A couple of key points, as we begin:
1. In this AU, Snape defected from the Death Eater's after getting Lily pregnant. The result is Female Harry, who is named Ariel Evans.
2. Lily and Snape managed to stay hidden from Voldemort prior to this story. Here, Ariel is ten years old, meaning she witnessed Lily's death at nine. The circumstances surrounding Lily's death will be revealed as this progresses.
3. Snape, as you can imagine, is Not Doing Great, but he's trying.
4. Ariel, like Harry, has her infamous scar, is Horcrux-ridden, but she's got a dad riddled with PTSD, bitter resentment, and a fuckton of unresolved trauma. Oh, and some of her own.
5. James and Remus are heavily involved. In what capacity - you'll find out (yes, James is alive, and no, there is no character bashing).
This is a horror with healing story. This is a… wild horror with healing story. I didn't intend for it to be this massive, it was supposed to be a one-shot, but I guess I've discovered my ~thing~ so here we are.
If you are not a fan of Snape, you should probably not read this story. If you did not like him in canon, you will not like him here. The point of this story, however, besides terrorizing these characters, is for him to learn a lesson and grow and explore him navigating fatherwood without someone to keep him on the straight and narrow.
I feel like this goes without saying, but if you don't like horror... don't read. Okay, enough about why you shouldn't like this - I hope you enjoy! 3
It begins with a particularly bad bout of boredom.
Granted, it is the middle of the night when Ariel is plagued by it. She stares at her ceiling after tossing and turning for hours, unable to quiet her mind. She is restless — she is unable to turn off her brain, like there's a never-ending supply of energy being poured into it — she is simply not tired.
She decides to do something about it. Even at ten-years-old, Ariel knows when she's fighting a losing battle.
Climbing out of her bed, she settles on the floor, sitting crossed legged. Her room is as it always is, cluttered but clean, everything in its home for the evening. Now, she prowls the floor, stepping over the squeaky floorboards and over to her desk.
Ariel could read, she supposes, but reading requires light, and light will alert her father. He's usually still awake at this hour. Truth be told, he's usually awake at all hours. She very rarely catches him in bed — usually only when she needs to use the loo in the middle of the night — but he always awakens instantly. Ariel reckons he's got some sort of Ward on her door that alerts him if she leaves.
Her father had loads of those all over their old home — Wards. They twinkled and jingled at all times, though Ariel hadn't really heard them unless she had listened. Dad checked them every single morning and every single night. Sometimes he'd even stop throughout the day to do a sweep, usually after he heard something Ariel never did. One time, the wind had swung the back door shut and her father had blown it off its hinges. Mum had laughed so hard she'd needed two Calming Draughts, but her father had been very cross about it, ducking his head and muttering that they should have been thanking him for his fast reflexes.
This flat is very different from their old one. For starters, it's by the beach, which Ariel loves. It's always so warm and bright and they spend most of their time down by the water, Ariel trying to catch crabs and seagulls (much harder, but she'd get there). She'd never been to the beach before, let alone seen an ocean in real life, before they'd come here. Their old flat had been in the middle of a Muggle neighborhood, where it had been cold and rainy most of the time. Out in the sun all day makes their new home not feel so small — and it is — very small.
The Wards here are different, too. Tighter — thicker. Maybe it's the house, maybe it's Ariel, but she can see them shimmering in the sunlight in the mornings and feel their lazy ripples at sunset. It's at dusk, when the sun paints the brackish water orange and purple that Ariel can feel the Wards tangibly thrumming against her skin. When the full moon peers out above the water and makes the foam glow are when the Wards are the most sensitive, though. Ariel figures that's really why her father never sleeps. Maybe they're keeping him up.
The thought of the moon makes her think — of someone.
Ariel decides to write, then — a letter to Remus. It's been a few days since her latest update to him (she'd caught three crabs and a rather irate sandpiper). She has a lot more to tell him this time. She begins to write, when something happens, then.
A flash that lights up her bedroom — illuminates her dark eyes and moves the shadows around her like spectral dancers.
It's lightning. A storm begins to riot outside.
A second sudden flash of light brightens the room, casting long lines that flit across Ariel's face. The storm introduces a new soundtrack to her midnight restlessness — thunder, crashing and rumbling
Her restlessness is forgotten. Ariel scuttles back to her bed, throwing the covers over her head. She hates lightning. Not the thunder — the thunder didn't matter. The lightning, however, was a different story altogether. That night — the lightning hadn't come from the sky. It had come from —
A green light.
