Part III: the waning flame
A slow extinguishing — not of fire, but of faith — of someone dear
Ariel pours herself into her schoolwork.
It's easy to do — she's always been good at it, despite her father's recent criticisms. She throws herself into the familiar routine of essays and practical exams, finding solace in the structure and expectations. It's easier to focus on the concrete problems of Transfiguration theory than to examine the hollow space inside her chest.
The security measures continue, though Snape has become marginally more subtle about it. The Prefects no longer follow her openly, but Ariel notices them lingering in corridors she passes, appearing with suspicious frequency wherever she happens to be. It's maddening, but she's too exhausted to fight it anymore.
No more notes arrive. The silence should be comforting, but instead, it feels ominous — like the stillness before a storm.
"It could mean they've given up," Ron suggests optimistically during breakfast one morning. "Maybe they realized Snape was onto them."
Hermione shoots him a skeptical look. "Or they're planning something worse."
"Thanks for that cheery assessment, Hermione," Ariel mutters, pushing her eggs around her plate.
Her gaze drifts to the Staff Table, where her father sits in conversation with Flitwick. As if sensing her attention, Snape glances up, his dark eyes meeting hers across the Great Hall.
Something passes between them — not quite understanding, not quite forgiveness, but an acknowledgment.
Ariel looks away first.
They haven't spoken privately since their — weird — conversation in the abandoned Divinations classroom. The silence between them has taken on a physical weight, pressing down on Ariel's shoulders with each passing day.
She can feel it, the invisible leash, woven from his worry and his fear, yanking at her every time she drifts beyond his line of sight. Snape's obsession with her safety isn't new — even before the world knew their secret, there had always been a kind of shadow trailing behind her — a vigilance that made her skin prickle, a sense that every move she made was measured, accounted for.
It isn't just vigilance, Ariel thinks. It's something knottier, more consuming. This isn't about the notes, not really — if iteverwas. There's something feverish in the way he stalks the corridors lately — eyes always scanning, hands always ready to grasp her shoulder and steer her out of invisible lines of fire.
She remembers the way his hands cradled her body, like she was a precious stone he could not let shatter.
"Are you planning to go to Hogsmeade this weekend?" Hermione asks, deliberately changing the subject.
Ariel snorts. "I doubt I'll be allowed beyond the castle gates. Dad's probably convinced the note-sender is lurking behind every tree in the village."
"You should ask him," Hermione suggests. "It might... help. To talk about something normal."
Normal. The word tastes strange on Ariel's tongue when she considers it. What is normal for the Girl Who Lived, for someone who has died and returned?
Nevertheless, after dinner that evening, Ariel finds herself outside the door to her father's private quarters. She raises her hand to knock, hesitates, then forces herself to rap her knuckles against the dark wood before she can change her mind.
The door swings open, but it's not her father who greets her.
Pansy stands in the doorway, her Slytherin tie loosened and a smug smile playing on her lips. Behind her, Snape sits at his desk, a stack of parchments between them.
"Well, if it isn't Daddy's little girl," Pansy drawls, her eyes gleaming with malice. "Come to cry about another nightmare?"
Ariel freezes, her hand still raised. What the soddingfuckis Pansy doing in her father's private quarters?
"Miss Parkinson," Snape says, his voice carrying a warning edge. "That will be all for tonight. We'll continue our discussion about your independent study project tomorrow."
Pansy's smile doesn't falter as she gathers her books. "Of course, Professor. Thank you for your —personalattention."
She brushes past Ariel, deliberately bumping her shoulder.
"It must be nice," she whispers, "having a father who'll give you anything you want."
Blood rushes to Ariel's face as she steps into the room, slamming the door behind her. "What was that about?"
Snape arches an eyebrow. "Miss Parkinson is pursuing an advanced potions project. As her Head of House and the Potions Master, I am supervising her work."
"In your private quarters? At night?" Ariel can hear the accusation in her voice but can't stop it. "Since when do you tutor Slytherins one-on-one after hours?"
"Since I deemed it necessary," Snape replies coldly. "Which, I might add, is entirely my prerogative as a professor at this institution."
"Right," Ariel says, crossing her arms. "And I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that her father is on the Board of Governors."
Snape's eyes narrow dangerously. "Be very careful with what you're implying, girl."
"Why the fuck is she in here? These areourquarters."
A muscle in Snape's jaw twitches. "I don't recall you spending much time in these here lately. In fact, I believe this is your first visit since term began."
"That's not fair," Ariel says, her voice rising. "You've been avoiding me!"
"I've been teaching," Snape counters, rising from his chair with fluid grace. "And attempting to identify the individual threatening my daughter, a task madeconsiderablymore challenging by your initial reluctance to inform me of said threats."
"Don't change the subject. Why is Pansy Parkinson, of all people, getting private tutoring from you? She hates me — youknowshe does."
"The world does not revolve around you and your petty school rivalries," Snape says coldly. "Miss Parkinson's academic pursuits are none of your concern."
"It bloody well is my concern when she's gloating about spending time withmyfather!"
