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Chapter Text

GIRLS LIKE CHARITY Burbage did not talk to boys like Severus Snape.

With her perfectly styled hair, high-brand tailored school robes, and a smile that could charm even the most stoic of teachers, Charity Burbage was the perfect picture of everything that the upper levels of Hogwarts’s social hierarchy were supposed to be.

People like Charity Burbage were the kind that moved through the castle with an air of effortless confidence, their laughter echoing through the corridors as they passed. They were the ones who sat at the best tables in the Great Hall, always surrounded by a crowd of admirers who hung on their every word. They were the ones who were always invited to parties, their weekends always filled with social hangouts, always the center of gossip and attention.

It was everything Severus detested: the shallow, the frivolous, the meaningless.

There was an unspoken rule that people like Charity Burbage existed in a different universe from people like Severus Snape.

And for the last six years at Hogwarts, Severus Snape had mastered the art of avoidance. From the moment he first stepped foot in the castle, he understood that survival in this elitist hellscape meant keeping as much distance as possible from people like Charity Burbage. It wasn’t just a matter of preference; it was a necessity if he wanted any semblance of peace in a world where people like Charity Burbage, with their flawless exteriors and tendency to mock those who didn’t fit their mold, had all the power.

And yet, for some unfathomable reason, Charity Burbage was trying to talk to him.

The boats floated gently on the glassy black lake, casting rippling reflections of the towering Hogwarts castle which loomed above like a beacon of wonder. First years clustered together in twos, their eyes wide as they took in the sight of the castle from where their boats moved in the water. Some whispered excitedly as they spotted the giant squid from where they sat in their boats, while others stared up at the castle in awe, their breath catching at the sight of the turrets and towers piercing the night sky.

The upper years, by contrast, chatted among themselves, catching up after a summer apart. Laughter and snippets of conversation floated over the water, blending with the soft lapping of the lake against the boat hulls. The air was alive with the energy of returning students, all eager to settle into the familiar rhythm of Hogwarts life for another year.

Severus had always managed to avoid the bustle of the returning students, usually finding a way to sit alone in one of the boats, or even opting to ride along with Hagrid as the groundskeeper guided the first years to the castle. Solitude was his preference—a small bubble of quiet before the chaos of the school year began. But tonight, that bubble had been unceremoniously burst by Charity Burbage.

She had somehow slipped into his boat right as it had been going offshore, making it impossible for him to tell her to get off even if he’d wanted to. She sat with an infuriating ease, as if this were the most natural thing in the world, her smile directed at him with an intensity that made his skin crawl.

“So—”

“Don’t talk to me,” Severus cut in, his voice low and sharp.

He could feel the eyes of other students on them, glances thrown their way from the other boats. Fourth years and upwards were sneaking looks, their curiosity piqued by the bizarre social sight of Charity Burbage seated next to him—Severus Snape, the boy who, to all rights, wasn’t even scraping the bottom tier of Hogwarts’ much beloved social hierarchy.

The sensation of being watched made Severus’s discomfort even worse. He could almost hear the whispers that would follow this speculation about what on earth Charity Burbage was doing with him of all people. He stared straight ahead even as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled, his anxiety making it difficult for him not to bite at his nails to gnaw away the irritation of this unnerving new situation.

Charity didn’t seem fazed by his bluntness. Instead, she tilted her head, as if considering something of great importance.

“Gee, Severus—” she said with a small laugh, pausing to ask, “can I call you Severus?”

Her tone was as casual as if she were discussing the weather, her voice carrying that unmistakable air of someone who had never been denied anything a day in her life.

“No,” Severus replied, his voice cutting through the brief silence with a cold, clipped finality. He had no intention of letting this conversation go any further than it already had.

But Charity seemed either oblivious to his discomfort or entirely uninterested in it. Instead, she pressed on, her voice a steady, syrupy stream that flowed with a practiced ease, as if she had done this a thousand times before.

“Sev, then,” Charity continued offhandedly, as though his protest hadn’t even registered.

The nickname made him bristle, the sound of it like nails on a chalkboard.

“Don’t call me that,” Severus snapped, his voice laced with a venom that made a few heads turn in the nearby boats. The muscles in his jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he glared at her. Every fiber of his being was coiled with tension, ready to spring if she dared to continue.