That's all she can remember. A green light, and a scream. A terrible, agonizing scream that seemed to echo endlessly, reverberating in the deepest recesses of her heart. Even now, it sends shivers coursing down her spine.
Ariel doesn't want to think about — that. She wants to sleep, but she can't, and now she can't write, so she does the next best thing. She waits for the next clap of thunder and then volleys out of her bed and makes a mad dash to her bedroom door.
The hallway is dark — darker than usual. She peeks out, the hallway stretching before her like a silent abyss. The distant murmur of waves from the beach outside now drowned by the thunderous symphony of the storm. Ariel takes a deep breath, scraping around for her bravery (her mother said she'd have bucketloads of it, because she'd be a Gryffindor, and her father had said bravery was a fool's way of saying they'd done something, but Ariel reckons if she were a Gryffindor, she'd have the right blend of both of them).
Her father's room is at the end of this abyss.
She plasters herself against the wall, inching along the hallway.
This is not — very Gryffindor-esque. But it's something.
Luckily, her father's bedroom is right next to hers, so it only takes a handful of seconds before she's creaking his door open and lowering herself to the floor. Somehow, someway, her father seems to actually be asleep, for once, a shape in the form of a lump in the bed turned away from the door. Ariel creeps over silently, thankful for the rug to muffle her footsteps.
She climbs into his bed just in time to hear a long exhale.
Dad sits up immediately and turns on the light. He glares down at her over his long, hooked nose, arms crossed tightly across his chest. Ariel throws the blankets over her head, pressing her face into the mattress.
Thunder cracks overheard. Under the blanket, she can't see the flashes that are undoubtedly happening. Dad sighs again and shifts so that he's leaning over her.
"You know the rules." his voice is dark and gravely — he must've been about to fall asleep. Ariel feels a pang of guilt.
"I don't know what you're talking about." Ariel mumbles into the mattress.
He pulls at the covers. Ariel pulls back, curling the blanket in her fists.
She lets out one long, very fake, snore.
"Your acting abilities leave much to be desired." he says dryly, but some of the annoyance has left, like a slow leak.
Ariel peeks out at him hesitantly, finding his eyebrows raised and his mouth pressed into an unamused line. She sits upright on the bed and rubs her eyes tiredly with both hands as Dad leans against the headboard.
"Hello," she says. "Fancy seeing you here."
Her father is unamused, lips pressed in a tight line, eyes darker than the shadows peeking out from behind the dim light.
"We're getting too old for these midnight visits." Dad says sternly yet still somehow manages to soften the harsh lines of his face. His hand smoothes itself across the top of her head.
Ariel leans into his touch, feeling the warmth of his hand on her scalp. "Tell me a story."
His gaze lifts to the ceiling. "Once upon a time, I had a child that did as she was told."
"That's a very boring story."
"I'm a very boring person."
"Professor Dumbledore says that being spontaneous and unpredictable is important in life."
"Is that what this is?" Dad quirks an eyebrow down at her. "Spontaneity?"
Ariel juts her chin up at him. "I'd think so."
"Professor Dumbledore is practically senile."
"I asked him about that. He said it was the nicest compliment anyone's ever given him."
Dad snorts, rolling his eyes. "I wonder if he would feel the same if his sleep was being interrupted."
"He'd tell me a brilliant story," Ariel says haughtily, grinning when Dad raises an unconvinced eyebrow down at her. "He's got the best ones."
"Then I'll ship you off to live with him in the morning."
Ariel sticks her tongue out at him. Dad's hand moves to grab her chin, undoubtedly about to rebuke her for the cheek, but she dives back under the covers with a laugh.
"Away with you," he shoos at her, pulling his covers back. "you conniving brat."
Ariel pouts, pressing her cheek against the mattress. "I can't sleep."
"You can. You've done it before."
She pops her head back out. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
Another flash lights up the room. Ariel flinches — retreats.
There's no movement from her father, for a minute or so. Then he lifts the covers to find Ariel feeling rather stupid — it had been so instinctual that she hadn't pondered how silly she looked — his hand pausing mid-air before it returns to gently sweep a few unruly tresses from her face.
"It cannot hurt you," Dad says, much softer, much more understanding.
She pokes her head out from underneath the blanket and squints at him in the dim lighting.
"I know that," she mumbles.
He gives a great sigh, the biggest yet, but there's no frustration behind it, now. "I know you do."