The words hang in the air between them, raw and revealing. Ariel feels heat rising to her cheeks, embarrassment mingling with frustration. She hadn't meant to sound so — childish.
"These are my quarters," Snape says, each word measured and precise. "And while you reside here during holidays, they remain my private residence during term."
"Since when?" Ariel demands, her voice rising. "I've been coming here since Third Year! I have abedroomhere!"
"A bedroom you have not utilized once this term."
"Pansy can fuck off and die for all I care. I don't want her down here."
"That is not possible. She will be spending long hours here for the foreseeable future and I will need her on call."
A realization settles over her, then — a horrible, cold understanding that turns her stomach to lead. For a moment, her stomach heaves, and she can feel the realization cresting over her, looking up at it as it waits to fall, waiting to consume her in its entirety.
"She's your apprentice, isn't she?" Ariel whispers. "You're giving Pansy Parkinson thefucking potions apprenticeship."
Something flickers across Snape's face — discomfort, perhaps, or guilt — before his expression hardens into that impenetrable mask he wears so well.
"Miss Parkinson has shown aptitude in advanced brewing techniques," he says carefully, arranging papers on his desk with unnecessary precision. "Her independent study may eventually develop into a formal apprenticeship, yes."
The betrayal cuts deeper than Ariel expected. Since her Third Year, she's spoken of becoming a Healer. For four years, she's spent countless hours in this very room, brewing healing potions under her father's critical eye, absorbing his knowledge like a sponge. The apprenticeship had been an unspoken promise between them — the natural progression of her education once she completed her NEWTs.
She thought the apprenticeship would be hers — shefucking earned it.
A nuclear bomb goes off inside her head.
It takes every atom of her being not to rip open the door, chase down Pansy, and scalp her. Ariel briefly allows herself to have this reverie, until she uses her Shields — which have been fucking useless to her — and descends into a sea of deadlycalm.
"I see," she says, her voice steely. "And were you planning to tell me, or was I supposed to find out when she announced it at breakfast in order to humiliate me in front of the entire school?"
Snape rises from his chair, glowering. "I had intended to discuss the matter with you once the arrangements were finalized. Miss Parkinson's father has certain expectations regarding her future career prospects."
"So it is about her family connections," Ariel says with a bitter laugh. "At least be honest about that much."
"It is about making calculated decisions in a political landscape that remains precarious," Snape counters, his voice taking on that lecturing tone that makes her want to scream. "The Parkinson family's support could be instrumental in stabilizing —"
"Oh, spare me the political bullshit maneuvering," Ariel interrupts, her hands clenching into fists. "Just admit you're choosing her over me because it's fuckingconvenient."
Snape's eyes flash dangerously. "I am choosing to secure my position at this school so that I can continue to protect you — somethingyouseem determined to make as difficult as possible."
"I don't need protection! I need this apprenticeship!" The words burst from her with such force that several glass vials on the nearby shelf rattle. "I've been working toward this for years. YouknowI need it for Healer training!"
"There are other paths to becoming a Healer," Snape says, his voice maddeningly calm. "St Mungo's would accept you without an apprenticeship, given your — notoriety."
The implication stings like a slap. "So I should use my fame instead of my skills? Is that what you're suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that you consider alternatives rather than fixating on a single path that may no longer be available to you."
Ariel stares at him, a chasm opening.
"You've already decided, haven't you? This isn't a discussion — it's a notification."
Something shifts in Snape's expression, a flicker of uncertainty that vanishes as quickly as it appears. "The decision is not final. However, I would be remiss as your father if I didn't prepare you for —"
"For what? Disappointment? Betrayal?" Ariel's voice rises, magic crackling in the air around her like static electricity. "I think I've had plenty of practice with both, thanks to you."
Snape's jaw tightens. "That is neither fair nor accurate."
"Isn't it?" Ariel challenges, stepping closer. "I thought after the war, after everything, things wouldchange.That maybe you'd beproudto be my father, but clearly I misunderstood something along the way."
Ariel wants to scream at him — wants to rip every mask from his face and force him to say it, to look at her and tell her she's done well, that all those nights poring over textbooks in his shadow meant something, but he just stands there, silent, unreadable, and suddenly Ariel can't breathe.
Maybe he's never been proud of her at all.
Maybe he can't be, not with her mother's ghost haunting every word between them. Maybe she's nothing more than an obligation — another broken promise he's bound himself to, a living reminder of all he lost and can never reclaim. Hehadfailed — Ariel had died — even just briefly. Did he ever really want her? Or had she always been Mum's unfinished business, a burden passed from one grave to another?
She bites the inside of her cheek until blood floods her mouth. The taste grounds her. Snape rants about politics and self-preservation while she wonders if there is any part of him that sees her as anything but a necessary task — a duty performed for love long dead.
But she loves him. Fiercely — despite this suffocating silence, despite every slight and professional rebuff. He is brilliant — she is proud to be his —she knows she is. If only she were more — moredisciplined— less fire, like her mother — more ruthless, less needy. If only she could dazzle him.
"The war may be over but the dangers are not." Snape answers. "You of all people should understand that."
