Once very near the end I said:
"If you can — if it is allowed — come to me when I too am on my deathbed."
"Allowed," she said. "Heaven would have a job to hold me; and as for Hell, I'd break it into bits."
— C.S. Lewis
Part I: a flicker at dusk
The last moment before light begins to retreat — the quiet unease before the dark settles in.
The note arrives during the first Friday of term, during breakfast.
It's delivered by one of the school owls, a tawny thing that drops a small, folded parchment directly onto Ariel's plate of eggs. She frowns, not expecting any correspondence. Her first instinct is to check the Staff Table, where her father sits with his customary scowl, but he's engaged in what appears to be a reluctant conversation with Professor Flitwick.
Pansy Parkinson sneers around her from across the way, at the Slytherin table. She's been doing that since the Welcoming Feast — sneering. All the other Slytherins duck their heads and avoid Ariel's eyes, but not Pansy. She seems to thrive off of Ariel knowing that even though she killed Voldemort and ended a War, Pansy does not hate her any less.
The feeling is mutual, and so Ariel holds up one very rude finger and ignores her.
She carefully unfolds the parchment beneath the table, angling it away from prying eyes. The handwriting is unfamiliar — spidery and thin, with oddly elongated loops on the descenders.
I drink in the sight of you. Soon, I'll drink more than that.
Ariel snorts, tucking the note into her pocket, and forgets about it.
The next day — the first weekend of term — Hermione shows Ariel the cover of the Prophet.
It immediately puts Ariel in a bad mood. She's had so many high hopes for the day, but they're immediately dashed at another miserable article, speculating about her life.
"SNAPE'S SECRET HEIR: THE FATHER-DAUGHTER DECEPTION THAT SHOCKED THE WIZARDING WORLD"
The headline screams in bold, animated lettering. Beneath it is a split image — Snape glowering from behind his desk and Ariel's interview picture from the Tournament. Someone had enchanted the photos to occasionally glance at each other.
Ariel's stomach clenches. "Brilliant. They're still at it, then."
"It's been months," Hermione says, her voice low. "You'd think they'd have found something more interesting by now."
"Like what? The daughter of a Muggleborn and a spy who survived the Killing Curse twice and defeated a Dark Lord? It's their dream story." Ariel stabs at her breakfast, appetite gone. "What's this one say?"
Hermione grimaces. "It's — not good. Rita Skeeter's suggesting your father used his position as a double agent to orchestrate everything. She says he manipulated events to put you in danger, knowing you'd survive because of your mother's protection."
"That's absurd," Ariel hisses, snatching the paper. Her eyes scan the article, each paragraph more outrageous than the last. "She's implying he wanted me to face Voldemort alone so he could — what — claim some sort of paternal glory afterward?"
Ron, who has been uncharacteristically quiet, finally clears his throat. "You know what's mad? Even the Slytherins are gossiping about it. Overheard Malfoy in Potions yesterday saying his father nearly had a conniption when he found out. Nott was pressing for more details but Malfoy wouldn't budge."
"Lucius Malfoy would," Ariel mutters, folding the paper with unnecessary force. "I'm sure all the Death Eaters who escaped Azkaban are having quite the laugh about it."
She glances toward the Staff Table again. Her father is gone, likely retreated to the dungeons to avoid the whispering and stares that had become constant companions since the truth broke — since the final battle. The secret they'd guarded for six years had become the wizarding world's favorite scandal overnight.
Professor McGonagall catches her eye and gives a small, sympathetic nod. She's been running interference with reporters attempting to gain access to the castle grounds, but she couldn't stop the owls or the whispers.
"Oh — shit." Ron says suddenly.
"What is it now?" Ariel groans.
"Er — look at page six." he says, pointing to a smaller article in the corner.
Hermione flips through her copy, finding the page. Her eyes widen. "Oh no."
Ariel leans over to read the headline: "POTTER OR SNAPE? Ministry Debates Inheritance Laws for Previously Unacknowledged Heirs."
