Part II: shadows cast twice
When the light bends, so do truths
By Wednesday, Pansy has abandoned her sneering and pointed laughing to something much worse — actually talking to Ariel.
Ariel enters the girls' lavatory on the second floor, desperate for a moment of solitude after an excruciating double Transfiguration session. Her head throbs, a dull pressure behind her eyes that's become all too familiar these days. She splashes cold water on her face, watching rivulets track down her pale skin.
The door creaks open, and Ariel looks up to see Pansy's reflection in the cracked mirror. Their eyes meet, and her mouth curls into something between a smile and a sneer.
"Well, if it isn't Daddy's little girl," Pansy drawls, sauntering to the sink beside Ariel's. "Hiding in the loo again?"
Ariel feels the old irritation coil under her skin, tight and electric — a familiar heat. For as long as she can remember, Pansy's attention had always been poisonous — glittering eyes sliding over Ariel's clothes, hair, friends — bitter comments about family legacy and blood status muttered just loud enough to sting. Before the War, before everything changed, it had been garden-variety Slytherin contempt — Pureblood pride worn like armor, but after the secret broke — Pansy's jealousy sharpened into something raw and personal.
The thing about Pansy — the thing no one ever seemed to realize — was that her hatred had always been more venomous with Ariel than with anyone else. It wasn't just that Ariel had survived the Killing Curse, or that the Prophet splashed her face across every front page. It was older, deeper — a festering wound first drawn in First Year, when Malfoy's attention lingered on Ariel just a second too long and Pansy had noticed. Since then it was as if Pansy had been out for blood.
Pansy would never admit it, of course. She cloaked her jealousy in contempt, pretending Ariel was beneath her notice, but Ariel could always see the hunger in her eyes. Ron thought she was absolutely mental. Ariel didn't disagree. They've always loathed each other — the War fixed many things, but the mutual hatred of each other was not one of them.
Ariel's fingers tighten around the porcelain edge. "Fascinating how you always manage to find me when I'm alone, Parkinson."
She pulls out a tube of lip gloss, applying it with deliberate slowness. "Don't flatter yourself, Evans. Some of us actually have lives beyond riding on our parents' coattails, though I suppose in your case, it's more like riding on daddy's robes."
"Original," Ariel says flatly. "Did you practice that one in front of your mirror, or does mediocrity come naturally to you?"
Pansy's eyes narrow dangerously. "At least I know who my father is — always have . Must be confusing, spending years thinking you're one person only to find out you're someone else entirely. Tell me, do you ever wonder if your precious mother lied about other things too?"
The words hit with precision, finding the tender spots Ariel tries to keep hidden. She feels her magic surge beneath her skin, crackling at her fingertips.
"You don't know anything about my mother," Ariel says, each word precise and cold as ice. "Keep her name out of your mouth."
"I know she spread her legs for Snape," Pansy replies with mock thoughtfulness. "Makes you wonder about her standards, doesn't it?"
Ariel's wand is in her hand before she realizes she's moved, the tip pressed against Pansy's throat. "Say one more word about my mother, and they'll be mopping what's left of you off these floors for weeks."
Pansy doesn't flinch, her eyes glittering with malice. "There she is — that Snape temper. Just like your father's, aren't you? Though he's much harder to provoke." She pushes the wand aside with one manicured finger. "You should be careful with threats like that. People might start thinking you inherited more than just his eyes."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Ariel snaps.
Pansy steps closer, her voice dropping to a silky whisper. "Just that Snape was a Death Eater once. Some say the most devoted of them all until he switched sides. Dark magic leaves marks, Evans. Not all of them are visible."
"Get the fuck out of here," Ariel hisses, her wand still raised. "Before I Hex your face off."
Pansy smirks, clearly savoring Ariel's reaction. "You know what's funny? Everyone's so focused on who your father is, they've forgotten to ask the important question — what are you?"
With that, she saunters toward the door, pausing with her hand on the handle.
"By the way, I heard Snape's already chosen his apprentice. Blaise says it's as good as his. Pity that daddy doesn't want to play favorites."
The door swings shut behind her, leaving Ariel alone with her reflection and the echo of Pansy's words. She stares at herself, searching her own face — her mother's features with her father's eyes.
What are you?
The question echoes in Ariel's mind as she storms out of the bathroom, her footsteps quickening with each turn of the corridor. Her magic still crackles beneath her skin, raw and volatile. Students flatten themselves against the walls as she passes.
She's nearly at the staircase leading to Gryffindor Tower when she collides with someone rounding the corner. Books scatter across the stone floor, and Ariel stumbles backward, a curse ready on her lips.
"We've got to stop meeting like this, Evans," Nott says dryly, bending to retrieve his fallen texts. "People might talk."
Ariel blinks, momentarily disoriented by the encounter. Nott's calmness is so at odds with the storm raging inside her that it takes a moment to adjust.
"Sorry," she mutters, kneeling to help gather his things. Her hands still tremble slightly as she passes him a leather-bound volume on advanced Rune translations.