But Charity wasn’t deterred. If anything, his reaction seemed to amuse her further, her eyes lighting up with a gleam of mischievous curiosity. She leaned in slightly, as though they were sharing some private joke, her smile widening.

“Sevy?” she suggested with a playful lilt, her lips curling into a smile that was both sweet and infuriatingly smug. “Russ?” She tilted her head, as if savoring the sound of each potential nickname. “Vere?” The last one was delivered with a light laugh, her eyes sparkling with a teasing glint. “I’m quite good at giving nicknames, you know.”

Severus stared at her, a look of averse disbelief etched across his sharp features. His hands curled into fists in his lap, nails digging into his palms as he tried to read through the Hufflepuff’s angle in front of him.

Why was she doing this? What could she possibly want from him? He couldn’t shake the feeling that this was some new form of mockery, a game she and her friends had concocted over the summer. Was this the latest Hufflepuff pastime—humiliate Severus Snape before the school year even properly began? He glanced around, half-expecting to see her friends watching from another boat, stifling their laughter as they waited for the punchline.

“What do you want?” Severus gritted out, his teeth pressing down on each other as the words left his lips.

“How was your summer?” Charity asked instead, her signature smile never faltering, “Mine was fantastic, thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t,” Severus responded, his irritation growing with each passing second.

“What classes are you looking forward to this year?” Charity asked, her tone overly casual, as though they were just two friends catching up after the summer.

Severus didn’t even look at her. “None.”

She seemed to ignore the dismissal. “Potions should be interesting, don’t you think? You take that, don’t you? I heard you were top of the class. I dropped it the minute I had the chance. God forbid I have to suffer through those classes at NEWT level.”

So she was an idiot, Severus translated, his expression flat.

“Stop talking to me,” he said, the words unyielding.

His voice had the quality of a blade being drawn—sharp, heavy, meant to cut any further conversation short. He didn’t even look at her, his eyes fixed on the distant shore as if focusing on the castle’s silhouette would somehow transport him away from this unbearable situation.

Charity blinked at his dry tone, but continued, “Have you heard anything about the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor?”

"No," Severus's response was immediate.

“But you’ll have them, won’t you?” She asked, unfazed by Severus’s cold demeanor. She tilted her head slightly, answering her own question after a passing beat. “Of course you will. Your NEWTs concentration must be Arcane Studies, right? All that advanced Transfiguration, Ancient Runes, and Potions stuff. You’re really smart, so it makes sense.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, but he didn’t give her the satisfaction of looking at her. Instead, he kept his gaze firmly fixed on the horizon, where the castle loomed like a dark sentinel against the sky. His patience was wearing dangerously thin, and her persistence only served to deepen the resentment simmering just beneath the surface.

“No,” he deadpanned again, his voice cold.

He tightened his grip on the edge of the boat, his knuckles turning white as he focused on the rhythmic lapping of the water against the hull. The steady sound was a stark contrast to the growing unease twisting in his gut, but it did little to calm him.

Charity, seemingly oblivious to the tension radiating from him, continued to press on.

“Really?” Charity asked, blinking in surprise at his response, “I just thought—well, with how good you are at Potions, you must be aiming for something pretty impressive.”

Severus’s jaw clenched.

With a slow, deliberate movement, he finally turned to face her. His expression was flat, devoid of any emotion save for the thinly veiled contempt in his eyes.

“Stop talking to me,” he repeated, his tone carrying a sharpness to it, each word clipped and precise.

Charity only seemed to smile wider, her cherry-painted lips stretching as if this were all part of some entertaining game. The light breeze carried her flowery perfume toward him, a cloying sweetness that was almost suffocating in its intensity. Severus could feel the warmth radiating from her as she leaned in closer, her proximity making his skin crawl with discomfort. He fought the urge to shift away, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing him flinch.

Her smile turned conspiratorial as she leaned in even further, her voice dropping to a whisper as though sharing a juicy secret.

"You don’t have many friends, do you?"

The question sliced through his irritation, transforming it into something sharper, more cutting. The wind blew a chill over the lake, ruffling Severus’s hair as he felt the low murmur of students growing louder around them. The soft splash of water against the boat mixed with the whispers of his peers, their curiosity piqued by this odd pairing. His teeth clenched, the tension in his body coiling tighter with each passing second.