"And I thought you'd be the last person who would stab me in the back the second I turned around."
Snape's face goes carefully blank, a sure sign Ariel has struck a nerve. He moves with deliberate slowness to his desk, placing his palms flat on the surface as if needing the support.
Ariel turns away. "I came here to ask if I could go to Hogsmeade this weekend — with my friends — like anormalstudent."
"Miss Evans —"
"But I suppose that's notavailable to meeither, is it?"
She leaves without waiting for his answer.
Ariel climbs the North Tower stairs two at a time, breath burning in her throat, every step winding tighter the coil of fury inside her chest.
Her vision tunnels as she shoves open the battered door to the abandoned Divinations classroom and lets it slam shut behind her with a thunderclap. Her fists clench around nothing, magic sparking in her skin like an electrical storm looking for ground. She wants to scream but her throat is too choked for sound.
So she lashes out instead.
Her wand is in her hand before she realizes it. With a vicious flick, she sends the closest crystal ball spinning off its velvet cushion. It shatters against the wall, glass shards glittering like malignant snow. The sound barely satisfies — it's too soft, too delicate, not enough
The next blast is fiercer — her magic coils around a stack of tarot cards, sending them whipping through the air like startled birds. They scatter, spinning to the floor in a clatter of bent edges and torn corners. Velvet cushions burst apart under the force of her magic, stuffing drifting in slow-motion arcs.
She barely feels the tears burning down her face. She wants to hurt something, make it shatter and feel it shatter with her. The old tea cups on their precarious saucers explode one by one, raining porcelain fragments over the threadbare carpets.
All these years — six of them spent piecing together what family meant with Snape — bitter silences, cool rebuffs, a bone-deep longing she had to wrestle into shape before he'd so much as look at her with something like fondness. She remembers shadowy evenings brewing together in his quarters, those rare moments of real peace, the way his hands would guide hers as she learned to slice shrivelfig or stir just so — careful, always careful — until he'd let himself relax enough to correct her technique in a voice that was almost gentle.
But every drop of closeness had been wrung from him like blood from a stone. In First Year, she'd been invisible — a problem to ignore. Second Year, an irritation to be managed. By Third Year, she'd forced herself into his notice, showing up at his office door after hours, refusing to leave until he heard her out, brewing potions for him when he came back from meetings shaking and silent, learning to read every flicker of expression until even his silences became legible. She'd made him tolerate her presence, then she'd made him like her, in spite of himself.
Her anger fizzles to a brittle ache as she sinks to the floor amidst the wreckage, knees drawn tight to her chest. She presses her fists to her eyes, willing the world to go silent for just one minute — just onefuckingbreath where she isn't fighting for every scrap of approval or privacy or self-worth.
She isn't alone.
A slight movement, barely more than a breath stirring the motes of dust in the shadows, and Ariel's head jerks up. She spins, wand raised, eyes wild — she's ready for a fight,itchingfor one — but there's only darkness at first.
Then Nott emerges from where the wall curves inward beside an ancient armoire draped with moth-eaten shawls.
He's perfectly still, hands at his sides, gaze fixed on her — not startled, not apologetic — watching. He's seen everything — the destruction, the fury, the collapse. His face is illuminated by the ruined moonlight spilling through a crack in the glass and there's no judgment there, just that unnerving Nottian calm.
Ariel scrambles to her feet, heat crawling up her neck. "How long have you been standing there?"
"Long enough," he says quietly.
He steps forward into the spill of light, his dark hair and pale skin momentarily spectral amid the storm she's made of the room. The silence between them hums loud as panic, but Nott doesn't flinch from it. His eyes flick over the carnage — splintered glass, shredded velvet — and rest instead on Ariel, red-eyed and trembling and raw.
"Say whatever you're going to say," she snaps, drawing herself up. "Go on — get it over with."
Nott regards her for a long moment, the faintest crease appearing between his brows. He kneels and picks up a shattered teacup, setting its biggest piece upright as though the ritual matters. "I've nothing clever to say."
She scoffs, scrubbing her sleeve across her face. "Everyone's got something to say when the Girl Who Lived throws a tantrum."
Still kneeling, Nott arranges two more bits of porcelain on the threadbare rug, then lifts his gaze to meet hers.
"I don't," he says softly, voice low and steady. "Not if you've earned it."
Ariel's breath hitches and she feels the sting of tears behind her eyes, more dangerous now than any spell.
She backs away a step, suddenly ashamed of the mess — not just the ruins littering the floor, but the nakedness of her pain. "You're just going to stand there? Not going to run off to tell everyone I've lost my mind? Not even athere, there?"
Nott stands slowly, brushing dust from his knees. He moves with that same silent precision she's come to recognize — no wasted motions or false comfort. "Would it matter if I did?"
Ariel tries to summon her anger again but finds it depleted, emptied out onto the broken rugs between them.
She shakes her head, a jerky movement. "Itwouldmatter, but I suppose even if it didn't, I'd still —"
Her words tangle and unravel to silence. Nott doesn't move closer. He stands at the ruined edge of moonlight, holding her gaze with something like gentleness.