Nott's dark eyes study her face, seeing too much. "You look like you're about to Hex someone into next week."
"Already almost did," Ariel admits, rising to her feet. "Parkinson."
"Ah." his expression shifts to understanding. "She's been worse than usual lately. Something about her father losing Ministry contracts after the War."
Ariel scoffs. "And that's somehow my fault?"
"Everything's your fault, didn't you know?" Nott's voice carries no malice, only a wry observation. "At least according to certain circles."
They stand in awkward silence for a moment, the corridor emptying as students hurry to their next destinations. Nott adjusts his satchel, seemingly in no hurry to leave.
"You know," he says, his gaze lingering on her face, "when you're angry like this, your eyes get impossibly darker. It's rather striking."
Ariel stares at him, momentarily speechless. The unexpected compliment — is it a compliment? — cuts through her anger, leaving confusion in its wake.
"That's... an unusual observation," she finally manages.
"I'm an observant person." His lips quirk into a half-smile. "And unlike most people, I don't find your intensity frightening. It's refreshing, actually — seeing someone who doesn't hide what they feel."
Heat rises to Ariel's cheeks. "I thought Slytherins were all about masks and subterfuge."
"Perhaps that's why I appreciate the opposite." Nott shifts his weight, suddenly seeming less sure of himself. "Not all of us thrive on deception. Some of us are just... surviving until we can be something else."
The vulnerability in his admission catches Ariel off guard. She studies him with new interest, noting the shadows beneath his eyes, the slight tension in his shoulders — signs she recognizes from her own reflection.
"What do you want to be?" Ariel asks, her voice softening despite herself. "After Hogwarts, I mean."
Nott gazes past her, toward one of the high windows where afternoon light streams in.
"Free," he says simply. "Just... free."
The word hangs between them, heavy with meaning. Ariel feels something shift in her chest — recognition, perhaps. Isn't that what she wants too? Freedom from expectations, from the weight of her name — names — from the suffocating attention?
"Anyway," Nott says, clearing his throat. "I should go. Ancient Runes waits for no wizard." He hesitates, then adds, "Whatever Parkinson said — it's just poison meant to work its way under your skin. Don't give her the satisfaction."
Ariel watches him walk away, his tall figure disappearing around the corner.
The encounter leaves her feeling strangely settled, her earlier rage dimmed to a manageable simmer.
Ariel finds Hermione waiting for her in the Common Room later that evening, a steaming mug of tea in her hands and a determined expression on her face. The room is nearly empty — most students have gone to dinner already. The fire casts dancing shadows across the crimson walls, making the space feel smaller than it is.
"I saved you a spot," Hermione says, patting the cushion beside her.
Ariel hesitates, recognizing the look in her friend's eyes — the one that means a serious conversation is coming. She considers making an excuse about homework, but exhaustion wins out.
With a sigh, she drops onto the couch, sinking into the worn upholstery.
"Tea?" Hermione offers, already pouring a second cup.
"Thanks," Ariel murmurs, accepting the warm mug. The familiar scent of chamomile rises in gentle tendrils of steam.
They sit in silence for a moment, the crackle of the fire filling the space between them. Hermione fidgets with the sleeve of her jumper, a telltale sign she's rehearsing what to say.
"I spoke with Professor Snape today," Hermione says finally, her voice carefully neutral. "He mentioned your apprenticeship application."
Ariel stiffens, her fingers tightening around the mug. "Did he ask you to spy on me, now?"
"Of course not," Hermione replies, frowning slightly. "I went to ask him about advanced theoretical approaches for my Arithmancy project. Your name came up naturally."
"Naturally," Ariel echoes, her tone flat. She takes a deliberate sip of tea, avoiding Hermione's gaze. "Why doesn't he talk to me about it himself?"
"You know how difficult this is for him," Hermione says, her voice gentle but insistent. "The entire wizarding world is watching how he treats you right now. If he shows you any favoritism —"
"He's spent this whole month treating me like I'm something unpleasant stuck to the bottom of his shoe. If that's favoritism, I'd hate to see what actual dislike looks like."
Hermione's expression softens. "He asked about your progress. Specifically. Wanted to know if you were still experimenting with modifications to healing potions."
"Did he now?" Ariel asks, unable to keep the bitterness from her voice. "Funny how he can ask everyone about me except me."
"He's trying, Ariel," Hermione says, reaching to touch her friend's arm. "In his own way."
"His own way is rubbish," Ariel mutters, but some of the fight leaves her voice. She stares into the fire, watching the flames dance and curl. "Did he say anything else?"
Hermione hesitates. "He mentioned that several students have shown considerable aptitude this year."
"Zabini," Ariel says flatly.
"Among others," Hermione confirms carefully. "But he also mentioned your recent modifications to the Draught of Living Death. He seemed — impressed."
"Impressed enough to choose me?" Ariel asks, hating the desperate edge in her voice.
Hermione sighs. "He didn't say. You know how he is — keeps his cards close to his chest."
