.” 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He arches a brow at you, which only makes you smile. “Alright, since you’re such a flower critic, what would be your choice?” 

“I don’t have one,” he says flatly, diverting his gaze back to the graveyard. 

“Oh don't be boring. Everyone has one.” 

He exhales slowly. “Fine.” 

You wait, watching him with a quiet anticipation.  

“Belladonna,” he mutters eventually. 

You raise your brows at him, fighting back a laugh. “Belladonna?” 

He glances sideways at you, unimpressed by your reaction. “What?” 

You snort. “The one that literally poisons people?” 

“It has its uses.” 

“That’s such a you answer.” 

He gives you a dry look. “It’s elegant,” he says simply, a touch defensive. “Resilient. Deadly, yes, but only if you know what you’re doing with it.” 

You hum, throwing him a cheeky look. “As I said, very you. Though, awfully poetic for someone who doesn’t approve of roses.” 

He shakes his head faintly. “Poetic analysis is clearly not your strength.” 

You smile at him again. It’s nice to talk to him again like this. No arguing, just the two of you enjoying one another’s company.

He takes you in for a few seconds before breaking the eye contact, tilting his head to the moon above. “We should go. We’ve been here too long.” 

Your eyes drift back to the grave. "Do we have to?"

"Yes."

You hoped this moment would never come because you knew you’d never be ready for it.  

You sigh deeply. “Okay. Just give me a minute." 

Sliding off the wall, you step back over to your mother’s grave and crouch beside it again, clutching your wand in your hand. 

“I’ll come back again,” you say to her headstone in a whispered breath. “I promise.” 

A wave of your wand sends the lilies into a wreath of fire. You watch as they disappear into flakes of ash that scatter softly in the dirt below before being carried away by the gentle breeze. 

When you rise again, Snape is still watching you from the wall, following every movement you make. It makes your insides flutter ridiculously fast. 

“I’m ready."

He nods, stepping away from the wall effortlessly. As he manoeuvres past you, you reach out to catch his arm. 

“Wait,” you breathe, looking up into his eyes, not wanting this moment to end just yet. “Thank you. For this.” 

His eyes shift down to where your hand rests on the cuff of his robes and back up again. “You’ve nothing to thank me for.” 

Your grip loosens around his arm as you slip your fingers further down the rough fabric of his sleeve until they find the warmth of his hand. Your fingers brush his, and when he doesn't pull back, you slip between them, threading yours with his.

He exhales softly, still gazing into your eyes when his fingers tighten around yours. It sends a dizzy, breathless rush straight through your stomach.

You step closer, onto your tiptoes, closing this last little stretch of space. His breath catches, his eyes narrowing - like he's only just realising what you're about to do.

"[First Name]," he warns in a low voice.

You should stop, but the sound of your name like silk on his tongue stirs a hunger only he can sate. "Severus."

His eyes widen in a quiet shock, and before either of you can think twice, you both lean in, pressing your lips together in a soft kiss.

It should feel wrong - a moment like this, here of all places, where things are supposed to end. But with him... it feels less like letting go and more of a beginning. 

Then, the world shudders around you. You barely register the rush of air, the disorientation, or the motion that comes with apparition. The only thing you can feel is him, his lips, and the way they never leave yours.

Chapter Text

Your back hits something hard as the space of Snape’s office opens back up around you. You almost stumble sideways, but his hands catch your waist just in time, pinning you against what must be his desk – his lips refusing to leave yours.

For a man who’s so reserved, so fiercely controlled, he’s kissing you like a man who’s starved. It's something you'd never expect from someone like him.

You shake off your outer robes as his large hands follow the curve of your body all the way down to the back of your thighs. Once the fabric pools to the floor, you wrap your arms around his neck, allowing him to lift you up onto the desk. 

He steps into the space between your legs, his hands exploring your body until one of them finds your loosened tie. Twisting both ends around his fist, he gives a teasing tug - then roughly pulls, dragging you towards him. The force of it rips a gasp from your throat before it's swallowed by the crushing kiss. 

Gods, you'll never get over the way he kisses you.

Heat floods your body the moment his tongue slips through your parted lips. You arch into him without thinking, making your hips bump against his. His own arousal makes itself known beneath his trousers, straining against your inner thigh.

It thrills you to know he's just as lost in this as you are. Though that little nagging voice in the back of your mind refuses to shut up. 

He’s your professor. You’ll be expelled if this gets out. You’re crossing every line there is. 