"You don't have to perform for me, Evans." His voice is so quiet she almost misses it. "You don't have to be anything at all."
It lands sharp as grief — so plain it aches. For a moment there's just the hush of dust settling, the sound of Ariel's ragged breath in her ears. He bends to set the last piece of broken porcelain on the windowsill, hands steady and deliberate. Then he straightens, lingering a heartbeat longer in the half-light.
"I'll keep this secret," he says, and his words are a promise — one that needs no oath.
Ariel stands in the shambles of her anger, breath stuttering, words gathering behind her teeth. Then, with a shaky exhale, she nods — once, almost imperceptible.
Nott turns to leave but pauses at the threshold, glancing back. "If you want to be alone, I'll go, but if you need someone — I'll stay."
Ariel looks down at the broken cups and cards.
Without thinking, she whispers: "Stay."
Her father begins to send notes of his own.
The first note arrives in Charms class, carried by a school owl that swoops in through the window and drops a folded square of parchment directly onto Ariel's desk. It nearly gives her a fucking heart attack, because she thinks it's another one ofthosenotes until she reads it and immediately wants to punch something.
Flitwick barely pauses his lecture on Advanced Atmospheric Charms as she unfolds it.
My office. After dinner. We need to discuss the apprenticeship matter further.
Ariel folds the note into precise quarters, tucks it into her bag, and returns her attention to Flitwick's demonstration of weather manipulation. She has no intention of going.
The second note arrives the following morning, landing beside her toast at breakfast.
You missed our appointment. My office. Tonight. 8 o'clock sharp.
Ariel crumples this one without finishing her food, ignoring Hermione's questioning glance.
By the third day, the notes take on a sharper edge.
Your continued absence is both immature and counterproductive. I expect to see you this evening.
"Are you ever going to actually talk to him?" Ron asks through a mouthful of shepherd's pie, eyeing the latest note with trepidation.
"When he has something worth hearing," Ariel replies, incinerating the parchment with a wordlessIncendiothat makes several nearby First Years gasp.
By the fourth note, Snape has abandoned any pretense of patience:
I have tolerated this blatant disregard long enough. If you do not appear in my office by 8 PM tonight, you will not like what happens next.
Ariel finds this one particularly rich, coming from a man who had spent years cultivating the art of disregarding others. She tears it into tiny pieces, watching with grim satisfaction as they float like confetti into her pumpkin juice.
"You can't keep ignoring him forever," Hermione says quietly, her eyes filled with concern. "He's your father."
"He seems perfectly content with Parkinson as his apprentice," Ariel replies sweetly. "I'm sure she'll be an adequate replacement daughter as well."
Hermione sighs, exchanging a worried glance with Ron. "That's not fair, Ariel. You know how complicated things are for him right now. The Board of Governors —"
"— can go fuck themselves," Ariel finishes, stabbing viciously at her abandoned lunch. "Along with anyone who thinks I care about their political games. That apprenticeship wasmine."
She very quickly finds out that she does not, in fact,likewhat happens next.
Ariel is halfway to the Great Hall for dinner one evening when a shadow detaches itself from behind a suit of armor, stepping directly into her path. Her father's tall figure blocks the corridor completely, his black robes billowing despite the absence of a breeze. Several passing students scatter like startled birds, their eyes wide as they hurry past.
"I believe," Snape says, his voice dangerously soft, "that we have an overdueconversationto attend to."
Ariel attempts to sidestep him. "Thankssomuch, but I'm busy."
His hand shoots out, long fingers closing around her upper arm, his nails digging into her bicep. "Your dinner can wait."
"Let go of me," Ariel hisses, conscious of the curious stares from passing students. "People arewatching."
"Then I suggest you stop making asceneand accompany me willingly." His eyes glitter like two black beetles down at her. "Unless you prefer I escort you to my office like a misbehaving First Year?"
Heat flushes Ariel's cheeks. "You wouldn't dare."
"Try me."
They stand locked in silent combat, neither willing to yield.
Ariel yanks her arm free, her magic flaring so violently that a nearby torch sputters and dies.
"Fine," she spits. "Let's have this conversation righthere, then. In the corridor, where everyone can see the great Professor Snape manhandling his daughter."
Snape's nostrils flare. "My office —now."
"Why? So you can explain how givingmyapprenticeship to Pansy bloody Parkinson is somehow for my own good?" Ariel's voice rises, cutting through the hushed whispers of gathering onlookers. "Or maybe you'd like to tell me how disappointing I am? How I'm not living up to your impossibly high standards?"
"You are behaving like a petulant child," Snape hisses, his voice dangerously low.
"And you're behaving like a coward," Ariel fires back. "Hiding behind politics and the Board of Governors when we both know this is about something else entirely!"
A dangerous stillness falls over Snape's features. The corridor has gone silent, students frozen in place, watching the confrontation equal parts horror and fascination. When he speaks again, his voice is barely audible, forcing everyone to strain to hear.
"Twenty points from Gryffindor for disrespect toward a professor."