A voice from a nearby boat suddenly shattered the fragile tension.

"Oi, Burbage! You need help? Looks like you’re in need of some rescuing!” a Gryffindor boy shouted, his tone laced with mockery.

Laughter followed, a few students snickering at the spectacle, their amusement only fanning the flames of Severus’s rising anger.

Severus’s face flushed with a deep crimson, the heat of it spreading from his neck to his cheeks as the taunting laughter echoed in his ears. He could feel every pair of eyes on him, dissecting him, scrawling on his skin. It was as if he were once again the scrawny, awkward boy from his first year, an easy target for the ridicule of his classmates.

Charity turned and flashed the boy a dazzling smile, one that quickly transformed into a sharp glare.

“Piss off, McLaggen,” she snapped, her voice losing its sugary tone for a brief moment before she turned back to Severus, all sweetness again.

Severus’s patience was wearing dangerously thin, his temper fraying at the edges. Every word she spoke, every movement she made, grated on his nerves like sandpaper against raw skin.

“What do you want, Burbage?" he sighed, his voice cutting through her pretense like a blade through silk. His dark eyes bored into hers, his usual mask of indifference barely holding together under the weight of his frustration.

"I already told you, or at least, what I was trying to tell you before I was so rudely interrupted—" Charity replied, her smile unfaltering as she met his gaze with infuriating calm. Her words were paced slowly, as if she were talking to someone particularly dense. "I want to be your friend."

The statement hung in the air between them, absurd and nonsensical in its very nature. Severus stared at her, his aversion clearly plastered all over his face as a silence hung between them.

“Bullshit,” he finally said, his voice low and flat. “You want to be friends with me?”

“Of course, Severus,” Charity said, smile still plastered on her face.

Severus turned his head slowly to look at her, his dark eyes narrowing with suspicion. His expression was a mix of disbelief and disdain, the kind of look one might give a particularly audacious liar. He studied her for a moment, taking in the overly sweet smile, the perfect hair, the effortless confidence that clung to her like a second skin.

“Really?” he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. “Charity Burbage wants to be friends with Severus Snape?”

Charity tilted her head slightly, her smile unwavering despite the sharp edge in his tone. “Mhm.”

The other boats had grown quieter, the whispering more concentrated, and Severus could feel the weight of the students’ stares on his back. Every second that passed with her in his boat only made his discomfort grow, feeding the flames of his anger. He could hear a few snickers from somewhere behind them—students amused by the bizarre spectacle of Charity Burbage trying to make small talk with him. He tried to block it out, focusing on the water lapping against the side of the boat.

In all the years Severus Snape had attended Hogwarts, he could count on one hand the number of times he had even exchanged a glance with Charity Burbage. Their lives operated on completely different frequencies, existing in parallel worlds that never intersected. He couldn't recall a single instance where they had crossed paths in any meaningful way, or a single reason why she would want to. She was the kind of person who inhabited the glittering upper echelon of the Hogwarts social scene—a place Severus had neither the interest nor the inclination to infiltrate. And somehow, completely out of nowhere, Charity Burbage, one of the most popular (and richest) muggleborns in Hogwarts, wanted to be friends with him?

The small boat they shared rocked gently as it cut through the dark waters of the Black Lake, the castle looming closer with every stroke of the enchanted oars. The night was cool, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint, metallic tang of the lake.

“Why?” Severus asked, his tone demanding, his patience frayed. “Give me one good reason why you’d want to be friends with me.”

Charity’s smile didn’t falter; if anything, it widened, a laugh bubbling out of her lips as though she were enjoying a game that only she knew the rules to.

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Charity asked, her voice tinged with playful incredulity. She leaned forward slightly, her hands resting on the wooden seat in front of her, as if she were about to share a secret. “You could obviously use some.”

And as if he needed a reminder, there it was— proof that she was just like the rest of them.

Severus’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he stared at her, every muscle in his body coiled with barely restrained anger. The enchanted lantern at the bow of the boat cast an eerie, flickering light across their faces, deepening the shadows under his eyes.

“This conversation is over,” he declared, each word bitten through glenched teeth.

Charity’s smile wavered for the first time, a brief flicker of uncertainty crossing her face. She seemed to realize, belatedly, that her words might have landed terribly. But rather than back down, she quickly masked it with a seemingly effortless laugh, waving her hand dismissively as if to brush off the tension.