Dad has never asked what it is about storms, but then again, Ariel figures he doesn't have to. They sit in silence, listening to the storm rage outside, the wind howling and the rain pounding against the windows.
The lightning flashes again, illuminating the room in an eerie glow. For a brief moment, the shadows on the walls seem to take on a life of their own, twisting and morphing into grotesque shapes that make Ariel's heart race. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to block out the images that haunt her mind.
"It's just a storm," Dad murmurs, his voice barely audible above the cacophony outside. "It will pass, as all things do."
Ariel nods, but the words do little to soothe her frayed nerves. The storm may pass, but the memories — the nightmares — linger long after the skies have cleared.
She doesn't need to tell him that, though. She supposes he knows for himself.
How long she stays tucked under the covers, leaning against her father's side, Ariel doesn't know. What she does know is that at some point, the thunder ceases and the wind quiets. It's then that Ariel finally begins to feel herself slipping, safe and warm and heavy.
Her father says something — Ariel doesn't know what because it's fuzzy and muffled, like a radio with a bad signal. She doesn't bother to try and answer, her breathing slow and deep.
There's a beat of silence, and then something is tugging at her ankle. It takes Ariel about a half a second to realize Dad has reached for his wand, and now she's sliding forward and up, dangling upside down in front of her father, who is smirking smugly.
"No fair!" Ariel cries as she dips, just as Dad stands and slings her over his shoulder.
It had always been his rule, even before. Their bed had always been off limits to her. But now it's just his bed, and he's even more vehement now than ever that Ariel does not share it.
He carries her back to her room. Ariel slides down and hooks her arms around him, forcing her head into the hollow of his neck, determined to make it fit like it once had, but it hasn't felt the same since Mum died.
He drops her onto her own mattress. She bounces once — twice — three times and scowls up at him playfully.
"Don't think you've won this round," Ariel warns.
Her father's familiar smirk widens just a fraction. "So certain of yourself, are you?"
"Absolutely."
"Then I'm shaking in my boots."
"You're not wearing boots," Ariel scowls.
Her father chuckles, a deep, throaty sound that echoes around the room. "As observant as always."
Ariel sticks her tongue out at him again, crossing her arms over her chest defiantly. There's a second's pause, a softening of his gaze, and suddenly he's reaching out and ruffling her hair. She swipes at his hand, but grabs it in hers before he can move away.
"How much?" she demands.
He pauses, but his lips twitch, like they always do. "How much what?"
"Do you love me?"
Ariel mouths his answer in time with him. "Enough to endure and adore you for it."
She tugs at his hand, pulling him down onto the bed beside her. He grunts in protest but allows it, letting her curl up against his side, her auburn hair fanning across his chest.
"And enough to put you to bed every night, even when you're being a defiant little imp." he mutters.
She giggles and snuggles closer, the tendrils of sleep already beginning to wrap around her like a comforting blanket. A soft sigh escapes her lips as he begins to gently stroke her hair.
"Still," Ariel mumbles against his chest, her words already slurring. "Your stories need some work. They're not very accurate."
"Is that so?" He replies dryly. "And who better to critique them than the relentless brat who refuses to go to bed?"
And then the relentless brat does.
She goes to sleep.
She's awake.
It takes her a minute or two to realize this. She doesn't remember falling asleep, doesn't remember the pull of being sucked into darkness, doesn't remember the drowsy blanket falling thick over her to take her away. Ariel doesn't remember any dreams either, but she rarely does, these days.
It takes her a half a second to remember what caused this — the no-longer-sleeping. She scrubs at her eyes and squints as they adjust to the muted dark. The storm outside has quieted, light rain pattering against the windows, but she can hear the roar of the ocean more, now.
Ariel is awake because she heard something.
Yes, that was it. But what —
She heard her name. Yes, she remembers, now. Had it been her father? Ariel forces herself to lift her head and strains, waiting to hear footfalls in the hallway or the door creaking open, but there is silence, besides the drizzle against her windowpane and roar of the waves. It starts to lull her back into sleep, blissfully, until —
"Ariel."
There it is — quick and sharp and hushed.
Ariel's eyes fly open, wide and alert. It couldn't have been. She must still be dreaming, or on the edge of dreaming, in that place no one could name but they all visited. Her father had said once that without dreams, they'd all go mad.
She strains, listening. Her heartbeat is suddenly louder than the rain and the roar —
"Ariel —"
Her name, coming from her closet.