"Take a hundred," Ariel challenges, her voice trembling with emotion. "It won't change anything."
Snape's face goes completely blank, an emptiness so profound it silences the whispers of onlookers. His eyes darken to bottomless pits as he takes a single step back.
"Then we have nothing further to discuss, then." he says, his voice hollow. "You are dismissed, Miss Evans."
The formality cuts deeper than any insult could have. Without another word, he turns, robes billowing behind him as he strides away, leaving Ariel standing alone in the corridor with dozens of curious eyes fixed upon her.
The silence that follows feels like a physical weight pressing against her chest. Students begin to whisper, their voices rising in volume as Snape disappears around a corner. Ariel remains frozen, the finality of his dismissal washing over her in cold waves.
"Ariel?" Hermione's voice breaks through the fog, her hand gentle on Ariel's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
She hadn't even noticed her friends approaching, too caught in the aftermath of her father's retreat. Ron hovers awkwardly behind Hermione, his expression caught between concern and discomfort.
"Fine," Ariel says tonelessly. "Never better."
The shadows lengthen across the stone floors as evening descends upon the castle.
Ariel finds herself in a forgotten alcove near the eastern wing, tucked behind a faded tapestry depicting the Goblin Rebellion of 1612. It's one of her secret places, a narrow space barely large enough for a person to sit with their knees drawn to their chest. The small window above casts blue-tinged moonlight across her face as she stares unseeing at the grounds below.
She's been here for hours, missing dinner entirely. Her stomach growls in protest, but the thought of facing the Great Hall — facing the whispers and stares after her public confrontation with her father — makes her physically ill. She's ditched her watch dogs and sequestered herself up here until further notice.
The tapestry rustles. Ariel tenses, her wand already in her hand before conscious thought catches up to instinct.
She holds her breath, waiting.
"I know you're in there, Evans."
Nott's voice, quiet but unmistakable. The tapestry shifts again, and suddenly he's there, a tall frame folding gracefully as he ducks into the alcove beside her. In the narrow space, his proximity is overwhelming — knees nearly touching hers, the scent of parchment and cedar wood invading her senses.
"How did you find me?" Ariel asks, not bothering to hide her irritation.
Nott settles against the stone wall, careful to maintain what little distance the alcove allows. "You're not as unpredictable as you think. You hide in places with windows. Your father prefers the dungeons, so I figured you'd be where he wasn't."
Ariel rolls her eyes, but stiffens. "I don't want to talk about him."
"So I gathered from your rather public dispute." Nott's voice holds no judgment, just quiet observation. "Half the school's talking about it."
"Brilliant," Ariel mutters, letting her head fall back against the cold stone. "Just what I needed."
Moonlight catches the angles of Nott's face, softening the sharp lines of his cheekbones. In the silvery glow, his eyes appear almost colorless, like smoke captured in glass.
"He's giving the apprenticeship to Parkinson," Nott says after a moment. It's not a question. "That's what the other night was about, wasn't it?"
She hadn't told him. They'd sat in silence and talked about everything and nothing — Nott had told her about the time when he was eight and got stuck in a broom closet for five hours because Malfoy had dared him to steal a bottle of Elvish wine from his father's stores, about how when he'd been ten he'd read that rare colored Puffskeins fetch a fortune in Knockturn Alley, so he'd spent a week charming pigment into their fur, only to have one explode purple fur all over their drawing room. Ariel had only listened, happy to hear about someone else's happy childhood and not her essentially non-existent one.
"Apparently." Ariel plucks at a loose thread on her sleeve, unwilling to meet his eyes. "How did you know?"
"Pansy's been insufferable, dropping hints for days." his voice takes on a mocking lilt."'Professor Snape says my brewing technique is the most advanced he's seen in years.' 'Professor Snape believes I have a natural affinity for the subtleties of potion-making.'"
Despite herself, Ariel snorts. "Sounds exactly like her."
"She's been strutting around like she's already been named Head Girl and Potions Mistress combined." Nott shifts slightly, his knee accidentally brushing against hers in the confined space. Neither acknowledges the contact. "For what it's worth, everyone knows it should be you."
She glances up sharply. "Everyone?"
"Anyone who's paid attention for the past seven years." Nott's gaze is steady, unflinching. "Your Draught of Living Death in Sixth Year was flawless. Even Slughorn couldn't stop talking about it."
"That doesn't seem to matter to my father," Ariel says, picking at her nails. "He made that perfectly clear."
"Politics," he says with quiet disdain, a word that seems to carry the weight of personal experience. "Parkinson's father is throwing money at anyone who'll take it, trying to scrub the family's reputation clean after backing the wrong side."
Ariel laughs bitterly. "Andmyfather's taking it. So much for principles."
"Maybe," Nott concedes. "or maybe he's playing a longer game than you realize."
They fall into silence, the weight of unspoken thoughts filling the narrow space between them. The moonlight shifts, casting Nott's face half in shadow. His fingers trace an absent pattern on the stone ledge, and when he finally speaks, his voice has changed — become softer, more intimate.