But the devil on your shoulder whispers in response - why does the danger of it all only make it more exciting? 

The risk ignites you, making it impossible to resist. You clutch a fistful of his dark hair, greedy for more of him. He grips the bare skin of your thigh in return, giving it a hard squeeze as his mouth continues to take full ownership of yours. The fabric of your skirt starts to bunch around your waist as he roams higher, the cold dungeon air licking at the exposed skin his hand doesn't quite cover.

As his fingers brush over the lacy edge of your underwear, he presses himself against you again. The fierce kiss, along with his arousal now grinding against the aching spot between your legs, is almost enough to undo you on the spot.

A needy, breathy moan escapes your throat before you can catch it - a sound so sinful it shocks even you.

Snape pulls away in an instant. His lips leave yours as though the contact had burned him. You lean back too, momentarily mortified by the sound you've just made. But the sight of his eyes blown wide, burning into yours, quickly smothers that shame.

It's arousing, to say the fucking least.

Your heart skips a beat. The dizzy and intoxicated spell you've been lost in only grows. It’s almost suffocating. 

For a heart stopping moment, all you can do is continue to take him in. The pink tinge brushing his usual pale cheeks, and his reddened lips - still wet from your breathless kiss. 

His hand cups your cheek, his thumb twitching there as if he’s itching to stroke it across your skin. All while he stares into your eyes with a look that isn't nearly as empty as you suspect he thinks it is. His fingers are still splayed obscenely under your skirt, and a part of you wonders if he even realises he's still touching you like this.

Then, as if he’s just read that very thought, he curses under his breath – something you’ve never heard him do - and he tears both of his hands off your body in an instant. 

“You-,” he starts, then falters, his eyes dropping to the floor. “You need to go.” 

Your heart sinks. Seriously – again?  

“Why?” you ask, trying to keep the pain out of your voice.  

“Do not start this,” he warns, running a hand through his hair.

He won’t even make eye contact with you.  

“No, I will start,” you huff angrily as you slide off the desk, snatching your robes up from the ground. "Every time we do this- this happens. You always have to remind me how much of a mistake I am the second it's over." 

As you wrap the robes around your body, you look down at the floor, too embarrassed by the words you've just muttered out. You hate that he’s conveniently decided to look at you now, too. 

“You’re not-” he says, but cuts himself short again. 

“Not what? A mistake?” you ask, forcing your eyes to meet up with his. “Then what am I, Severus? What will you have me believe this time?” 

This is bad, especially for him. You know that. But the way he deals with it is so, utterly infuriating. 

His eyes only harden. “This can’t happen again."

“Why not?” 

“Do not insult your own intelligence. You know why.” 

“Well- then you stop doing this! You’re the one who keeps pulling me back in. Why can’t you see that?” 

“You think I don’t see it?” he seethes, his eyes flashing with anger. “I see too much. Every damned second I look at you. And I was a fool to let this happen again."

Your heart skips and you huff again, swallowing the lump forming in your throat. “You don’t need to keep being so cruel, you know.” 

You hate how weak you sound, but it’s true. He’s always so fucking nasty about this. 

“This isn’t about being cruel,” he sighs, dropping his eyes as your own begin filling with tears. “It’s about being realistic.” 

“Right,” you shrug, wiping away a fallen tear. “Whatever.” 

He lets out another long, drawn out breath as he faces you again. “See? That reaction is exactly why you don’t understand what’s at stake.”  

You roll your eyes. God, not this again. 

"It’s not something we can ignore-” 

“I’m not a child!” you cut in sharply. “I don’t need whatever it is you’re trying to do here. I can protect myself perfectly fine. And if I can sign up to die in some fucking magical death tournament, then I’m old enough to kiss whoever the fuck I want.” 

Your throat aches. It’s more than just a kiss, though, isn’t it? You tell yourself. 

“You cannot simplify it that way.” 

You let out a deep, disbelieving breath. “Why does this have to be so impossible?” 

"Because I know how this ends," he snaps back. "It ends with far too many questions. With resentment. With your future in ruins - and mine with it."

“Stop it! Stop making up some hypothetical future that hasn’t even happened yet! Nobody saw us. It was one fucking kiss. And for the record, I don’t care that you’re my professor. Or that you’re a few years older than me.” 

“Eighteen,” he corrects. 

“What?” 

He swallows, staring at you with those hard, black eyes. “I’m thirty five.” 

It lands like a punch in your stomach. Truth be told, you hadn’t thought much about his actual age. Not once, actually. It never felt like something that mattered, not when he looks at you the way he does. 