A breath finishes after her name, this time. A long, dragging inhale that makes Ariel's blood turn to ice water. She freezes in her bed, half propped up on her elbows, facing away from the closet, since she'd fallen asleep on her stomach, her gaze locked on the wall.
She wonders, for a horrifying second, if it's him. She's not allowed to say his name, hasn't been allowed to even mention his existence since Mum died. She'd tried once — after a nightmare, a real nightmare, not whatever this is — and her father had —
Ariel is in the middle of trying to convince herself that something must be wrong with her brain if she's hearing voices when another rattling breath slithers through the darkness. It's definitely coming from the closet, there's no mistaking it now. Ariel's heart hammers painfully against her ribs as she slowly, carefully, rolls over to face the source of the sound.
The closet door is closed. Ariel stares at it, stares so long her eyes start to water because she's not going to bloody blink, not going to miss a thing if she's not dreaming — if there's something calling her name from her closet. The silence is punctuated by Ariel's shaky pants and the ocean, and she suddenly wishes she were out there and not in here, safe among the swell and salt and sea.
Nothing happens.
There is no voice, no breath, not even her own. When her lungs start to scream for air, she takes in a ragged inhale, waiting to be called a third time, but it does not come.
Ariel swings her legs over the side of the bed — tenses. Waits.
Still nothing.
She stares into the darkness. The darkness stares back at her. She's still waiting, waiting for that pair of red, snake eyes to blink into existence, but they don't.
For the second time that night, Ariel lowers herself to the floor and prowls, this time, towards her closet. Her bare feet pad softly against the cool wooden floor as she inches closer to the closet, each step deliberate and cautious. The darkness seems to pulse around her, as if it were a living, breathing entity, waiting to swallow her whole.
She breathes in and out, and remembers what her mother used to tell her, what Ariel has told herself for years, now — an echo from a time when monsters could be vanquished with a simple Lumos and an embrace.
You are brighter.
Ariel's hand hovers over the closet door handle, trembling slightly. The metal feels cold against her skin, like a warning.
She jerks the door open — jumps back —
Nothing.
There's nothing there.
The darkness stares back, silent and unmoving. She squints, trying to make out shapes in the shadows — the lumpy form of her winter coat, the neat stack of shoeboxes in the corner. Everything is as it should be, undisturbed and lifeless. Ariel releases a shaky breath, shoulders sagging with relief.
Ariel's about to close the door and sulk in her own silliness when she spots something that shouldn't be there.
It's — a picture.
She bends down, turns it over and freezes.
Ariel's heart stops.
The photo trembles in her hands, the edges of the glossy paper slicing into her fingers. It's a picture she knows well, one that used to sit on her father's bedside table. In it, her mother is laughing, her emerald eyes sparkling with laughter as she holds a much younger Ariel in her arms.
Where Ariel's face should be, there is only a charred, gaping hole, the edges singed and curling like burnt parchment.
Ariel traces the blackened edges, her mind reeling.
This photo — it couldn't be here.
Nothing from their old flat was here. The last time Ariel had seen a picture of Mum had been at her funeral. By the time Remus and James had packed up their old flat, Dad had come back and taken her away. All of their things — all of Mum's things — well, Ariel supposes they're back in England. She hopes. She'd like to see them again, someday.
Ariel looks down at Mum. Tries to smile — can't.
Soon, she can't see her at all, through her tears.
The next morning, Ariel, suffice to say, is exhausted.
Her father notices instantly, his eyes narrowing at the disheveled hair, her curly, red hair like a crown of thorns, her wrinkled nightgown, the dark circles until her eyes. Ariel practically falls into her chair and it's a miracle she doesn't faceplant into the eggs her father has made her.
She'd fallen asleep again, somehow, after crying for what felt like hours. When Ariel had woken up again, the picture had vanished. Ariel supposes she dreamt the whole disturbing ordeal, but something just felt — wrong about it. Something uneven and unnatural.
She sits there, feeling lifeless and dull, until a crooked finger lifts up her chin to give her a look over. She meets Dad bleary-eyed and tries to wipe the grit from her eyes. Her mouth tastes horrid and she instantly regrets not brushing her teeth first, but she'd smelt food and followed it like a moth to a flame.
Dad's hand goes to her forehead, then. "Are you ill?"
Ariel shakes her head — it's going to roll off her shoulders, she can feel it. She leans into his palm and he smoothes her hair back, kneeling down in front of her.