"They're questioning whether I should have legal access to James' vault," Ariel says flatly, scanning the article. "Because apparently being Snape's daughter means I'm suddenly not James Potter's child anymore — brilliant."
"That can't be legal," Ron protests. "He claimed you when you were born —"
"It's not about legality," Hermione says, her expression grim. "It's about keeping the story alive — creating controversy where there isn't any."
Ariel pushes her plate away and moans, burying her face in her arms. When she looks up again, Pansy is cackling about something, shooting her another searing glare.
Yup — appetite definitely gone.
Ariel forgets about the first note by the time the next one arrives.
Once again, the parchment is folded meticulously, edges creased with surgical precision. Ariel glances around the Great Hall before opening it, noting the curious eyes of her Housemates. There's always rumors circulating that she has a secret paramour — someone she met during the War while on the run. Hermione teases Ariel about it incessantly, before Ron snogs her silly and declares that he certainly met someone.
Your blood calls to me. I hear it singing beneath your skin. I'd like to caress every inch, feel your folds between my fingers.
A chill slides down her spine, cold and insidious as a droplet of ice water. This isn't some half-baked attempt at romance. Something about the words feels — wrong — predatory.
She crumples the note in her fist, suddenly aware of how exposed she feels among the chattering students. Her gaze darts to the Staff Table again, seeking the dark figure of her father, but Snape's chair sits empty again.
She's received her fair share of bizarre shit from admirers. Since the end of the War, there had been plenty of weird blokes who had wanted her attention, wanted to take her on dates and shower her in affection and praise. Most of these admirers are harmless, professing their love as Ariel grits her teeth and bulldozes her way through crowds in public.
Tonks tells her it's because she's young and brilliant and — well — she says beautiful — but Ariel can't seem to find that part of her. She looks just like her mum, except for her eyes. Her eyes are Snape's, black and fathomless, and perhaps the only feature she's ever been truly proud of. It's what makes her terrifying — and perhaps undateable.
"They don't want you," Tonks had told her once, during a quiet moment at Grimmauld Place. Her hair had been a soft lavender that day, her eyes kind as she watched Ariel sort through a pile of fan mail. "They want what you represent. Fame makes people think they know you — that they're entitled to you."
Ariel had scoffed then, but now, with the crumpled note burning in her pocket like a hot coal, she understands. Tonks had warned her that being both famous and reasonably attractive was "a bloody nightmare cocktail."
"They'll project all sorts of fantasies onto you," she'd said, demonstrating by morphing her features into a grotesque caricature of Ariel's face. "Half of them would be disappointed if they actually met the real you."
"Thanks," Ariel had said dryly.
"Not because you're disappointing," Tonks had clarified, punching her lightly on the arm. "Because real people are complicated, and some of these blokes don't want complicated — they want the Girl Who Lived to fulfill whatever twisted fantasy they've concocted."
But this — this note feels different — darker. Whatever freak sent this clearly wanted a reaction.
When Ariel returns to her dormitory that evening, she places the crumpled note beside the first one on her nightstand, studying them with narrowed eyes. The handwriting is identical. She casts a quick Revealing Charm, but the parchment reveals nothing unusual — no hidden messages, no magical signatures.
Just words. Just threats. Just — nonsense.
Ariel runs into her father before lunch later.
He's been in a foul mood, reluctant to have returned to teaching once more, but clearly only doing so because Ariel is here. Everyone is aware of it.
The initial shock that Ariel is not a Potter has worn off amongst the students — it hadn't lingered in Hogwarts — not since Snape had come forward just as Voldemort realized he'd been able to fucking die, unable to resist the temptation to twist the knife of betrayal further. He'd held on tight to Ariel as she'd lifted her wand at Voldemort one last time, sneering that it had been his child all along — that his daughter had been Voldemort's undoing —
Ariel can't help but wonder if Snape regrets it, now. He barely looks at her, oddly reminiscent of her First Year, when he'd pretended she was just air, that she wasn't worth his time — before she'd shown him the letter from her mother that had changed everything.