“Okay, okay,” she said, her tone light, trying to regain control of the situation. “Maybe that came out wrong. But seriously, there are plenty of reasons we could be friends.”

Severus arched an eyebrow, his expression darkening further. “Stop talking to me.”

“Okay look,” she said, shrugging her shoulders in that infuriatingly casual way she had. “You’re a Slytherin. And while I was on the train it dawned on me that I’ve never branched out before! And I don’t think you know this, but my father was a politician, and he always said it’s good to have friends in different circles. We can be like, what’s that phrase? You know, united we stand, divided we fall.”

Severus’s expression darkened, the disgust evident on his face as his lips curled into a sneer. “I am going to throw you off this boat.”

Charity didn’t miss a beat. She met his sneer with a grin, as if the threat were nothing more than a joke. “Fine. You’re good at Defense Against the Dart Arts. Really good. I could use some help with my homework. We could have study sessions together— wouldn’t that be fun?”

“You got a Troll on your placement exam last year,” Severus shot back, his aversion colored with incredulity. “You’re not in NEWTs Defense, Burbage.”

Charity shrugged again, utterly unbothered by his sharp tone and the fact that she was caught in a lie. “Okay, okay. How about this—”

Severus cut her off.

“Cut the bullshit,” Severus said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. "Right now. Tell me what you really want, or I’ll toss you into the lake.”

This time, Charity’s eyes narrowed, her smile fading slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest. She tilted her head slightly, her smile reappearing as it played on her lips, as if considering whether or not he was serious.

“You wouldn’t,” she challenged, her voice cool, almost daring.

Without another word, Severus’s hand shot out, grabbing the strap of Charity’s bag and giving it a sharp tug. Charity’s eyes widened in alarm as she was yanked off balance, her feet slipping on the wet wooden slats of the boat’s floor. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she teetered dangerously close to the edge, her arms flailing as she tried to regain her footing. The dark water below seemed to surge toward her, the icy wind whipping her hair around her face.

She screamed in shock, the commotion instantly drawing the attention of the other students in the nearby boats. Gasps filled the night air, echoing across the Black Lake as they watched in horror.

But Severus didn’t care. The buzz of their voices was nothing more than background noise to him, a distant hum that barely registered. His focus was solely on Charity, his dark eyes locked onto hers with a chilling intensity.

“Alright, alright!” Charity gasped, raising one of her hands in surrender as she gripped onto his arm with her other, trying to keep her balance. “Fine, just—just calm down, alright?”

Severus didn’t loosen his grip on her bag. If anything, he tightened it, eyes unyielding as he watched her struggle to regain her balance. Charity’s bravado, so evident moments before, was visibly shaken. Her eyes darted nervously from the dark water to Severus’s face, her usual air of confidence replaced with a jitteriness as the ends of her hair brushed on the water.

“Alright Severus, let’s not do anything drastic now,” she tried to bargain, her tone shaky but laced with a forced sweetness. “You really don’t want to get my hair wet, do you? It’s a fresh press. And come on, this outfit? It’s not exactly lake-friendly.” She cast a fleeting glance down at her perfectly pressed robes, the kind that were probably chosen with careful consideration, tailored specifically for her, and she spoke as if that detail would sway him.

But Severus wasn’t swayed.

In fact, he leaned in closer, tipping her further over the edge. The boat rocked more violently, the sound of the water lapping against the sides growing louder. Charity’s breath hitched as she grabbed onto his arm, her fingers digging into his sleeve in a desperate attempt to steady herself.

“Start talking,” Severus ordered, his grip on the strap of her bag unyielding, his dark eyes watching her every move, “Now.”

The other students continued to watch, their murmurs growing louder, more frantic.

For a moment, Charity looked as though she might snap at him, her eyes flashing with a boiling rage. But instead, she took a deep breath, her gaze locking onto his with a newfound seriousness.

“You know Mulciber, right?” Charity said, her manicured fingers still digging into his arm.

“Mulciber?” Severus repeated, his tone guarded.

Of course, he knew Mulciber.

Everyone knew Bruce Mulciber.