Ariel stares into the fire, letting Hermione's words sink in. The flames dance hypnotically, reminding her of another conversation — one that had left her feeling oddly settled rather than agitated.
"I ran into Theodore Nott today," she says abruptly, the change of subject making Hermione blink in surprise. "Literally ran into him, actually."
Hermione's expression shifts from concerned to curious. "The quiet Slytherin?"
"Is there another one?" Ariel asks, a hint of defensiveness in her voice. "He's... very different from what I expected."
"Different how?" Hermione asks, setting her mug down and turning to face Ariel fully.
Ariel hesitates, unsure how to articulate what makes Theodore different. "He's observant. Doesn't just see what everyone else sees." She traces the rim of her mug with her finger. "And he noticed the notes I've been getting, which is weird, but —"
"Notes?" Hermione's brow furrows. "What notes?"
Ariel's stomach drops. She hadn't meant to mention them — the words had slipped out before she could stop them. "It's nothing. Just some stupid fan mail."
"Ariel," Hermione says, her voice taking on that familiar tone of concern mixed with exasperation. "You know you can tell me anything."
She opens her mouth to answer when the portrait hole swings open with a bang. Ron bursts in, his face flushed and hair windswept.
"There you are!" he exclaims, dropping heavily onto the armchair across from them. "Been looking everywhere. McGonagall's posted the Hogsmeade weekend — first one's next Saturday."
Hermione shoots Ariel a look that clearly says their conversation isn't over, but Ariel feels relief wash over her. She can't bring herself to share the contents of those notes — not yet.
"Brilliant," Ariel says, forcing enthusiasm into her voice. "I could use a break from the castle."
Ron grins, oblivious to the tension he's interrupted. "Three Broomsticks, then? First round's on me."
As Ron launches into plans for their outing, Ariel catches Hermione's worried gaze and gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head.
Later, her eyes promise. Not now.
She's alone in the girls' dormitory, reaching for her Potions textbook when a folded piece of parchment falls from between its pages.
Ariel's blood runs cold as she recognizes the now-familiar spidery handwriting.
With trembling fingers, she unfolds the parchment.
Your father may be here, but I see what he doesn't. I'll take my fill while he watches.
Her stomach heaves.
What the fuck?
What the FUCK?
What — what is this?
The parchment crumples in Ariel's grip, her knuckles bleaching white as rage floods her system like molten lead. This one is different — more immediate, more personal . Whoever is sending these has been in her dormitory, has touched her books.
Has violated the one place she felt safe .
"That's fucking it," she hisses, flinging the crushed note to the floor. She slams her Potions textbook shut with such force that dust motes dance in the air. Something inside her snaps — the careful restraint she's maintained since the first note — dissolves into fury.
Her wand is in her hand before she consciously reaches for it, sparks flying from its tip as her magic responds to her anger. With a savage flick, she summons all three previous notes from her trunk. They zoom across the room, hovering before her like guilty prisoners awaiting sentence.
Ariel draws a sharp breath, steadying herself. She needs to show these to someone — now.
Someone like her father.
He's going to kill her for waiting this long — he's been hyper vigilant about the people — the fans — mostly the fawning men — some women, too. He'd Hexed off someone's nose at the Ministry for cat-calling her, and Ariel had to Petrify her own father to stop him. She's not eager to go through that again — but these notes have gone too far.
Ariel gathers the notes and stuffs them into her pocket. Her heart pounds against her ribs as she marches out of the dormitory, down the stairs, and through the Common Room. Several students call out greetings, but she barely registers them, her mind fixed on her destination.
The dungeons grow colder with each step downward, the torchlight casting long, dancing shadows on the stone walls. By the time she reaches Snape's office door, her anger has condensed into something harder, more focused — a cold determination that steadies her hand as she knocks.
"Enter," comes his voice, silky and dangerous.
Ariel pushes the door open. Dad sits behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of parchment, a quill poised between his long fingers.
It's been — tense, to say the least, between them. She doesn't know how to categorize the silence, but they haven't spoken since the other day in the corridor. It's — fine. It's whatever it's going to be — she just wants the fucking apprenticeship, and everything will go back to how it was — it has to.
Snape's eyes flick up to meet hers, and for a moment, Ariel feels like a First Year again, caught out of bounds after curfew. How many times had they stood like this since the Battle of Hogwarts? Since she'd walked into the Forbidden Forest with nothing but her wand and the certainty she wouldn't be walking back out?
He still hasn't forgiven her for that. She can see it in the tightness around his mouth whenever she mentions anything related to that day, the way his hands clench as though he's physically restraining himself from locking her in a tower somewhere no one can ever hurt her again. The memory of his face when he found her afterward haunts her still — the anguish followed by something so broken she couldn't bear to look at it directly. Snape, the unflappable spy, the man who had faced Voldemort countless times without flinching, had crumbled at the sight of her alive when he'd believed her dead. It had been like looking at a man burning alive.
He hasn't forgiven her for it. She's not certain she's forgiven herself for it either.
Snape's eyes flick up, narrowing when he sees her. The quill stills.