Snape stands before her in the dungeon corridor, his dark robes billowing despite the absence of a breeze. The torchlight casts harsh shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp angles and deep lines that make him look older than his years. Even with the stress of spying and near-death experiences over for them both, he still hasn't exactly — unwound.
"Miss Evans," Snape says formally, though they're alone. In public, he maintains the distance between professor and student. It's easier that way — safer.
Ariel hates it.
They played this game for years. Everyone knows, now, but Snape still seems reluctant to be anything but disdainful to her in public. It drives her mad — after Voldemort's body had hit the floor, he'd crushed her against him, his face shining with pride so thick it had been like staring at the sun — and there had been hundreds of people bloody watching them. Someone had even gotten a picture — it still circulates as the front page of the Prophet, every month or so. He doesn't know it, but she keeps a Charmed copy of it beside her bed.
"Sir," she replies, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear.
"I hear you've been avoiding the Hospital Wing," Snape says, his tone clipped. "Madam Pomfrey mentioned you missed your follow-up appointment."
Ariel resists rolling her eyes. "I feel fine. The scarring has healed nicely."
"Your definition of fine has historically been questionable." His gaze flickers briefly to her left forearm, where a thin silver scar runs from wrist to elbow. A parting gift from Bellatrix — the barmy cunt.
"I learned from the best," she counters, a hint of challenge in her voice.
A muscle in Snape's jaw twitches. "Amusing as ever, Miss Evans."
"I'd have thought you'd appreciate the irony, considering how many times you've claimed to be fine while bleeding profusely." She shifts her weight, the stack of books in her arms growing heavier. "Or was that just another lesson in what not to do?"
His eyes narrow fractionally. "Perhaps you should spend less time analyzing my behavior and more time focusing on your NEWT preparations. Professor McGonagall mentioned your last Transfiguration essay was... lacking."
The barb stings more than it should. Once, he would have helped her with difficult subjects — not that she fucking needs it — staying up late in his quarters reviewing theory while they shared tea. Now, he wields her academic struggles like weapons.
"I've been busy," she says stiffly.
"Too busy for your education? Or too busy avoiding your obligations?" His gaze is piercing, searching for something beyond her words.
Ariel clutches her books tighter against her chest, a shield between them. "Is there something specific you wanted, Professor? Or are we just cataloguing my disappointments for the day?"
She killed a Dark Lord — she's slain a bloody basilisk — she fought and bled and became the Master of Death, and her father is giving her shit over a Transfiguration essay?
Something flickers in Snape's expression — a momentary softening, perhaps regret — before the mask of indifference returns.
"I merely wished to ensure you hadn't succumbed to whatever ailment has apparently affected your academic performance," he says, voice dropping lower. "Your mother would expect better."
The mention of her mother lands like a slap. Ariel feels heat rising to her cheeks, anger bubbling beneath her skin. She wants to fling the books at him, to scream that he has no right to wield Mum's memory as a weapon — not when it was her who spoke to her in the Forest.
You've been so brave —
Snape doesn't know that, though. Ariel hasn't the heart to tell him what she did before — what Mum had said to her, her hand reaching and passing through Ariel's as they'd hungrily drank in each other in that space before she'd died, before she'd been expecting to see her shortly after.
Maybe it's because they're — public. Everyone knows who her real parents are now — maybe Snape feels the need to lean into that aspect, now that he's officially a single parent?
Whatever it is, it's fucking bullshit. Ariel wants to tell him that, but she can't get the words past her teeth.
Instead, she swallows hard. "Is that all, sir?"
Snape studies her for a long moment, as though trying to decipher something written in a language he only half-understands.
"For now." He turns to leave, then pauses. Without looking back, he adds: "Should you find yourself troubled by anything, my office door remains open to you."
Before she can respond, he's gone, black robes disappearing around the corner like wisps of smoke.
Ariel releases a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The encounter leaves her feeling hollow, a familiar ache spreading through her chest. There had been a time when she could read his every microexpression, when she knew the difference between his genuine displeasure and his protective facade.
Now, she's not sure which parts are real anymore.
She goes to walk the grounds afterwards to clear her head.