“Okay?” you say, folding your arms across your chest. “I still don’t care.” 

“You should care,” he fires back, almost bitterly. "Because I do. This is wrong, and it will not just ruin your name - it will strip away what little of it you have left. If this is ever discovered, it will be the end of you. And I will not watch you be destroyed by my own hand." He straightens himself, taking a moment to compose. "That is precisely why this ends here." 

“So, whatever you say goes?” you narrow your wet eyes at him. “I don’t even get a choice?” 

“Yes.” He says, back to that usual, icy composure you hate. “Now. Leave. Before anyone gets suspicious of your whereabouts.” 

You follow his eyes up to the clock. It’s way past midnight now. 

When your gaze clashes with his again, you step closer. “Say it then,” you demand, close enough now that there’s barely an arms width between you both.  

He folds his arms in a defensive manner. “What nonsense are you demanding now?" 

“I’ll go. But first, I want you to look me in the eyes and say you don’t want me.” 

His expression tightens, and a long, gut-wrenching silence follows. Your heart beats so fast, because part of you doesn’t know what he’ll say. He just stands there, holding your eyes for those painfully long seconds. 

“Get out.” 

Sucking your bottom lip between your teeth before it can tremble, you manage to mutter a quiet “fine.” 

You throw him a look before storming towards the door, pissed off that it’s always him making decisions for you, like he’s your fucking father or something. 

When you reach the door, it’s locked. You roll your eyes again as you turn your head to face him. 

“It’s-” 

The words don’t have time to come out. You don’t even have time to fully turn around. Snape’s hand covers your mouth, cutting you off, and you let out a quiet yelp that's muffled by his warm palm. You fight against him – or try to – but he’s firmly got you trapped against him. 

What the fuck? 

You start to panic, writhing in his grasp. You nudge him in the ribs with your elbow when his silky, breathless voice sounds in your ear. “Stop it,” he growls quietly, placing his other arm around the front of your shoulders as your elbow comes up to strike him a second time. “Stop!" he says, pinning your arm back to your side. "There’s someone outside.” 

You freeze in his hold instantly, not even daring to try and move your head to face him. His hot, shallow breaths puff against the back of your ear. The hand over your mouth is clamped so tightly over your lips you couldn’t make a sound if you tried. 

It feels like an eternity waiting for him to release you, or to say something. Just as you’re about to try and wrestle out of his grasp again, a loud knocking on the door makes you jump out of your skin. 

Who the hell is knocking on his door at two a.m.?

“Severus!” a gruff voice comes from behind the door as the perpetrator bangs their fist on the wood again. “I know you’re in there!” 

Severus recognises that voice anywhere. Igor. 

Of course it would be him. The bastard’s been swooping like a vulture lately, and always after hours. 

You jump again at the voice before he can brace for it. The sudden press of your body against his drags him back to the painful reality of you. Your back presses further into his front, resulting in the curve of your bum grazing against the traitorous bulge that's still tormenting him beneath his trousers. 

Disgusting. 

He puts a step of distance between you, then pulls you back into the classroom with hurried, backwards steps while making sure you don’t lose your footing. As soon as he reaches the desk, he spins you around, gazing into those wild, wide eyes that keep him captive for a fraction too long before he removes his hand from your mouth. 

“Sir-?” you whisper. 

Severus silences you with a sharp shake of his head and one long finger pressed to his lips. At your reluctant nod, he sweeps around the desk, shoving his chair out of the way. 

“Get under,” he snaps in a harsh whisper, gesturing to the empty space under his desk. 

You shoot him a look, a defiant scowl crossing your features. But the second Igor pounds on the door again, you dive for the gap without another word.

Thank Merlin he didn’t have to force you under there himself. 

“Stay quiet,” he hisses, crouching down to catch your eye as you make yourself as comfortable as you can in the cramped space. “Not a single word until I say so. Understood?” 

The glare you give him is answer enough. 

“Open this damn door!” Igor roars from the corridor, banging mercilessly on the wood.

The damn idiot will wake the whole castle at this rate. 

Severus rarely names fear for what it is. But with you beneath his desk and Igor snarling at the other side of the door, he would be a fool to call this anything else.

When he finally wrenches open the door, Igor saunters in with a posture like he owns the place, pushing past him without an invitation. 

“It’s two in the morning, Igor. This better be good.” 

Karkaroff hovers in the middle of the office, his eyes darting around the room like some deranged animal. He mutters under his breath, then starts pacing towards the shelves. 