He was one of the most popular boys from Slytherin—a nonchalant presence who seemed utterly unbothered by the world around him. Tall and broad-shouldered, Mulciber carried himself with the casual arrogance of someone born into wealth and status. His family was New Money, one of those pureblood lineages that wasn’t in the Sacred 28, and instead had grown into wealth in their more recent generations.

On the Quidditch pitch, Mulciber was a force to be reckoned with as a Beater, known for his brutal, bone-crunching hits. His skill was unmatched, and he played with a kind of ruthless precision that made him both hated and respected. Off the pitch, he was no less intimidating— with his buzzed, tightly coiled hair and his amber eyes, dark sepia skin and his cool and distant demeanor. Yet, despite—or perhaps because of—his reputation, people still gravitated toward him, eager to be in his good graces.

But what the hell did that have to do with this?

“What does that have to do with anything?” Severus asked, his suspicion mounting.

Charity hesitated, biting her lower lip as her sharp blue eyes briefly darted to the water below before snapping back to his.

“I want you to set me up with him.”

Severus blinked, caught off guard.

Of all the things she could have said, this was the last thing he had expected to come out of her mouth.

Charity Burbage, Hufflepuff sweetheart (term used loosely), wanted Mulciber?

His expression furrowed even further as he stared her down, weighing her motives, wondering what kind of game she was playing. But she held his gaze, unwavering, her request hanging in the air between them like a challenge. The other students’ voices faded into the background as Severus processed her words, the absurdity of the situation almost making him loosen his grip.

Almost.

“What?” Severus asked slowly, his voice laced with disbelief.

Charity flashed him a strained but confident smile, her eyes narrowing slightly. She patted his arm with a practiced nonchalance, as if she were addressing a minor inconvenience.

“Would you mind helping me up now?” she said, her tone slightly winded. “Hanging off the side of a boat isn’t exactly my idea of a fun time.”

For a moment, Severus just stared at her, the absurdity of the situation rendering him momentarily speechless. Then, almost mechanically, he pulled her up, releasing his grip on her bag as his mind reeled.

Charity cleared her throat with dramatic flair, manicured fingers smoothing her hair and adjusting her uniform with exaggerated precision. She gave Severus a sidelong glance, her voice dripping again with the same practiced blend of syrupy sweetness.

“I heard,” Charity said, her tone affectedly casual as she met Severus’s gaze again, “from a friend of a friend, that you’re dormmates with Mulciber.”

Severus’s eyes narrowed, brows twitching as he stared at her.

How the hell did she know that?

No one knew he and Mulciber were dormmates. They weren’t friends, never spoke outside their dorm, and barely even acknowledged each other’s existence in the dorms. It wasn’t exactly common knowledge, and Severus had made sure to keep it that way.

But somehow, she’d found out.

Charity continued talking, her words becoming a jumbled mess as she rambled on, trying to convince him to help her. Severus, however, barely registered what she was saying. He was too busy trying to wrap his head around the bizarre request, the sheer ridiculousness of it all.

Charity Burbage, of all people, wanted to be set up with Bruce Mulciber? And she wanted him to help her do it? It was almost laughable.

As she continued her desperate pitch, Severus drowned out her voice, his mind drifting as he tried to make sense of everything.

It was only when she finally stopped and asked, “So, what do you say?” that he snapped back to attention.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable as their boat gently bumped against the dock, signaling the end of their journey across the lake. The other students had already started disembarking, but Severus remained frozen in place, still trying to process the surreal turn of events.

Unbelievable, he thought.

Without hesitation, Severus stood up abruptly, his movements causing the boat to rock dangerously beneath him.

“What are you doing?” Charity asked, her voice tinged with curiosity, though she didn’t sound the least bit alarmed by his sudden decision.

Severus didn’t bother to answer her properly, his patience long since evaporated. He leaped out the boar, his boots splashing into the shallow water before sinking into the mud of the shore. He staggered for a moment, the wet earth clinging to his shoes, but he quickly regained his balance and pushed forward, away from the dock and the boat and, most importantly, away from Charity Burbage.

Behind him, the boat wobbled precariously from the sudden movement, and Charity instinctively grabbed the edge to steady herself. She called after him, her voice cutting through the growing noise as the other boats began to dock.

“Severus!”

But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back. His long strides carried him swiftly away from the shore, the hem of his robes dragging through the mud, but he didn’t care. All he wanted was to disappear into the comfort of his usual quiet, to lose himself in the crowd of students disembarking behind him, their excited chatter a dull roar in his ears.