"Were you truly having that much trouble sleeping?" Dad murmurs, eyebrows knitting together in worry. "You should have told me, my girl."
I did, Ariel wants to retort, but she's too sleepy, too busy thinking about her strange evening. She still doesn't know if it was a dream or not, because she'd woken up in her bed feeling heavy, like her limbs were made of lead.
Her father straightens up and disappears into his study. Ariel can hear him going through cabinets, probably scouring them for potions. She picks at her eggs listlessly, her mind still trapped in the confusing haze of last night's events. The burnt picture of her mother flashes before her eyes, making her stomach churn.
She pushes the plate away, her appetite vanishing.
Dad returns a moment later, a small vial of electric blue liquid clutched in his hand. He uncorks it and holds it out to her expectantly.
"Drink this," he instructs — waits.
Ariel eyes it before plugging her nose and attempts to down it in one gulp, trying not to blanche.
She makes a face. "Bleck."
"Articulate as always," Dad rolls his eyes.
The potion tastes awful, like rotten lemons and spoiled milk. Ariel gags, her face scrunching up in disgust as she swallows the last of it. She feels it slide down her throat, cold and slimy, before settling in her stomach. She feels the potion's effects almost immediately, a tingling warmth spreading through her veins, chasing away the lingering exhaustion. Her mind begins to clear, the fog of sleep dissipating like morning mist under the sun's rays. She blinks, her vision sharpening.
Ariel gives her father a weak smile as she hands the empty vial back to him. "Thanks, Dad."
He nods, his dark eyes still scrutinizing her face with concern. "Better?"
"Much." She sits up straighter in her chair, the potion's effects settling. The exhaustion is gone, replaced by a newfound clarity.
She glances back at her plate of eggs, appetite slowly returning and begins digging in.
Dad slides back into his seat across from her, the worry lines still etched into his face.
"Why can't potions ever taste good?" Ariel asks. She notes that he's not eating — again.
"If they did, people would be guzzling them like pumpkin juice."
Ariel snorts at that. "Speaking of pumpkin juice," she says between mouthfuls of eggs, "can we go into town today? I want to get more of those pastries from the bakery — the ones with the cinnamon swirls."
Dad hums, considering her request as he takes a sip of his coffee. "I suppose a trip into town wouldn't be the worst idea. You look like you could use some fresh air after the night you've had."
Ariel's eyes light up, a grin spreading across her face. Her excitement about the prospect of visiting town chases away the lingering unease from the night before. She wolfs down the rest of her breakfast, eager to leave. Town is the only place they go to, around here and even then, those visits are few and far between.
"Merlin knows where you got your sweet tooth from," Dad mutters, almost absentmindedly.
"Professor Dumbledore," Ariel responds automatically. "He used to sneak me sweets, when he'd visit."
"Of course he did. The man is a walking cavity."
Ariel giggles at her father's exasperated sigh, the sound echoing through the small kitchen. She can almost picture Professor Dumbledore's twinkling eyes and mischievous smile as he slips her another lemon drop behind her father's back. She misses him, too. Almost as much as she misses Remus — almost.
Dad gets up to refill his coffee — he lives on the stuff — when something catches Ariel's attention.
From the back of the kitchen, where her knobbly, rickety old chair is pressed up against the wall, Ariel lifts her gaze to look down the hallway, where their bedrooms are, just in time to see someone walking into her bedroom.
A head of auburn hair, like Ariel's. Wavy and dark, the color of apples in fall. A green sweater. Muggle jeans.
Ariel feels as though she has been dropped from the edge of a cliff. She is in freefall, staring staring staring —
"Mum?" she says — aloud — alarmed.
There's a crash. Ariel jumps about a foot, nearly falling out of her chair, to see that her father has dropped the mug.
He goes completely still. His face is —
If Ariel hadn't known better, she might've thought it wasn't her father at all.
It's his one rule. An unspoken one — and she's just broken it.
It's almost like time has frozen and Ariel is the only one moving, the only one still breathing. She can't even see shoulder-length hair sway around her father's shoulders. It's gotten greasier, lankier since Mum died. Ariel can't tell what it is, if he's just not showering or if it's all the potions fumes. Maybe it's a combination of both.