The chill September air stings her cheeks as Ariel makes her way toward the lake. Her breath clouds in front of her, matching the fog that seems to have settled over her thoughts. A few students lounge near the shore despite the cool weather, desperate to soak up the last remnants of outdoor freedom before winter confines them to the castle.
Ariel tries to scrub the strange conversation with Snape from her mind — can't. It's like Voldemort's body hit the ground and their relationship had, too. There had been times, over the years, where Ariel had felt closer to her father more than Ron or Hermione, especially Fourth Year, when the Tournament had everyone losing their heads, Ron jealous, and that miserable fucking ball —
There had been so much to do after the battle — burying the dead, mourning the dead — rebuilding Hogwarts. They'd both been instrumental in doing that. They'd stayed through the summer to make sure the castle rebuilt itself, along with all of the Ministry trials, locking up the remaining Death Eaters, aside from the Malfoy's. Ariel and Snape had given testimony that their loyalties had shifted, that they should be afforded the same pardons Snape had been granted.
All of this in the middle of a media circus about who Ariel's real father was — digging into her mother's past — Snape had gone to the Ministry himself, about that one. Snape and Ariel were fine to drag through the mud, but he hadn't tolerated any slander about Mum, which was why Ariel was reluctant to tell him anything about talking with her ghost — about the message she had for him.
She's so lost in her thoughts that she nearly collides with Theodore Nott as he rounds the corner of the greenhouse.
"Careful there, Evans," he says, steadying her with a light touch to her elbow. His voice lacks the usual Slytherin sneer, and his dark eyes hold something close to curiosity.
"Sorry," Ariel mutters, stepping back. "Wasn't looking where I was going."
Nott shrugs, adjusting the strap of his satchel. "Understandable. Hard to watch your step when you're carrying the weight of the wizarding world on your shoulders."
The comment surprises her — not accusatory or mocking, but matter-of-fact. Nott has always been different from the other Slytherins — quieter, more observant, less inclined to follow Malfoy's every whim.
"Is that your way of asking if I'm alright?" Ariel asks, surprised by her own lack of hostility.
"Just an observation." Nott leans against the greenhouse wall, seemingly in no hurry to leave. "You've been getting notes at breakfast, too."
Ariel tenses. "Been watching me, have you?"
"Everyone watches you, Evans." His lips quirk into something almost resembling a smile. "Some more obviously than others."
She studies him for a moment, trying to detect any malice or hidden agenda. Finding none, she relaxes slightly.
"They're nothing. Just the usual post-war nonsense."
"The usual nonsense doesn't make you crumple notes like they've personally offended you." Nott's gaze is direct but not unkind. "Pansy's been insufferable about it, naturally — claims you've got a secret admirer."
"Pansy can go jump in the lake," Ariel mutters.
Nott actually laughs at that — a genuine sound that transforms his usually serious face. "I'd pay good galleons to see that."
The unexpected camaraderie catches Ariel off-guard. She finds herself smiling back, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.
"I'll keep that in mind," Nott says, glancing toward the castle. "For what it's worth, not all of us are buying Skeeter's rubbish. My father was... close to certain circles. I know what Professor Snape risked."
The admission hangs between them, weighty and unexpected. Ariel shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond to this olive branch from such an unlikely source.
"Thanks," she manages finally. "That's... good to know."
Nott nods, pushing himself away from the greenhouse wall. "Just watch yourself with those notes, Evans. Not everyone who survived the War ended up on the right side of things."
He walks away before she can respond, leaving Ariel with a cold feeling that has nothing to do with the September air.
Ariel dreams of the Forest.
The moonlight filters through the trees, casting long, skeletal shadows across the forest floor. Each step takes her deeper, fallen leaves crunching beneath her feet like brittle bones.
She knows where she's going. She's always known. She knows this path — her feet have walked it before, though her mind tries to forget.
Her breath comes out in small white puffs, though it isn't cold.
Death has its own chill.
The trees part before her, and suddenly she's there again — in the clearing where everything ended.
Where she died.