"Miss Evans," he says, reverting to formality as he does when they're in school rather than at home. Then he takes in her expression, and something in his own face changes. "What's happened?"
"I need to show you something." She crosses to his desk, hand trembling slightly as she pulls out the notes.
Snape sets down his quill, black eyes following her movements with the same intensity he reserves for potentially explosive potions.
"I was beginning to wonder if you'd forgotten where my office was located," he says dryly. "Term began nearly a month ago, and this is your first visit down here."
"Been busy," she mutters, avoiding his gaze as she lays the crumpled parchments before him. "Like you said — NEWT year and all."
"Busy," Snape repeats, one eyebrow arching upward. "Too busy for your own father, but apparently not too busy to collect these — missives."
Ariel's brain briefly short-circuits. What the fuck is happening? He's been ignoring her!
"You're one to talk about being busy," Ariel retorts, crossing her arms. "I've come to three meals in the Great Hall this week where your chair was conspicuously empty."
Snape's eyes scan the first note, then the second, his face hardening with each word. "I was brewing for the Hospital Wing. A task which, unlike these correspondences, cannot be delegated."
"Well, I've been brewing something too," Ariel says, leaning against his desk. "It's called a normal teenage existence. You should try it sometime."
Snape's gaze snaps up from the notes, eyes narrowing to obsidian slits. The temperature in the office seems to drop several degrees.
"When did these start arriving?"
Ariel shifts her weight, suddenly conscious of her delay in bringing this to him. "The first one came about three weeks ago. They came by owl."
"Three weeks." Each syllable drops like a stone into still water. "And you're only bringing them to my attention now?"
"I thought it was just some idiot with a crush at first," she says defensively. "I get weird messages sometimes. But then —"
She gestures to the third note, the one mentioning her mother.
Snape's long fingers unfold it with precise, controlled movements. As he reads, something changes in his face — a subtle tightening around the eyes, a whitening of the knuckles as his grip tightens on the parchment.
"The last one," she says, her voice quieter now as she pushes the final note toward him, "was in my textbook."
Snape unfolds it, reads it, and goes completely still. It's a stillness Ariel recognizes — the dangerous calm before a storm of fury. She's seen it before, in those rare moments when his carefully constructed walls crack to reveal the volcanic rage beneath.
"In your textbook," he repeats, each word precise and clipped. "Not delivered by owl — in your textbook."
Ariel nods, swallowing hard.
Snape rises from his chair in one fluid motion, the notes gathered in his hand. His robes billow as he moves around the desk, closing the distance between them.
His hand rises, and for a wild moment Ariel thinks he might strike something — the desk, the wall — he'd had the same look on his face before he'd punched Sirius' lights out, after he had tried to put a stop to the Occlumency lessons.
Instead, Snape's fingers brush against her cheek, feather-light, his touch so unexpectedly gentle it makes her breath catch.
"Are you alright?" The question comes out rough, as though scraped raw from his throat.
The tenderness in the gesture catches Ariel off guard. She blinks rapidly, suddenly fighting back tears she hadn't realized were threatening to fall. When was the last time he'd touched her like this? Before the battle, certainly. Perhaps even before that night in the Forest.
Ariel turns her face slightly away from his hand, even as she unconsciously presses her cheek more firmly against his palm.
"I'm fine," she says, her voice unconvincing even to her own ears.
"I will handle this matter personally," Snape says, his voice low and controlled despite the fury evident in the tightness around his eyes. He folds the notes methodically, tucking them into his robes with deliberate movements.
Ariel frowns. "Shouldn't we tell McGonagall?"
"Not yet — this requires a more — discreet approach."
"You mean you're going to try and kill them."
Snape's eyes flash. "I prefer the term neutralize the threat."
"That's just semantics and you know it," Ariel says, crossing her arms. "Remember what happened last time? The Ministry official?"
"He was fortunate to keep his remaining appendages," Snape replies coolly, turning away to pace the length of his office. His movements are precise, controlled, but Ariel can see the tension coiled in his shoulders like a serpent ready to strike.
"Dad," The word stops him mid-stride. "I'm serious . I don't want another incident."
Snape turns to face her, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. It's a change so subtle that anyone else would miss it, but Ariel has spent seven years learning to read the minute shifts in her father's carefully guarded facade.
His eyes flick toward the door, then back to Ariel. "Have you eaten yet this evening?"
Ariel blinks, thrown by the abrupt change in subject. "I — no. I came straight here after finding the last note."
"Stay," he says. It's not quite a question, but there's a hesitation in the word that betrays something almost vulnerable beneath his commanding exterior. "I'll have the house elves bring something. We should discuss your security arrangements, until I find the culprit."
Ariel studies her father's face, noting the tension that hasn't dissipated. She recognizes this tactic — diverting from his murderous intentions by shifting to practicalities.
"Fine," Ariel says, relenting as she pulls out the chair opposite his desk. "But I'm serious about the not-killing-anyone part. You should tell McGonagall."