“I heard voices,” Igor insists in a low voice. “In here. Just now. Who’s with you?” 

Severus’ stomach dips momentarily, but this is nothing he can’t mask by using the imbecile's paranoia against him. 

“You’re imagining things,” Severus says with a dismissive flick of his wrist, averting his eyes. The mere sight of him turns his rage into a tempest. “I’ve warned you before. This paranoia only makes you look like a fool.” 

Igor doesn’t stop. He prowls around the office, peering into the corners. “No, no. Someone was here, Severus. I heard them.” 

Severus intercepts him just in time as he makes a move for the desk. “You interrupt me in the middle of the night simply to chase voices? Even for you, this is pathetic. What did you truly come here for?” 

Igor eyes him with those intense, crazed eyes of his. After a few seconds, they drop to the floor. Something behind Severus has clearly caught his attention.

Severus whirls around, bracing for the worst as Igor pushes past him again before he can stop him. He’s relieved to not see you standing there, as a small part of him half expected. He’s met only with the sight of Igor crouching on the floor just in front of the desk. 

Has the man finally lost his mind? 

As his patience wears thin, Severus takes a step closer, ready to drag Igor out by the cloak around his neck if necessary. But he stops cold, watching in horror as Igor rises and turns to face him with a wicked grin plastered across his face.

A cold chill sweeps over him at the sight of the silver and green fabric dangling between Igor’s fingers. 

Your tie. 

Severus’ carefully crafted composure crumbles beneath his surface, but he manages to keep his expression neutral as he lets out a slow, silent breath.  

Igor’s grin practically splits his face now. “You’ve grown reckless, my old friend,” he purrs. “She’s proving to be quite the distraction, isn’t she?” 

The tie swings like a pendulum between them both. A ticking clock. And time, as Severus knows, has finally sunk its teeth in. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Severus snaps, his face a vision of disgust. “I don’t know who you think you’re referring to here, but that,” he tears the tie from Igor's fingers, “was left in my classroom. I’ve yet to return it to the common room. You are making grave accusations from nothing.” 

“Am I?” Igor’s eyes glint with something far darker than amusement now, and Severus has to restrain himself from cursing him on the spot. “Strange. How often I see you with her. Your little snake.” He tilts his head, bearing the putrid rows of blackened teeth. “I had my suspicions she was still visiting you after hours. Is that who you were speaking with?” 

Igor glances at the area to the front of his office where his desk is. Where you are.

"Is she here?" he asks, almost gleefully.

Without waiting for a response, Igor moves for the desk again, but Severus, as always, is one step ahead. He blocks the path, his face now only inches from his.  

“You are treading a very fine line here,” his voice drops to a hiss. “Do not make me speak with Dumbledore about this intrusion. Test me again Igor, and he will hear every sordid detail.” 

Igor's grin finally falls at the mention of the old man. 

“Yes... Dumbledore,” he murmurs, stepping backwards a step. ”You seem to have his ear rather often, don’t you? Tell me, does he know about this little... arrangement?” 

If he carries on this way, Igor will be dead long before the Dark Lord gets his chance. Severus will see to that personally. 

“Be careful,” he warns through gritted teeth. “Your mouth is going to land you in far more trouble than your cowardice ever could.” 

Igor’s face twists into an ugly stance. “Tsk. Always so dramatic."

He slinks towards the door, but just as Severus dares to hope the encounter is over, he pivots on his heel.

“Don’t worry, Severus. My lips are sealed.” He gestures to the tie with a crooked finger, smirking. "After all, when he returns, what will it matter? We'll all be doomed." He briefly glances to his left arm, his smirk dying in a beat before he looks away. "Why not break the rules while there's still time?"

As he turns again, he throws the door open before casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“Oh- and do give her my best, won’t you? She performed well in the lake. Let’s see if she manages to crawl herself out of the maze.” 

You're breathing heavily against the palm of your hand while listening carefully to Karkaroff's retreating footsteps.

He knew you were here. This is bad. 

As soon as the door slams closed and you hear Snape’s sharp voice mutter the silencing charm, you begin to shuffle your way out from beneath the awful, cramped space.  

“Fuck-” you hiss as you bang your head against the wood in your attempt to crawl free. 

You rub at the tender spot as you stand and immediately spot Snape standing by the door with his back rigidly turned to you. He’s bracing himself against the door with one hand. 

You have no idea how to approach this. 