Voldemort stands waiting, his pale form ghostly in the darkness, red eyes gleaming like fresh blood. His lipless mouth curls into what might be a smile as he raises his wand.
"Ariel Evans," he says, the name slithering from his mouth like something rotten. "The Girl Who Lived — come to die."
She feels the absence of the Resurrection Stone in her pocket, the whispers of her mother and James and Sirius fading as she steps forward. There is no fear now, only a strange calm. This is what it means to accept death — to walk toward it with open eyes. She would not fear it — not like Voldemort had.
She doesn't answer. There's nothing left to say between them. She just wants it to end — to be free.
"Avada Kedavra!"
The green light rushes toward her, beautiful in its terrible purity. It strikes Ariel's chest, and she feels her body crumple, falling backward in agonizing slow motion, but instead of darkness, she finds herself sitting in her bed — alive.
She buries her face in her hands.
The third note comes a week later, this time finding her in the library.
Ariel is seated besides the windowsill, researching advanced brewing techniques. Her father will be naming an apprentice within the next few weeks — he takes on a single Seventh Year student every year — and Ariel is determined to make sure it's her. Since she'd first shown real aptitude in her father's class, the possibility had lingered at the edges of her ambition like a distant star to navigate by.
She needs this. Not just wants — needs . The path to becoming a Healer is arduous enough without the specialized training only a Potions apprenticeship can provide. St Mungo's accepts so few candidates each year, and those with mastery-level brewing skills are invariably at the top of their list. After everything that's happened — all the death, all the pain — she craves the ability to mend rather than destroy.
A knot forms in her stomach as she turns another brittle page. What if Snape doesn't choose her? What if, despite her obvious skill, despite their shared blood, he selects someone else? Zabini's brewing has improved dramatically this year, and even Hermione, though more interested in Arithmancy, would be a formidable candidate.
"He wouldn't dare," Ariel mutters to herself, then immediately feels childish. Of course he would dare. Snape has never let sentiment cloud his professional judgment — why would he start now?
Because you have talent, a slippery voice whispers. Talent he has yet to recognize. This would tell everyone he values you —
She's made her interest painfully obvious — left advanced brewing texts conspicuously on his desk when visiting his office before the War, asked pointed questions about the apprenticeship requirements during class. She's even directly told him recently — during one of their rare civil moments — that she intends to apply. He hadn't said anything, just raised an eyebrow, which Ariel had taken as a good sign — he hadn't discouraged her from applying.
An owl taps at the window near her secluded table in the back. Madam Pince shoots her a venomous glare as Ariel hurriedly opens the window to accept the delivery.
Your auburn hair would look perfect wrapped around my fist while I teach you what that body is really good for. I'll make you scream louder than your mother did.
Ariel stares at it, seeing it but not really seeing it. A hysterical little laugh bubbles up in the back of her throat, one she quickly suppresses. Her hands begin to shake as she folds the parchment with mechanical precision, tucking it into her robes.
The words swim before her eyes even after Ariel's put it away. She gathers her books with trembling hands, her mind racing. The library suddenly feels too quiet, too exposed. Every shadow in the stacks could be hiding someone watching her, drinking her in, as the note had said.
She should tell someone — she knows this — but who?
Her father's face flashes in her mind, and she immediately pushes the thought away. Snape has made it abundantly clear that she's been a disappointment this term. The last thing she needs is to give him another reason to look at her with that mixture of frustration and disapproval. Besides, what would she even say? That someone's sending her creepy notes? He'd probably just accuse her of seeking attention or wasting his time with trivial matters.
No, she can handle this herself. She's faced Death Eaters and survived a war, for Merlin's sake. Some pathetic little note-sender is hardly worth bothering Snape about.
Ariel trudges back to her dormitory, the latest note burning a hole in her pocket. The corridors feel endless, as though she's walking through a dream where distances stretch unnaturally.
Ever since that day in the Forest, when the Killing Curse struck her chest and she found herself in that strange, white version of King's Cross with Dumbledore, something fundamental has been — off.
Maybe that's why she's not feeling particularly urgent about the notes.