But Charity was persistent. The moment she was on solid ground, she hurried after him, her steps quick as she called out, “Severus, wait!”

He didn’t slow down, didn’t even turn to look at her. “Leave me alone, Burbage.”

“That’s no way to talk to a friend,” Charity admonished behind him, trudging through the mud with sounds of despair, likely because she was getting mud on her shoes.

Severus didn’t even bother to grace that with a response, moving up the hill with a quicker pace.

“Hold on, Sev—” Charity called again, “come on, would you just wait a second!”

This time she reached out to grab his arm. Her hand caught the strap of his book bag instead, and with a sickening rip, the strap tore away, and the bag fell to the ground with a heavy thud.

A horrified silence descended over the nearby students, who had all seen the incident unfold. Severus and Charity stood on either side of the fallen bag, the whispers already beginning to circulate.

Severus’s heart sank as he stared at the bag lying at his feet. It wasn’t much to look at to begin with. The leather, once a rich dark brown, had faded to a dull, weathered hue, cracked and worn from years of rough handling. Patches of mismatched material covered the most battered areas, hastily sewn with uneven stitches that threatened to unravel at any moment. The straps, originally sturdy and reliable, now dangled precariously by a few stubborn threads, frayed and weakened from the constant strain. It had been barely holding on for years now, but there wasn’t much he could do about it, when it was all he had.

Charity, for the first time, seemed to falter.

“Oh…” she said awkwardly, the usual confidence in her voice replaced by a strained attempt at sincerity. “I’m… sorry, Severus. I didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t.” Severus cut her off, his voice immediate. He knelt down, gathering his things with a tense precision, stuffing the scattered books and potions ingredients back into the torn bag, ignoring the mud caking them.

“Let me help,” Charity offered, bending down to assist, but Severus shot her a look that made her freeze.

“Piss off,” he snarled, yanking the last of his things into the bag. “Just—piss off.”

Severus gathered his belongings into his arms, cradling them awkwardly against his chest as he struggled to keep everything from tumbling out of the battered bag. And without another glance at the Hufflepuff standing awkwardly in front of him, he walked off toward the castle. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead, refusing to acknowledge the whispers that seemed to follow him, his boots sinking slightly into the damp ground as he forced himself forward.

What a way to start the fucking year.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS HAD LONG accepted that he was not a good person by any conventional measure.

He was foul-mouthed, quick-tempered, and sharp-tongued. His rudeness was a frequent companion, and he wore his disdain for others like a second skin. He wasn’t one to win popularity contests, and was far from the epitome of virtue.

And yet, being self aware enough to know all of this as he was, Severus could not for the life of him fathom what grave sin against humanity he had committed to deserve this particular brand of torment.

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks, and Charity Burbage would not leave him alone.

She was everywhere.

Everywhere.

She approached him between classes, her voice a relentless hum in his ear. She called out to him across the Great Hall, waving enthusiastically and inviting him over to her table as if they were old friends. He found her waiting for him outside his classrooms, lingering by his usual spots, and shouting his name across the halls.

It was like she had made it her personal mission to invade every inch of his life like a fucking parasite and drive him into an all-out psychotic break.

It had gotten to the point where he could clock her presence before she even appeared in front of him. The scent of warm vanilla bean, sweet tonka, and the faintest hint of amber, or the distinct clack of her three-inch Mary Janes against the stone floors of Hogwarts. It had engraved such a deep trigger in his psyche that any vague resemblance—whether it was a whiff of vanilla or the distant echo of heels—would send him into a cold sweat, heart pounding against the cages of his ribs in paranoia.

And even still, he could tolerate all of this. He had spent the entirety of the past two weeks bracing himself against the relentless barrage of Charity Burbage, steeling his mind and body to endure her invasive viperish cheerfulness. And he spent the remainder of that time hiding away in the dungeons where he knew even she wasn’t stupid enough to try to navigate on her own.

But this—this was a new fucking low.

Severus navigated the dimly lit aisles of the Hogwarts library with a singular focus, his sharp eyes scanning each row of bookshelves for a telltale sign of sparkling blonde hair.