Biting your lip, you think of the most logical thing you could say. You stand there for a moment, shifting your weight from one foot to the other while keeping your eyes on him. Shamefully, your brain can't come up with anything appropriate.

“That was... close," you say, and then squeeze your eyes closed, instantly regretting how stupid you sound.

Of course it was fucking close, idiot. 

To your surprise, he doesn't ignore you. He lets out a deep sigh as he turns to face you. “Yes. It was.” 

You watch as he makes his way over to the armchairs just in front of you. He walks stiffly, and you know all too well it’s taking everything in him to not snap. The tie stays nestled tightly in his fist as he drops into the chair furthest from you.

You didn't even know it had fallen from around your neck. 

And now, as you look at the defeated man in front of you staring at the floor, a part of you hates yourself.

You shouldn’t have kissed him at the graveyard.

What were you thinking?

It doesn’t look like he’ll say anything else, so you hover there awkwardly, searching once again for something appropriate to say. Eventually, when nothing helpful comes, you blurt out the first thing that comes to your head that doesn’t involve whatever this is between you two. 

“What was he talking about? …a maze?” 

He doesn’t look up. “Not a conversation we're having tonight."

“But he said it was the third task.” A chill runs through you. A maze doesn’t sound hard, but after the previous tasks, the thought terrifies you. 

“Then let that be enough for now,” he says sternly. "I will not discuss it further."

You huff a sigh, annoyed at his mood. Of course you understand why he’s being like this – but there’s nothing either of you can do it about it now, is there? 

Heading over to the spare chair opposite him, you sit yourself down, keeping your eyes on him. He’s still refusing to look at you, which hurts. 

“I’m sorry,” you say after a few minutes because the silence is unbearable. “I didn’t know it’d fallen off. I know this is bad, but... please don’t be angry with me.” 

He finally drags his eyes up to meet yours, bearing the storm inside them. "Angry?" he repeats. "If fury were the sensible reaction, I'd reserve it for myself." You stare into his eyes as he holds your gaze. “I’m not angry. Not at you. I’m... concerned. And you should be, too.” 

“Does he really know I was here, though?” you ask. “He didn’t see me. He only assumed. Would he really tell anyone based off that?” 

Severus thinks for a moment. “No. Even Igor isn't that stupid. He may seem threatening, but anyone with a brain wouldn’t listen to a word he says. We’re safe. For now.” 

For now. 

You take in the words, feeling a wave of relief caress your overthinking brain. But it doesn’t stop you replaying the conversation they shared.

You frown. “Who was he talking about? He said something about ‘him’ dooming us all. Who is that?” 

You think he could be talking about the Dark Lord – but surely not. That’s all just theory, isn’t it? The rumours have never been proven to have truth behind them. 

Severus stares at you for a moment, his eyes darkening in the way they do when you overstep. “That’s none of your concern. And if you have any sense, you will never ask me that again.” 

So, yes. 

“Isn’t it my concern?” 

“No.” He says with finality. “You do well not to believe a word that comes from that wretched fool’s mouth.” 

You bite your lip, fighting back a smile at the clear distaste he has for the man, even during the circumstances. “You really hate him, don’t you? Will you ever tell me why?” 

“No.” 

Your smile fades and your eyes drop from his back to the tie in his hands. Everything that happened floods back instantly. “What do we do now? I mean...” you trail off, not quite sure how to phrase it. “You know?” 

He sighs, and as he stands from the chair, he throws the tie into your lap. You grasp the end of the fabric just before it falls to the floor again and shove it quickly into your pocket. 

“We be careful. And we do not do – that – again.” 

You expected he’d say something like that, but it still saddens you. The connection between you and Snape is something you’ve never felt before. You want nothing more than to explore it further... but you also know he’s right.  

Plus, you can't bear the thought of pushing him away again. Not now. 

Staying silent, you rub your eyes at the wave of exhaustion that suddenly hits you out of nowhere. Snape glances over at the clock, which now says it’s close to three a.m. 

“You need to head back to your dorm,” he raises a brow, “or wherever it is you’ve been staying. I assume whoever’s bed you’ve been warming has noticed your absence.” 

You frown at him again. “I’ve been staying with Jade. I sleep better in her room than in my dorm. Plus, it's easier being there since-” 

You cut yourself off, silently cursing your tired brain. Why were you just about to tell him about that? He may have kissed you, touched you and made you feel something, but you're still not ready to open up about everything with him.

“Since?” 