She presses her palm against the cold stone wall to steady herself as a wave of disconnection washes over her. These episodes have been coming more frequently lately — moments where she feels like a ghost in her own life, observing herself from a distance. Sometimes she wonders if part of her soul remained in that limbo, if she never truly came back whole.
The Resurrection Stone — the sacrifice.
The brief death that wasn't.
Dumbledore had called it a journey, but it felt more like fracturing.
Her dormitory is mercifully empty when she arrives. Ariel sinks onto her bed, drawing her knees to her chest as she stares vacantly at the crimson hangings. She should be afraid of the notes, should be planning how to identify the sender, but all she feels is a hollow numbness.
"You died," she whispers to herself, testing the words. "You died and came back wrong."
Pulling out her wand, Ariel conjures a small, bluebell flame that hovers above her palm. The familiar magic should comfort her, but instead it feels distant, as if performed by someone else's hand. She watches the flame flicker, remembering how it used to fill her with wonder when she was younger, laughing over with Hermione as they'd huddled together for warmth.
The flame blurs as tears fill her eyes. She's been trying so hard to pretend everything is normal, to act like the Ariel who returned from the forest is the same one who walked in — but she isn't. Sometimes she catches herself staring at her reflection, searching for the missing pieces of herself that never made it back.
Dumbledore had explained it all so serenely in that strange, white King's Cross.
"You have a choice, my dear," he had said, eyes twinkling behind half-moon spectacles. "You can go on, or you can go back."
She had chosen to return, of course. There was still so much to do, so many people counting on her — but now, in her darkest moments, she wonders if she made the right choice. Because this half-existence, this perpetual feeling of being slightly out of sync with the world around her —
It's a different kind of death.
Ariel runs into Nott again in the student laboratory. He's so quiet that she doesn't hear him enter — she'd been enjoying the solitude — not watching Ron and Hermione getting handsy with each other every five bloody seconds or the younger students ogling at her in the corridors. Her father is teaching, and this is her free time, so she's planning to offhandedly show him what she's working on when he's done. It's a Draught of Living Death with slight modifications. She's hoping this might impress him — show him how seriously she's taking the apprenticeship application.
Nott clears his throat, causing Ariel to startle. A drop of wormwood essence splashes onto the worktable.
"Damn it, Nott," she mutters, quickly vanishing the spill before it can corrode the surface. "Make some noise next time."
"I did," he says, setting his own ingredients down at a nearby station. "You were somewhere else entirely."
His dark eyes flick to her cauldron, assessing. "Living Death? That's beyond NEWT level."
"I'm making a few adjustments," Ariel says defensively, stirring counterclockwise precisely thirteen times. "The traditional brew leaves the subject with minor muscle spasms during prolonged use. I'm testing whether adding powdered moonstone in the third phase might mitigate that."
Nott raises an eyebrow, looking genuinely impressed. "Going for Snape's apprenticeship, then?"
"Is it that obvious?"
"You're brewing experimental potions during your free period instead of enjoying the last decent weather before winter sets in. Either you're gunning for the apprenticeship or you've developed a sudden passion for being cooped up in the dungeons."
Ariel watches him from the corner of her eye as he works. His movements are economical — precise. Not flashy like her own brewing style, but effective.
"What are you working on?" she asks, partly out of curiosity, partly to deflect attention from herself.
"Modified Wit-Sharpening Potion," Nott replies, crushing scarab beetles with practiced precision. "My father used to brew it for me before exams. I've been trying to recreate it, but something's off."
Ariel's curiosity gets the better of her.
"May I?" she asks, gesturing toward his cauldron.
Nott hesitates only briefly before stepping aside. Ariel examines the simmering liquid — copper-colored with an iridescent sheen, slightly too thin for a standard Wit-Sharpening.
"You're using armadillo bile instead of armadillo liver," she observes after a moment. "That would make it absorb faster but decrease potency."
Nott looks genuinely surprised. "How did you —"
"The sheen — bile creates that rainbow effect on the surface." She taps her finger thoughtfully against the worktable. "Try adding a pinch of powdered ginger root to stabilize it. Should maintain the quick absorption while preserving potency."