The truth is that her father hasn't looked well in some time. And now, he looks —
He rumbles. His magic jostles the plates and silverware, the Wards give off little sparks and yelps. It's almost like a mini earthquake. Of all the things Ariel is not allowed to speak of — You-Know-Who, Halloween, James and Remus — Mum is at the top of that list. Dad tolerates the others — not really, but he just ignores her, pretends he hasn't heard her or busies himself with something more important — but Mum —
Ariel has not said the word Mum in nearly six months. Three since Dad came back for her. Their house by the sea has none of her remnants, no echoes or pieces that remind Ariel that she had been a part of their family, once. That she had existed. She knows Dad is trying, but sometimes, it feels like she lost them both, that night. Like her father never really came back.
"Mum?" Ariel calls again, quieter, this time. She pushes back her chair and races down the hallway — nearly trips on the stupid runner — and flies into her bedroom.
It's empty.
Ariel stumbles over her own feet, looking around, scanning with a precision that is almost robotic, because she doesn't know if she's imagining it — all of it — but there's a lingering smell in the air. It's her smell, her mum's, like she'd just been here and left, but as the sunlight flickers across the floor, bathing Ariel in it, she realizes that she must be — mistaken.
Must be. Just like the voice in her closet, because there is no one in her closet, and there is no one in her room. She walks over to her bed, pulls back the quilt cover and tucks her nose into the well-worn threads. There's nothing — no more smell. It's just gone. Her fingers trace the faded red stitching of her quilt, hand-me-down from a life she could barely remember.
She pivots and jerks open her closet door — it's rather stupid, why would her dead mother be in her closet — and when there's nothing there, Ariel slams it shut, falling back on her haunches to the floor. Ariel sits there, confusion tugging at her heartstrings.
When Ariel looks up, her father is standing in the doorway. She hadn't even heard him. Had he followed instantly? Or had he stood there, a statue, gone someplace that Ariel didn't know how to follow him to — didn't think she wanted to follow him to?
Her father just looks at her. Cold and unfeeling, the way he'd looked when he'd come back for Ariel, and Remus had gotten loud —
Ariel's mouth opens and closes. Once — twice. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dad, I thought —"
The look on his face thaws, like snow in spring. His eyes rove around the room before settling back on her. He looks tired, worn thin like ancient parchment that had been read one too many times. The sunlight bouncing off the floor seems to seep up into him, illuminating the lines on his forehead and under his eyes.
He crosses the room in a flash, and he's holding her against him so tightly that Ariel gasps for breath. His hand, large and rough, cradles the back of her head, pressing her face against his chest. His robe smells like dust and old books, but beneath it all, there's a faint trace of something else.
It's her smell. Her mum's smell. Is that what — is that —
"Don't," he rasps. "Don't —"
He releases her, backing away as though burned, a wild look in his eyes. Ariel shrinks back, confused and hurt, a frown on her lips. She blinks furiously, hot tears pricking at the corners of her eyes, but she forces them back. His lips part, but the words don't come out – he looks as if he's struggling to speak them, contorting his features into a grimace that is almost more painful for Ariel to witness than the words themselves.
"I saw her," Ariel whispers. "I saw her, I —"
Her father's expression flickers again, like a candle nearing the end of its wick.
"No." he says. It's sharp and final. It sounds like shrapnel lodged in the air. "You didn't."
Ariel feels small, smaller than she has in a long time, like a child caught with her hand in the biscuit tin.
She didn't. No — of course she didn't. Just like she hadn't heard a voice in the closet. It's all so confusing, maybe even overwhelming, and so Ariel feels small and stupid, her bottom lip wobbling dangerously as she tucks her chin against her shoulder to look away from her father's disappointed glare.
It's that — the disappointment, as though Ariel has done something wrong — that makes her insides feel like shrapnel.
She feels different, all of a sudden. Maybe it's the adrenaline wearing off, but Ariel's head begins to swim, the room blurring around the edges as a wave of nausea crashes over her. She sways on her feet, reaching out blindly to steady herself against the wall. The coolness of the plaster against her palm does little to ground her as the world tilts.
Strong, sturdy hands are lifting her up as her knees buckle. There's a hand on her forehead, but Ariel barely notices, because the walls are bending like a funhouse mirror.
"I knew it," Dad murmurs, sounding very cross. "You're burning up."
What? She was? But she — she felt fine seconds ago —
Dad lifts Ariel up, her arms looping around his neck and he lifts her into bed. She moans as something shifts in her chest — not the nausea — like she's been hollowed from the inside out.
From over his shoulder, through heavy eyes, Ariel notices something.
The closet door is open.