“Nothing,” you say quickly, rising to your feet and stepping towards the door. “I’m leaving.” 

He steps in front of you before you can make it far enough, blocking your way to the door. “What happened?” 

You cross your arms, lifting your chin up defiantly. “Are you going to tell me about the maze?” 

“No.” 

“Then I’m not telling you.”

He holds your gaze with a tightened jaw. You can tell he wants to press the issue, but then he casually steps aside. 

You take the chance, brushing past him and pulling the door open. You expect he’ll let you leave without another word, wanting you far from his sight after the mess of tonight. But surprisingly, he doesn’t. 

“We’ll speak about this tomorrow after your detention. If you do not show up again, I will find you and drag you here myself. Understood?” 

You bite back a smile, because his words don’t scare you at all. In fact, the annoying part of you that’s still replaying what happened on the desk would rather enjoy that. 

“And for Merlin’s sake,” he says, gripping the edge of the door. “Do not get caught.” 

With that, he slams the door closed, leaving you alone in the freezing dungeon corridor. 

You don’t linger, partly due to the fact you’re already shivering under your robes. Quickly casting the strongest disillusionment charm you can muster, just in case Karkaroff is still lurking around somewhere, you rush down the corridors. The charm hides your body until you're back in the common room and up to the safety of your dorm. 

After shaking off your uniform, brushing your teeth and quickly changing into some fresh pyjamas, you settle into the warmth of your bed. The second your head touches the pillow, a faint crinkle makes you sit straight back up. 

A thin, folded piece of parchment slips out from its place lodged under your pillow at the movement.  

Right. You’d forgotten about the note from Snape. 

He only ever sends you notes when he wants to see you. A little part of you hopes he says something more than the bare minimum this time, though.

Intrigued, you unfold the note carefully.

Your repeated absences from detention have not gone unnoticed. You will attend tomorrow evening without fail. I will not let this continue. 

-S. S

You breathe a laugh quietly through your nose. Of course he wouldn’t say something meaningful, especially not on paper. Placing it in the drawer of your bedside table, you peer over at Ivy’s bed before pulling the curtains closed - knowing all too well you’ll be facing more than just Snape tomorrow. 

The next day is the busiest day of your week. You’ve got a full day of classes, including astronomy – and including the detention with Snape - and you slept maybe three hours at most. Which means you’re tired as fuck. 

Weirdly enough, you aren’t completely dreading it. If anything, you’re feeling... good. Because even though last night was a complete disaster, it felt like it definitely changed something between you and Snape.

For maybe the first time, not in a bad way. 

Unfortunately, that thought doesn't last long. In fact, it's swiftly crushed the second you step into potions that morning. 

It’s twenty minutes into the lesson, and Snape hasn’t so much as looked in your direction. While it's not out of character for him, it still rubs you the wrong way. So, when Cedric asks you to grab the ingredients from the storage cupboard, you jump at the chance to direct your attention on that, rather than keeping your eyes glued to Snape in a pointless rage. 

You're so deep in focus inside the storage cupboard, ticking the items off Cedric's list, that you don't notice another student come in behind you. You bump backwards into them, offering a quick apology before glancing up and realising who it is.

“Hey, golden girl,” Ivy sneers softly, stepping just far enough into your path to block the door. “Where have you been hiding?” 

You narrow your eyes and try to step around her, but she blocks your path again. “Haven’t seen you in the dorm, and you haven’t been to the detention we were both supposed to be having.” 

“Move out of my way,” you say through gritted teeth, not wanting to draw attention and cause another scene. 

She cocks her head to the side and folds her arms. “I wonder if Snape would let you keep skipping detention if he knew his precious little champion is terrified of her own dreams? Do you think he would?" 

Her threat shouldn’t spark this much fear in you, because Snape already knows about your dreams. But what he doesn’t know is that they’ve been affecting you far more than you’ve been letting on.  

You grit your teeth, too tired to deal with this today. “Fuck off, Ivy.” 

Her smirk grows into a full on grin, showing the rows of her perfect pearly teeth. “What will he think when I tell him his champion can’t even make it through the night without crying for mummy and daddy?” 

Your chest feels so tight you can barely breathe. She’s gone too far this time. 

You fix her with a steady glare. “You've been alone with him in detention for two days. Why haven’t you told him already?” 

Her smile falters for a split second before she huffs out a laugh. “I’ve thought about it,” her sweet tone betrayed by the gleam in her eye. “But I'd rather wait until you're there, too. I wanna see how fast that champion glow of yours burns out when he hears all about your pathetic little incident."