"I was there, you know," he says suddenly. "In the Great Hall — when you killed him."
Ariel's breath catches. She turns to look at him fully, searching his face for any sign of mockery or deception. "You were?"
He nods, his eyes distant with memory. "Everyone talks about it like they were there, but most fled before the final confrontation. I stayed. I watched from behind a fallen pillar. It was the most brilliant thing I've ever seen."
"Brilliant?" Ariel repeats, the word feeling foreign on her tongue. No one has ever described that moment as brilliant before — terrifying, yes — miraculous, perhaps — but never brilliant.
No one — except her father. He'd murmured in her ear as Voldemort's body had hit the ground —my girl — my brilliant girl — come here — I've got you —
"The way you stood there," Nott continues, his eyes meeting hers with unexpected intensity. "Completely calm while the Dark Lord circled you like a predator. And then when you spoke — when youbothspoke — when you revealed Snape — the look on his face —" his eyes gleam in the darkness. "That was the moment I knew you'd win."
"I thought I was going to die," Ariel admits softly. "Again."
Nott's eyebrow raises slightly at theagain,but he doesn't press. Instead, he shifts closer, their shoulders now touching in the narrow alcove.
"But you didn't," he says. "And in that moment, when the Dark Lord realized who you really were — I saw something I never thought I'd see. He wasafraidof you."
The word settles between them like a physical presence. Ariel remembers that moment with perfect clarity — standing in the Great Hall, surrounded by the wounded and the dead, facing Voldemort for the final time. She remembers the way his red eyes had widened when Snape stepped forward, claiming her as his own —
The realization hits Ariel with unexpected force. She had never considered it that way — had been too caught in her own terror to recognize the fear she'd instilled in Voldemort himself. She'd known he was frightened when the Elder Wand had stopped obeying, but there had been that lingering doubt — doubt she couldn't afford to have, if she was going to save the people she loved.
"Nobody's ever described it like that before," she murmurs. "But then again, no one really talks about it."
Nott's gaze drops briefly to her lips before returning to her eyes. "Nobody was watching him the way I was. Everyone else was looking at you — the hero, the savior — butIwas watching him crumble as he realized what Snape had done — hiding his own daughter in plain sight for sixteen years — taking him down from the inside out —bothof you."
"It was for my mother — Voldemort killed her.Wekilledhim."Ariel looks away, then. "I — I spoke to her — in the Forest. Before Voldemort killed me — or tried to."
His eyes widen slightly. "How?"
"Resurrection Stone — Dumbledore gave it to me, for when I was at the end. I left it somewhere in the Forest. It's — dangerous. I felt it even then. If I'd taken it with me, I would've never left."
The space between them seems to shrink further, the air growing heavy with something Ariel can't quite name. Nott's proximity feels dangerous suddenly, but not in the way she's accustomed to danger. This is something different — a precipice of another kind.
"Why are you bringing all this up, anyway?" she asks, her voice barely audible. "Why are you telling me this?"
He studies her face for a long moment before answering. "Because you should know how absolutely mesmerizing you are."
Nott's eyes, dark and intent, hold hers with an intensity that makes her breath catch. Then, with a deliberate slowness that gives her every chance to pull away, he leans forward.
His lips meet hers, gentle at first, a question rather than a demand. For a heartbeat, Ariel freezes, surprised by the sudden shift, by the warmth of his mouth against hers.
Then something inside her — something that's been dormant since the Forest — flares to life.
She responds with unexpected hunger, her hand rising to grip the front of his robes, pulling him closer in the confined space. Nott makes a sound low in his throat, his fingers threading through her hair, cradling the back of her head as the kiss deepens.
It's nothing like she imagined kissing would be — not that she's had much time to imagine it between fighting Dark Lords and dying. There's a desperation to it, a seeking that goes beyond physical touch. His lips move against hers with practiced confidence, coaxing rather than demanding.
When they finally break apart, both breathing heavily, Nott rests his forehead against hers.
A low rumble sounds from Nott's throat. She lets her hand smooth its way along his collarbone.
And for the first time in months, Ariel laughs.
Ariel is feeling rather light when she runs into Snape again.
It's later the next day, and she's returning from the library after an impromptu study session with Hermione. The corridors are nearly empty, curfew approaching, when she rounds a corner and nearly collides with him. He's standing outside the entrance to the Astronomy Tower, his tall figure silhouetted against the torchlight.
For a moment, they simply stare at each other, the silence stretching between them like a physical barrier. Ariel notices the shadows beneath his eyes, the slight downward turn of his mouth that speaks of exhaustion rather than his usual scowl.
"It's nearly curfew," he says finally, his voice lacking its customary edge.
"I'm aware," Ariel replies stiffly, clutching her books tighter against her chest. "I was just heading back to the Tower."
Snape nods once, a jerky movement that betrays his discomfort. He's about to step aside when he suddenly stills, his gaze sharpening as it fixes on her neck.
"Whatisthat?"he asks, his voice suddenly cold in a way that shoots a sharp spasm down Ariel's spine..