Snape's lips thin into what might almost be a smile on anyone else. "I've managed to control my homicidal tendencies for nearly two decades. I believe I can continue to exercise restraint."
Ariel snorts. "That's not as reassuring as you think it is."
Ariel dreams of the Forest once more.
This time, the darkness is absolute.
Ariel knows she's dying — has died. Voldemort's Killing Curse struck her squarely in the chest, and she felt the life ripped from her body, her soul torn away to that strange white limbo of King's Cross, but instead of finding herself speaking with Dumbledore again, she's suspended in nothingness, adrift in a void without sound or sensation.
Then, slowly, awareness returns.
First comes pain — a dull, throbbing ache that seems to emanate from every cell in her body. Then sound — ragged breathing that isn't her own, a choked sob that breaks through the darkness like lightning through storm clouds.
Her eyelids feel impossibly heavy, but she forces them open, just a fraction. The world is blurry, moonlight filtering through the canopy above. She's being carried, cradled against something warm. Her head lolls against a shoulder.
Dad.
Snape's face comes into focus above her, tear tracks cutting through the grime on his sallow cheeks. His black eyes, usually so guarded, are raw with grief, his mouth like he's biting back a scream. He doesn't realize she's awake, doesn't notice her consciousness returning as he stumbles through the underbrush, her body clutched to his chest like something precious and broken.
"Sentimentality," a high, cold voice cuts through the night. "How disappointing."
Ariel fights the instinct to stiffen. She must remain perfectly still, perfectly dead. One twitch, one flicker of an eyelid, and all would be lost.
Through slitted eyes, she watches Voldemort's pale face, his lipless mouth curved in a triumphant smile as he glides alongside them.
"Come," Voldemort commands, his voice a silken whisper that slithers through the darkness. "Let all see what becomes of those who defy Lord Voldemort."
Snape's arms tighten around her, his entire body trembling with suppressed rage.
"Such weakness in you, Severus," Voldemort muses. "I had thought you above such — attachment."
Each word is carefully chosen, a scalpel designed to flay. Ariel focuses on keeping her breathing imperceptible, her muscles slack. Playing dead when every instinct screams to fight requires a discipline she never knew she possessed.
"The girl meant nothing to me," Snape replies, his voice hollow. "Merely a means to an end."
Voldemort's laugh is high and cold, echoing through the trees. "Your lies grow tiresome. I see how you cradle the Mudblood's brat — like a father with his child." He moves closer, his skeletal fingers brushing against Ariel's cheek. It takes everything in her not to flinch away. "Did you love her mother so deeply that even this pale imitation earned your devotion?"
Snape says nothing, but Ariel feels his heartbeat quicken against her side.
"Perhaps I should have let you keep the Mudblood," Voldemort continues, his voice a mock caress. "A pet for my faithful servant. Would that have satisfied you, Severus? Would that have prevented this — disgraceful display of emotion?"
Ariel jerks awake, heart hammering against her ribs. The dormitory is silent save for the gentle breathing of her roommates. She presses her palms against her eyes, willing the nightmare to fade.
The dream-memory clings like cobwebs to her consciousness. She remembers that moment with perfect clarity — being carried through the Forest, pretending to be dead while her father's tears fell on her face.
Perhaps that's why she feels so hollow now.
The War is over, but she remains fractured — a collection of pieces that no longer fit together properly.
The days following Ariel's revelation to her father are both reassuring and unsettling.
And greatly fucking annoying.
True to his word, Snape has implemented a series of security measures with frightening efficiency. By morning, her dormitory had been Warded with protections so intricate that even Professor Flitwick had raised an eyebrow when he sensed them during a routine patrol.
"Remarkable spellwork," Flitwick had commented. "Though perhaps a touch excessive for student quarters."
What Flitwick didn't know was that the Wards were only the beginning. Snape has insisted on personally escorting Ariel between classes whenever his schedule allowed, his tall figure cutting an intimidating path through the crowded corridors. When his teaching duties prevented this, he'd somehow arranged for her to be accompanied by Prefects who had been mysteriously relieved of other duties to shadow her movements. Her privacy has vanished overnight, replaced by a constant, hovering presence of protection that makes her skin crawl.
She's wanted to try her hand at more normal teenage activities — like dating, even. No one's caught her eye, but she's certain that it's definitely not happening now, with a murderous shadow two steps behind her at every turn.
"This is ridiculous," Ariel mutters on the fourth day, as Ron stands at attention outside the girls' lavatory. "Fucking kill me — seriously."
"I'm just following orders," Ron says, his ears reddening. "Your dad's bloody terrifying, you know. He threatened to use my intestines as potion ingredients if I let you out of my sight."
"That's because you're an easy target," Ariel says, rolling her eyes as she emerges. "He knows you'll do what he says."
"Anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation would," Ron mutters, falling into step beside her. "Besides, Hermione would kill me if I didn't look after you, too."
By the sixth day, Ariel is nearly suffocating under the weight of constant surveillance. She slips away during lunch, seeking solitude in the one place she knows will be empty — the old Divinations classroom in the North Tower, abandoned since Trelawney's retirement. The circular room is thick with dust and stale incense, the mismatched chairs and poufs draped with moth-eaten scarves. People normally come up here to shag, which is mercifully not the case today.