You roll your eyes, knowing she‘s bluffing. Behind her big, mean girl facade, you know she's a coward at heart. If she hasn't already told him, she never will. “Get out of my way.” 

You push past her again, but she slaps the ingredients carefully balanced in your arms, sending them falling to the floor. Luckily, nothing smashes. The herbs, however, are now scattered across the storage cupboard. 

“Oops,” she laughs, stepping over the mess. “Good luck with that.” 

You glare at the back of her head as she retreats. She’s lucky you left your wand at your desk. Bitch. 

Seething, you crouch down onto the ground and start quickly snatching up all the herbs, jars, and your list. You’d managed to forget about that 'little incident' and the dreams for a little while, lost in that dangerous storm that is Snape. But now Ivy’s dragged it all back up, you feel yourself falling right back into them. 

The night in question – specifically, three nights ago – you'd woken to your own voice tearing from your throat, sprawled across the floor. You hadn’t even realised you were on the floor until Valeria was by your side, shaking you hard. The look of terror on her face was almost as bad as the flood of shame that burned your face, hotter than the nightmare itself. The other girls crowded around you too, sharing a similar look. They were seconds away from bolting to Pomfrey when Valeria finally managed to nudge you awake.

They said you'd been in that state for minutes, unresponsive and lost somewhere you couldn't come back from. 

They were worried. Terrified. Except Ivy, of course. She clearly loved it. 

Since that night and up until last night, you’d stayed with Jade. You couldn't stand the way they watched you so cautiously, worried you were seconds from breaking again. And weirdly, you’d been fine with her. The nightmares were there, but no where near as intense. You can’t work out why. 

Even last night was fine -- probably because you were so tired your eyes closed themselves as soon as your head touched the pillow after reading Snape's note. Plus, it's not like they had time to surface anyway with how little sleep you allowed yourself.

You sigh, scooping up the last of the herbs. As you reach for one a bit further away, a shadow falls over you, followed by a pair of polished, black shoes presenting themselves in front of you. 

Trailing your eyes upwards over long dark robes, your eyes find the looming figure of Professor Snape above you. He peers down at you with an indecipherable expression.

His gaze is heavy enough to make you forget how to breathe.

And here you are - kneeling at his feet like a complete idiot. 

He clears his throat, fixing his eyes on the shelves behind you instead. “Is there a reason you're sprawled across my floor rather than brewing, Miss [Last Name]?” 

You stare up at him as the reminder of last night becomes the only thing you can focus on. The way he kissed you, held you, and the way his stubborn presence has refused to leave your mind ever since. 

His eyes snap back to meet yours again with an impatient stare when you fail to answer him, making your face burn as you snatch the last fallen herb and get to your feet at lightning speed.  

“Just dropped something, Sir,” you say, hoping he doesn't notice how flustered you are. 

Cedric appears behind Snape, peering over his shoulder on his tiptoes while he mouths a ‘are you okay?’ 

You nod subtly before turning back to Snape. “Got it, though,” you say, holding up the herbs and squeezing yourself past him. 

The brief contact of your arm brushing his sends an unappreciated spark through your body.  

“Do not forget your detention tonight,” he says quietly to your turned back.

You don’t say anything or even look at him for that matter, not wanting to feed the spark becoming a blaze at the sound of his voice.  

God, when did he start getting to you like this? 

When you reach your desk again, you all but throw the ingredients on the table in frustration at this annoying feeling.  

“What happened?” Cedric asks with a hint of amusement. “I thought Snape was giving you some weird punishment back there.” 

You throw him a scowl. “No. It was Ivy again. She cornered me in there and knocked everything out of my hands.” 

He looks behind him at Ivy’s table, and your eyes follow his. She’s in the middle of a heated back and forth with her partner, the potion bubbling between them looking rancid already. You snort, and she gives you a mean glare before you turn around, huddling over your own potion and giggling with Cedric. 

“I hope you don’t make ours look like that." 

“Hey, when have I ever gotten us a failing grade?” he says proudly, flashing his confident grin as he adds the herbs one by one.  

You prop your chin up on your palm, raising a brow at him. “Literally a few weeks ago when you exploded that Doxycide? Or has your massive ego already forgotten that incident?” 

He rolls his eyes. “That doesn’t count.” 

“It so does,” you laugh, nudging him in the arm. “You’ve been spending far too much time with Fred, you know? You’re starting to sound like him.” 