Ariel's hand flies to her throat, fingers brushing against the small bruise Nott's lips had left last night. She'd worn a scarf all day to cover it — sweltering in it — but had taken it off after she'd left Hermione.
She knows she could Charm it to hide it, but she — doesn't want to.
What that says about her, she's not certain.
Oh, motherfuckingshit —
Heat rushes to Ariel's face as she tugs at her collar, trying to cover the mark. "Nothing," she says too quickly. "Just — bumped into something."
Snape's eyes narrow into obsidian slits. In three fluid strides, he's standing before her, his towering presence making the corridor seem suddenly smaller. Without asking permission, he reaches out, his long fingers pushing her collar aside with clinical precision.
"That," he says, his voice dangerously soft, "is not frombumping into something."
Ariel jerks away from his touch. "It's none of your business."
"Everything concerning you is my business." His face has gone completely still, a stillness Ariel recognizes from years of watching him interact with people he finds particularly contemptible. "Who was it?"
"No one," Ariel insists, taking a step back. "And even if it was someone, I'm of age. I can do what I want."
"Not while you reside in this castle undermyprotection." Snape's voice drops to a whisper that somehow feels louder than a shout. "Was it Weasley?"
"What! No — fucking hell — he's like mybrother— and he's with Hermione, youknow that —"
"Thenwho?"Snape demands, his voice sharpening with each word. "Tell me now."
"Or what? You'll take more points from Gryffindor?" Ariel challenges, a reckless anger building inside her. "You've made it perfectly clear that my choices don't matter to you, so why start caring now?"
A muscle twitches in Snape's jaw. "This is not about House Points or apprenticeships. This is about your safety."
"My safety?" Ariel repeats incredulously. "It's a hickey, not a Dark Mark!"
The comparison strikes him square in the face. Snape's expression drains of what little color it has, hardening into something Ariel can't quite read. It almost looks like hurt.
"Do not," he says with deadly softness."evermake that comparison again."
Ariel knows she's crossed a line, but pride keeps her chin lifted, her gaze defiant despite the twinge of regret in her chest.
"I won't tell you," Ariel says, her voice steely with resolve. "It's private."
Snape's face contorts with a flash of fury so potent that the torches along the corridor flicker and dim. His fingers twitch towards her again.
"Private?" he echoes, the word dripping with venom. "While someone is sending you threatening notes? While your safety is compromised? You foolish girl —"
"I'm not a girl anymore!" Ariel snaps, her magic crackling around her like static electricity. "I'm eighteen years old. I've died and come back. I've killed a Dark Lord. I think I've earned the right to snog whoever I want without my father's approval!"
Snape's hand shoots out, seizing her wrist with bruising force. "You will tell me who it was, or I will —"
"What?" Ariel challenges, wrenching her arm free. "Legilimize me? Go ahead and try. We both know I can keep you out now."
"If you arecourting someone—"
"Courting?" Ariel repeats incredulously. "What century are you living in? And we're not even — it was just — just a moment."
A strange expression flickers across Snape's face, something almost like relief before it hardens again into cold fury.
"A moment," he repeats, the words sharp as glass. "And did thismomentoccur before or after someone threatened to violate you in the most intimate ways possible?"
Ariel flinches. "That's not —"
"Not what? Not relevant?" Snape steps closer, looming over her. "Someone has been watching you, stalking you, sending you explicit threats, and you choosenowto engage in dalliances?"
"It's not like that," Ariel insists, hating the defensive note in her voice. "You don't understand."
"Then enlighten me," Snape says, his voice deadly quiet. "Explain to me how, after receiving notes threatening violence against you, you decided the appropriate response was to allow someone to mark you like property."
"That's rich, coming from the bloke who had me when he wasnineteen."
"That isentirelydifferent —"
"Is it?" Ariel challenges, finding unexpected power in his discomfort. "You barely older than I am now when you and Mum —"
"Do not speak of things you don't understand," Snape snarls.
This is it — he wanted to use Mum against her because of hergrades?She'll drive the kniferight fucking back.
"Why not?" Ariel steps closer, refusing to be intimidated. "Didyouask mygrandfather'spermission before youfucked her?"
Snape's composure shatters.
He grabs Ariel by the shoulders, fingers digging into his upper arms as he pushes her against the cold stone wall. Snape's face hovers inches from hers, hollowed by a bleak and terrible resolve. His eyes — so often fierce and scorching — are hollowed into twin voids, black and distant as the far side of night. There is nothing human in them now, only the glint of some ancient winter — cold, fixed, unyielding.
"You are being deliberately, dangerously foolish," Snape hisses, his grip tightening. "Someone is watching you, wanting you, threatening you — and you respond by displaying yourself like this?" His eyes flick to the mark on her neck with undisguised disgust. "Do you have any idea what this could trigger? What jealousy might drive them to do?"
"Let go of me," Ariel demands, finding her voice at last. She tries to wrench free, but his grip is unyielding.
"Whoever sent those notes is watching your every move, waiting for an opportunity. You are giving them exactly what they want — showing them your vulnerability!"
"ProfessorSnape."