Ariel sinks onto a cushion by the window, drawing her knees to her chest as she stares out at the grounds below. The Lake shimmers in the autumn sunlight, deceptively peaceful. She exhales slowly, relishing the quiet.
The respite lasts exactly eight minutes.
The door to the abandoned classroom creaks open, sending more dust dancing in the shafts of afternoon light. Ariel doesn't need to turn around to know who it is — the distinctive silence, the sensation of being observed by calculating eyes, the subtle shift in the room's atmosphere.
She keeps her gaze fixed on the lake outside.
"Impressive," Ariel says lightly. "Even I didn't know I was coming here until ten minutes ago."
Snape's voice carries across the room like a winter wind. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"
"Sitting. You should try it someone — it's very relaxing."
Snape doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, he moves into the room with measured steps, dust swirling around his ankles as he approaches. When he reaches the window, he simply stands there, his reflection ghostly in the glass beside Ariel's.
"There are fourteen different ways someone could enter this room undetected," he says, not looking at her. "The ventilation system alone has three access points. The ceiling hasn't been properly sealed since 1943."
Of course he'd know that — he was Headmaster for a year, after all, but it's also on brand for Snape's particular flavor of paranoia.
Ariel waits for the explosion of anger, the cutting remarks about her recklessness, but they don't come.
Instead, Snape lowers himself onto the dusty floor beside her, his back against the wall, long legs stretched out before him. The gesture is so unexpected, so utterly un-Snape-like, that Ariel can only stare.
"Dad?" she frowns. "What're you doing?"
He doesn't answer immediately. His face is turned away from her, profile sharp against the dusty light filtering through the window. When he finally speaks, his voice is different — stripped of its usual acerbity.
"I found your mother in places like this," he says quietly, gesturing to the abandoned classroom. "Hidden corners of the castle where she could be alone with her thoughts. I always knew where to look — if you were going to ask how I found you."
Ariel's breath catches. Her father rarely speaks of her mother voluntarily.
Mum's face, a whisper in the trees —
You are so brave —
Tell your father — tell him for me —
"How?" she asks.
"Because I understood her need for solitude. It was — something we shared." He pauses, fingers absently tracing patterns in the dust beside him. "And because I watched her. Not unlike how I've been watching you since you were eleven years old."
"Creepy," Ariel says, but there's no heat in it.
"Perhaps." He acknowledges with a slight incline of his head. "Your mother thought so too, at first."
Then something shifts in Snape's expression — his features hardening as he turns to look at her fully.
His eyes glint, black and sharp, but the words that follow are weighed with something rawer than anger. "I cannot keep you safe if you insist on outmaneuvering every safeguard I put in place."
Ariel huffs a brittle laugh. "I survived the Dark Lord, Dad. I don't think some deranged note-sender will do me in."
"That is precisely the arrogance that gets people killed," he snaps. His voice — too loud for the hush of the old classroom — echoes briefly off faded velvet drapes and warped floorboards."I failed her — I won't fail you — not again."
Ariel shifts uncomfortably under the sudden intensity of his gaze. "Dad, I'm fine. It's just some sick notes —"
"It always starts with notes," he cuts her off, his voice taking on a strange edge she's never heard before. "Words on parchment. Then glances across crowded rooms. Then they find ways to get closer — to touch."
He spits the last word like it's poison.
"No one will touch you," he continues, his eyes unnaturally bright in the dusty half-light. "I'll ensure it."
Ariel feels a chill creep up her spine. "Dad —"
"You don't understand what people are capable of," Snape says, leaning closer. His hand shoots out suddenly, fingers curling around her wrist with surprising strength. "What they would do to you if given the chance."
His grip tightens, and Ariel winces slightly. His eyes are fixed on her face with an intensity that makes her stomach clench.
"I won't let them near you," he says, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Not a single one of them deserves to breathe the same air as you, let alone touch what's mine."
The possessive pronoun hangs in the air between them, startling in its rawness. Ariel tries to pull her wrist away, but his fingers remain locked around it.
"Dad, you're hurting me," she says quietly. "I — I get it, alright? Someone's just trying to scare me."
He releases her immediately, as if burned, but the feverish light in his eyes doesn't diminish. He stands abruptly, towering over her, his shadow stretching across the dusty floor.
"There's a Prefect outside," he says, like nothing happened at all. "They'll wait until you're ready."
And then he's gone, leaving Ariel alone in the dusty classroom with nothing but the imprint of his fingers on her wrist and a growing sense of unease. She stares at the door as it clicks shut, her mind replaying his words.
"What's mine," she whispers to the empty room, rubbing her wrist where his grip had tightened.
Something about her father's behavior feels different – darker, more desperate than his usual protectiveness. The look in his eyes had reminded her of something she'd glimpsed in the Pensieve years ago – a younger Snape, possessive over her mother.