“He’s been asking for you,” Cedric says, handing you the stirring rod. 

You take the rod and stir the potion carefully. “Ugh, I know. He wants me to try those stupid sweets since I promised I would. I’m just too busy at the moment. How will I get through my massive work load and detention with Snape if I’m locked up in the hospital wing because of them?” 

Cedric laughs. “A promise is a promise."

You turn your attention to the potion, continuing the stirring so you don't fuck it up.

He speaks again, and you don't need to see his face to know his next words are full of concern. "You alright though? Like – really alright?” he asks, quieter now. “After you left potions the other day, I haven’t seen you since. Thought Snape had killed you or something for walking out like that.” 

“I’m fine,” you assure him. “Luckily he only gave me detention. The only problem is I have to take it with Slytherins finest behind us. Even though it was literally her fault.” 

Cedric glances behind him at Ivy again and scowls. “She’s a fucking nuisance. Don’t let her get to you.” 

"It's easier said than done," you mutter, half zoned out on the swirling potion in front of you.

"Maybe you should sneak her some of those sweets Fred and George have," he chuckles. "At least that'd get her out of your hair for a day or two, if they're as bad as you say they are."

You laugh at him, giving him another playful nudge as the two of you finish off the potion together. You can't help the thoughts already pressing in on you, though.

Tonight, you'll be locked in a room with both of them.

You're not sure which you're more nervous about. Snape, with the indecent thoughts that have started to flood your system whenever you catch sight of him... or Ivy, and her threats to tell him just how broken you've really been without his help.

Chapter Text

Detention is, as expected, nothing short of torturous. 

It’s only been ten minutes and Snape already has you both working like his personal slaves. He must be laying it on thicker to make an example out of you since you missed the first few days and it would look suspicious to Ivy if he doesn't. That’s what you’ve decided, anyway.

Alternatively, you could also be back in his bad books. With him, it’s never easy to tell where you stand. 

While you scrub the filthy cauldrons from his third years, you try to ignore Ivy’s presence beside you and get it done as quickly as you can. Snape’s already clarified he has a whole load of stuff for you both to complete before detention’s over, and you’re eager to not miss Astronomy class in a few hours. You can’t bear the thought of being even further behind. 

As you haul the next cauldron over to the sink, your thoughts drift back to the first time Snape assigned you cauldron cleaning duty. It feels like a lifetime ago you were stood in this very spot and lied to his face about entering the tournament. If someone had told you then things would have gone the way they have... well, you imagine you’d have laughed in their face. 

“Sir, I’m done with mine,” Ivy says, throwing her sponge into the sink and sending a wave of water splashing all over the front of your blouse. 

You glare at her. “Seriously?” 

She ignores you, sauntering her way over to Snape’s desk like the little suck up she is. It’s a sickening sight. 

As soon as you finish up with your last one, you lean against the sink and rub at the wetness over your front with a cloth while you await your next order. Snape confiscated your wands at the start, so a quick drying charm is unfortunately off the tables. 

Snape rises from his desk, making his way past Ivy over to where you stand at the sink. He’s still barely looked at you, but you don’t mind it so much when Ivy’s here. You need to be in a clear head around her, because you know she doesn’t miss a damn thing. Snape probably knows it, too. 

Though, it doesn’t stop your stomach doing that annoying, fluttery thing as he gets closer. 

“Remarkable,” he says at last, dripping with his sarcastic edge. “You’ve managed to prove my point with almost no effort at all.” 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes. He did say some stupid shit about working together today – something about being a disgrace to Slytherin and that he won’t cease the detentions until he’s confident the two of you can do something together without arguing – but what did he expect? Both of you to scrub them while holding hands? 

“If you can’t manage civility in my classroom, then perhaps I ought to find a task that will force it out of you,” he says to you both in a dark tone. 

With a wave of his wand, crates of jars and vials fly from the shelves and make their way onto the desk in the centre of the room. There must be over a hundred, and your jaw drops at the sight. 

“Make an inventory and sort them correctly,” he says in a bored tone as he looks over at Ivy. “You will work together or find yourselves here until sunrise. The choice is yours.” 

You sigh as you drag yourself over to the desk, catching Ivy giving him the biggest smile ever for someone who’s just been assigned such a monstrous task. 

“I’m happy to work together, Sir. It’s always her that seems to have a problem,” she says, dropping her smile.  

You do roll your eyes this time. As you take a seat, you glance over at Snape to check if he’s actually buying this, to find him already looking at you with an unimpressed stare.