A sharp voice cuts through the tension like a blade. Both Ariel and Snape freeze, turning to find McGonagall standing at the end of the corridor, her face tight with disapproval.
"Release Miss Evans at once."
Snape's hands fall away from Ariel's shoulders as if burned. He takes a step back, his face shifting into an impenetrable mask.
"This is a private matter, Minerva," he says coldly.
"Not when it involves manhandling a student in the corridors after curfew," McGonagall replies, approaching them with measured steps. Her eyes flick between Ariel's flushed face and Snape's rigid posture. "Miss Evans, return to your dormitory immediately."
"Minerva —" Snape begins, his voice dangerous.
"Now, Miss Evans," McGonagall interrupts, her gaze never leaving Snape.
Ariel hesitates, feet rooted to the spot as she watches McGonagall's stern expression. Everything inside her screams to flee, to escape this suffocating tension, but something stops her.
"It's not his fault," she says quietly. "I — said something — cruel."
McGonagall's expression doesn't soften, but something in her eyes shifts. "Return to your dormitory, Miss Evans. I will speak with your father alone."
Ariel glances at Snape once more, catching the momentary flicker of vulnerability in his eyes before his mask slips back into place. She hesitates, then turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing in the silent corridor.
Behind her, she hears McGonagall's voice, low and urgent: "Severus, this cannot continue. Yourbehavioris becoming —"
Ariel doesn't sleep that night. She paces the dormitory floor until dawn, replaying the confrontation with her father over and over in her mind. The look in his eyes — that desperate, feverish intensity — had frightened her more than she cares to admit. By morning, exhaustion has settled into her bones like lead, but she drags herself to breakfast anyway, avoiding the Staff Table entirely.
History of Magic passes in a blur, Binns' monotonous voice lulling half the class to sleep while Ariel stares unseeing at her parchment. When class finally concludes, she's the first one out the door, eager to escape to the library before her next class.
She slides into a secluded corner table, pulling out her Transfiguration textbook. As she reaches into her rucksack for a quill, her fingers brush against something unfamiliar — a folded piece of parchment.
Frowning, she pulls it out, assuming it's another note from her father.
But the handwriting isn't his.
The handwriting is spidery, with those strange elongated loops — the same as before.
Ariel's fingers freeze, a chill creeping up her spine. With a quick glance around to ensure no one is watching, she unfolds the note.
I saw him touch you. Your father's hands on your shoulders. I could do so much more with my hands. I'd make you scream.
Her stomach lurches. She crumples the note in her fist, shoving it deep into her pocket, but as she reaches back into her bag for her quill, her fingers brush against another folded parchment.
When you squirm under your father's grip, do you wonder how it would feel if it were someone else?
And another.
I watched you last night, his hands on your skin, his mouth trembling with words he'll never say out loud. Does it make you ache?
And another.
Your father's hands leave marks, but mine would leave you shaking for days.
With growing horror, Ariel pulls them out one by one, a cascade of folded notes spilling onto the table. She counts them with trembling fingers — twenty-three in total, each bearing the same spidery handwriting.
Your skin would bruise so beautifully under my teeth. Not like the amateur who marked your neck. I'd leave my signature where only we would know.
I wonder if your father knows what you dream about. I hear you through the walls at night. The sounds you make in your sleep.
Does your blood taste as sweet as it looks? When you're mine, I'll drink from you like fine wine.
I'll make you forget him. Forget everyone. There will only be me inside you, filling every empty space.
A shadow falls across the table.
"Evans?"
She doesn't look up, the effort to not vomit taking all of her concentration. These aren't just threats anymore — they're a promise, a claim of ownership that makes her skin crawl. Whoever wrote them knows her movements, knows about her fight with her father, knows about the mark on her neck.
Knows about Nott.
"Evans — hey —"
The voice comes again, but she can't seem to tear her eyes away from the pile of notes, each one more violating than the last. Her lungs feel constricted, each breath a struggle as the walls of the library seem to close in around her.
A hand reaches toward the pile, and Ariel jerks back violently, knocking over her chair with a crash that echoes through the library's hushed atmosphere. Several students look up, startled by the sudden noise.
"Don't touch me," she gasps, her voice thin and reedy.
Through her panic, she registers the rustle of robes — Nott's hand freezes, palm open above the scattered notes, as though he's just realized what they are — or perhaps what Ariel looks like, wild-eyed and trembling, her face so stricken he could be witnessing a murder.
He draws his hand back, movements slow and careful, knuckles grazing the edge of the table before curling into a fist at his side. For one long moment, their eyes meet — hers black and horrified, his fathomless and steady.
Nott doesn't ask what happened.
He sweeps the pile of notes into his satchel without a word, then gently but insistently takes Ariel's trembling hand and pulls her up from the toppled chair. She lets him, too numb to protest as he guides her through the gawking students and out into the corridor, keeping himself between her and the curious eyes.
His fingers are sure and warm where they hold hers.
A/N: Snape is being a fucking pain in the ass right now, but I promise he gets better.
Reviews and comments are loved and appreciated. See you all next Saturday!