Ariel shivers despite the warm afternoon sun streaming through the window.
Hermione finds her later — Ariel has skipped all of her morning classes. For Hermione, this is grounds for imprisonment, but if she's thinking it, she doesn't voice it aloud.
Ariel is leaning against the stone railing of the Astronomy Tower, looking out over the grounds. The crisp autumn air stings her cheeks, but she welcomes the sensation — anything to feel something real.
"I thought I might find you here," Hermione says softly, approaching with cautious steps. "Ron told me you broke protocol."
"Ron should mind his own business," Ariel mutters, but there's no real heat behind her words.
Hermione joins her at the railing, their shoulders nearly touching. For several minutes, they stand in silence, watching as the Giant Squid lazily breaks the surface of the lake below.
"You haven't been sleeping," Hermione finally says. It's not a question. "Since the notes. I wish you would've told me earlier, but I'm not here to scold you."
Ariel shrugs. "Sleep is overrated."
"So are classes, apparently."
"I needed space."
Hermione turns to face her fully, brown eyes searching Ariel's face with that penetrating gaze that has always seen too much. "From your father, or from yourself?"
The question hits too close to home, and Ariel shifts uncomfortably. "Both, I suppose."
"Have there been more notes?" Hermione asks, her voice dropping lower.
Ariel shakes her head. "Not since I told Dad, but now I've got an armed guard following me to the bloody loo."
"Better safe than —"
"If you say better safe than sorry, I will push you off this tower," Ariel interrupts, though a ghost of a smile flickers across her face.
Hermione's answering smile is sad. "You're not okay, are you? And I don't mean because of these notes."
Something inside Ariel cracks, just a little. She's been holding herself together for so long — months of pretending that returning from death hadn't changed her, that she's still the same Ariel who walked into that Forest — but she's not, and the weight of that deception is crushing her.
"I don't know who I am anymore," she whispers, the confession spilling out before she can stop it. "Ever since the Forest, it's like — like I'm watching myself from the outside. Like I'm playing the role of Ariel Evans, but I can't remember all my lines."
Hermione's brow furrows. "Have you talked to anyone about this?"
"Who would I tell?" Ariel asks, her voice hollow. "The Healers at St. Mungo's? They'd have a field day with The Girl Who Lived Twice. Can you imagine the headlines? Savior of Wizarding World Claims Death Changed Her, Experts Concerned."
"What about your father?"
Ariel laughs, the sound brittle as frost. "He can barely look at me these days. Every time he does, I think he sees the body he carried out of that Forest." She turns away, gripping the stone railing until her knuckles whiten. "Besides, he'd just blame himself. Add it to his collection of failures regarding Lily Evans and her daughter."
"He loves you," Hermione says quietly.
"I know. That's what makes it worse."
The wind picks up, carrying the scent of pine from the Forest. Ariel stares at those dark trees, remembering how they had swallowed her that night, how she had walked to her death with ghosts at her side. She thinks of all the ghosts she's left behind — the ghosts she didn't talk to.
"Sometimes I think," she continues, her voice so low Hermione has to lean closer to hear, "that I wasn't supposed to come back. That whatever cosmic balance exists, I've disrupted it. Death doesn't like to be cheated."
"That's ridiculous," Hermione says firmly, though her eyes betray concern. "You're here because you chose to be — because you still had work to do — because Voldemort failed."
"And now that work's done." Ariel turns to face her. "Voldemort's gone. The War's over. What am I supposed to do now? Everyone's moving forward, and I'm stuck in that moment, in the Forest."
"You can do anything you want, Ariel. You — you could have any career you want —"
"That's the problem," Ariel says, her voice catching. "Everyone keeps talking about what I can do next, but no one understands that I can't even feel what I want anymore. It's like someone hollowed me out in that forest and stuffed me full of — nothing."
Hermione's eyes glisten with unshed tears. She reaches for Ariel's hand, gripping it tightly. "Then we'll help you find it again. Whatever it takes."
"You make it sound so easy."
"I don't know how yet," Hermione admits. "But I'm rather good at research, if you recall."
For the first time in days, Ariel feels a genuine smile tug at her lips. "That's the understatement of the century."
The bell tolls in the distance, signaling the end of afternoon classes. Soon, the corridors below will flood with students, their voices rising like a tide of normalcy that Ariel can't quite rejoin.
"We should go," Hermione says, though she makes no move to leave. "Your father's probably turned the entire castle upside down looking for you by now."
"Let him look," Ariel mutters, but the fight has drained from her voice. She's too tired to maintain her anger. "Fine. Let's go before he starts Hexing innocent bystanders."
They make their way down the winding staircase, Hermione's steady presence beside her like an anchor in a storm. As they reach the corridor below, Ariel pauses.
"Don't tell Ron about... what I said. About feeling empty. He'll just worry, and there's nothing he can do."
Hermione nods solemnly. "I promise."
They're halfway down the corridor when Ariel spots a familiar figure browsing the bookshelves in an alcove. Nott stands with his back to them, fingers trailing over leather-bound spines, seemingly oblivious to their approach.