A silence falls between them as Nott considers her suggestion. He reaches into his ingredients case and produces a small vial of powdered ginger root.
"Worth a try," he says with a small nod of acknowledgment. "Thanks."
Ariel returns to her own cauldron, which has turned the exact shade of pale lilac she's been aiming for. The silence between them is oddly comfortable as they both work, the soft bubbling of potions and the rhythmic chopping of ingredients creating a soothing backdrop.
"Got another note yesterday," Nott says casually, not looking up from his brewing.
Ariel's hand stills over her cauldron. "What?"
"Not me," he clarifies, glancing up briefly. "You — saw the owl deliver it in the library before you left in a hurry. Looked like it rattled you."
Heat rises to Ariel's cheeks as she adds the powdered asphodel with perhaps more force than necessary. "I'm not rattled."
"Right," Nott says dryly. "And I'm secretly a Hufflepuff."
Ariel shoots him a glare, but there's no malice in his expression — just quiet concern.
"Watching me, Nott?" she asks in a dangerous voice.
"Hard not to," he replies with a small shrug, seemingly unfazed by her tone. "You're rather the center of attention, even when you're trying not to be."
Ariel turns back to her potion, jaw clenched. "It's nothing. Just stupid fan mail."
"Is that what we're calling death threats these days?"
Her head snaps up, eyes narrowing. "I didn't say they were threats."
Nott meets her gaze steadily. "You didn't have to. Your reaction says enough." He adds a counterclockwise stir to his potion, watching as it turns a deeper copper. "The way your shoulders tensed, how you looked around before leaving... I've seen that look before."
"In the mirror?" Ariel asks, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
A shadow passes over Nott's face.
"Something like that." He's quiet for a moment, focused on his brewing. "My father had many... visitors during the Dark Lord's rise. I learned to read fear early."
Ariel's hands falter over her potion as Nott's words sink in.
A Death Eater's child — just like her.
Her father had worn the same mask as Nott's father once, and had knelt before the same monster.
She stares at the shimmering surface of her potion, suddenly seeing not the lilac liquid but her father's forearm, the Dark Mark stark against his pale skin. How many times had she watched him press his hand against it in pain when she was younger, when he thought she wasn't looking? How many nights had she lain awake, listening to him return from Death Eater meetings, his footsteps uneven from the aftermath of the Cruciatus?
She'd learned to read him like a potions text — the subtle tightening around his eyes that meant Voldemort had been particularly vicious that night, the way his right hand would tremble slightly when he'd been forced to participate. He'd been good at hiding it from her — but she'd been better.
That's why she'd started brewing healing potions in secret. That's why she'd spent countless nights in the Restricted Section, learning how to mend broken bones, reduce inflammation, and counteract nerve damage. That's why she wants to be a Healer so desperately now — not for the prestige or even to help anonymous patients someday. It had begun as something more intimate — a daughter's desperate attempt to ease her father's suffering when he returned from those terrible meetings. She'd learned to brew Blood-Replenishing Potion by fourteen, mastered basic diagnostic spells by fifteen. By sixteen, she could identify which curse had been used based solely on the pattern of bruising.
When Snape would return, pale and shaking, she would silently retrieve the potions she kept in her bedroom in his quarters. She never mentioned them in the morning, and neither did he. It was their unspoken agreement — she would pretend not to notice his pain, and he would pretend not to know where the healing potions by his bedside had come from.
Now, standing across from Nott, she wonders if he had done the same for his father.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and returns to her potion, the silence between them less tense now, filled with a strange understanding. Two children of men who wore masks, who knelt before monsters. Two children who learned to brew potions as acts of quiet rebellion.
"If you need help with those notes," Nott says finally, his voice low enough that only she can hear. "let me know."
Ariel considers him for a long moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nods.
It's the closest thing to trust she's felt in months.
A/N: If you could leave a review, it would mean a lot. I don't really hear from people here and I feel like I am speaking into the void, lol.