"I'll catch up with you," Ariel murmurs to Hermione, who follows her gaze and raises an eyebrow.
"Are you sure that's wise? With everything going on?"
"It's just Nott," Ariel says. "Besides, we're in the middle of a corridor. What could possibly happen?"
Hermione gives her a searching look. "Fine. But if you're not in the Common Room in twenty minutes, I'm sending Ron and a search party."
As Hermione's footsteps fade, Ariel approaches the alcove. Nott doesn't turn, though she's certain he's aware of her presence.
"Magical Creatures and Their Medicinal Properties," he says, pulling a volume from the shelf. "Interesting choice of reading material, Evans."
Ariel blinks. "How did you know I was researching that?"
Nott finally turns, a hint of amusement playing at his lips. "You left your notes on the library table yesterday. Quite detailed analyses of chimera blood properties and their interactions with wolfsbane."
Ariel crosses her arms. "Spying on me, Nott?"
"Observing," he corrects, sliding the book back into place. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Ariel leans against the opposite bookshelf, studying him. "And what have your observations told you?"
Nott meets her gaze directly, his dark eyes unreadable. "That you're researching advanced healing potions. That you've been avoiding the Great Hall during mealtimes. That you've been sleeping poorly, if the shadows under your eyes are any indication."
Ariel stiffens. "That's —"
"Not spying," he interrupts softly. "Just paying attention. The question is, why are you researching healing potions? Planning a career as a Healer?"
She considers lying, brushing him off with a casual dismissal, but something in his steady gaze makes her hesitate. "Something like that."
Nott takes a step closer, lowering his voice. "The potions you're researching aren't in the standard curriculum."
Ariel swallows once — twice. "I'm — I want the potions apprenticeship — with Snape."
Nott's expression doesn't change, but something flickers in his eyes — understanding, perhaps.
"Ambitious," he says. "Though I'm not surprised. You've always had a talent for it, when you weren't blowing up cauldrons to antagonize him."
"That was one time," Ariel protests. "And it wasn't intentional."
A ghost of a smile touches Nott's lips. "If you say so." He pauses, studying her face with that disconcerting intensity. "Though I wonder if pursuing an apprenticeship with your father is the wisest choice. Professional boundaries tend to blur when family is involved."
"Spoken like a true Slytherin," Ariel says, but there's no bite to her words. "Always calculating the angles."
"It's kept me alive this long." Nott glances down the corridor, his expression sobering. "Your father's been on the warpath lately. Even the Slytherins are giving him a wide berth. Something to do with you, I imagine?"
Ariel hesitates, unsure how much to reveal. "Just the usual overprotective nonsense."
"Is that what you call having Prefects stationed outside your dormitory?" Nott asks. "Or the complex Wards suddenly surrounding Gryffindor Tower?"
"How do you know about those?" Ariel demands, narrowing her eyes. She feels as though this is the only question she asks him. She should just tattoo it on her forehead whenever she talks to him, at this point.
He leans in slightly, his voice dropping even lower. "Because I've been trying to figure out who's been sending you those notes."
Ariel's blood runs cold. She takes a step back, hand instinctively moving toward her wand. "What do you —"
Nott holds up his hands, palms out in a placating gesture. "Nothing specific. Just that you've been receiving unwanted correspondence that's got your father ready to murder half the student body. Everyone's talking about it."
Fucking fantastic.
"And why would you care?" Ariel asks, unable to keep the suspicion from her voice.
His expression softens, something shifting in his dark eyes as he takes a deliberate step closer to Ariel. The space between them shrinks, and suddenly the corridor feels warmer than it should.
"Maybe I care because I find you fascinating," he says, his voice dropping to a velvet timbre that sends an unexpected shiver down her spine. "Brilliant, powerful, and utterly oblivious to the effect you have on people."
Ariel blinks, momentarily disarmed by the sudden change in his demeanor. "What effect would that be?"
Nott's gaze drops briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes.
"You unsettle people," he says, taking another slight step forward. "You walk through these halls like you're half in another world. Some find that terrifying."
"And you?" Ariel asks, finding herself strangely unable to move away.
"I find it — rather attractive."
Before Ariel can respond to — to that — the sound of footsteps echoes down the corridor—heavy, purposeful strides that she recognizes instantly. Nott steps back smoothly, the intimate moment dissolved as if it never existed.
"Your father approaches," he murmurs, reaching past her to select a book from the shelf. His arm brushes hers in a touch that seems too deliberate to be accidental. "Consider what I said about the apprenticeship. Some boundaries are better left intact."
Snape materializes from the shadows, his eyes narrowing at the proximity between them. Nott nods politely and walks away without another word.
"Gryffindor Tower — now." Snape says, voice razor-sharp.
Ariel feels the walls closing in again — her brief moment of normal teenage interaction shattered by her father's obsessive vigilance.
Some cages are invisible.
A/N: Would love to hear thoughts.
Also if one more fucking discord spam bot messages me I am going to lose it. Fucking STOPPP.