Severus moved through the library aisles, his footsteps quiet but purposeful. The soft morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting faint golden beams across the floor. The air smelled faintly of old parchment and dust, though it did little to soothe the irritation simmering beneath his skin. He was focused, eyes scanning each row of bookshelves, the usual scowl fixed on his face.

And then, there she was.

Seated at a small table near the back of the library, her golden hair catching the light just so, was Charity Burbage. The sunlight from the nearby window made her honey-blonde hair gleam as if she belonged in some bloody fairy tale. She was seemingly absorbed in the book she was holding, her manicured fingers tracing the spine as she flipped through the pages.

But Severus knew better.

The moment he stepped into her line of sight, Charity looked up, her bright blue eyes locked onto his, and an infuriatingly wide smile spread across her face.

“Severus! What a pleasant—”

“Give me the book,” Severus cut her off, his voice flat and unwavering. His dark eyes were fixed on the old, leather-bound tome of The Ciphered Codices of Eorðmund in her hands.

Charity’s eyes widened in mock surprise, her smile never faltering.

“Gee, Severus,” she said, her tone dripping with that neverending saccharine sweetness that always made his skin crawl. “Where are your manners?”

Severus didn’t bother to respond to her teasing.

“Give me the book, Burbage,” he repeated, his voice dropping to a growl.

Charity’s perfectly plucked eyebrows arched in amusement. She didn’t hand over the book; instead, she leaned back in her chair, casually flipping through the pages as if she hadn’t a care in the world. Severus’s patience, already thin, was fraying with each passing second.

“Good morning to you too,” she said, in that ridiculously chipper voice of hers, "I'm doing alright this morning. Thank you for asking. And yourself?"

“Burbage—”

“You know,” Charity cut him off, her voice light and airy, “this is the first time you’ve come to me.” She closed the book with a deliberate snap and placed it on the table, her fingers still resting possessively on the cover. “I call this an amazing development in our friendship, don't you think so?”

Friendship?

Friendship?

Severus’s jaw clenched so hard it was a miracle his teeth didn’t crack. He was this close to hexing her or simply lunging across the table to snatch the book from her. Both options were equally tempting at this point.

She tilted her head, her smile widening just a fraction. “Are you sure you don’t want to, I don’t know, ask nicely? I never mind helping a friend out when they ask for it.”

Severus’s patience snapped. He leaned forward, placing his hands flat on the table, and fixed her with a glare that could have curdled milk.

“Charity,” he said, his voice dangerously soft, “give me the book. Now .”

Charity gasped dramatically, her eyes going wide as she pressed a hand to her chest in excitement.

“First names already?! ” she exclaimed, clapping her hands together in little taps, “My, my, Severus, this is progress!”

Severus closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath.

“Give me the book,” Severus repeated, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with barely restrained fury.

He needed this specific tome for his Ancient Runes assignment. He had spent hours meticulously choosing his topic, settling on this text for its intricate and obscure rune sequences, which were crucial for the thesis he had painstakingly outlined.

But Charity Burbage had checked out every single copy of this book.

Just so she could get Severus’s attention, since it seemed nothing else was working.

He could feel his blood pressure rising, the muscles in his jaw tightening with each second that passed. He was willing—honestly he was—to look past her childish antics if it meant getting the book and finishing his assignment.

All he needed was the book. That’s all. He should just get the book and leave, ignore her like he had been the entire past two weeks.

He could tolerate her nonsense if she’d just—

“Set me up with Mulciber,” Charity said instead, her voice lilting with the same infuriating sing-song tone she had been using for the past two weeks.

The same ludicrous request she had been plaguing him with day in and day out. Charity Burbage had everything in life, it seemed—bubbly friends, an unshakeable sunny disposition (even with all that viper-like rot underneath), endless cheer—but for some unfathomable reason, she had fixated on Mulciber of all people, and worse, had convinced herself that Severus, of all people, was her best shot at making it happen. And now he was suffering for it.

That was it.

This was the last straw.

Without thinking, Severus lunged for the book, his hand wrapping around the worn leather cover. But before he could pull it away, Charity grabbed it too, clutching it tightly in her manicured fingers.

Severus had been  fully expecting the petite, Barbie doll-like Hufflepuff to yield instantly under his tug.

To his shock, she didn’t.

In fact, she held her ground far better than he’d anticipated, her manicured fingers gripping the book with a force that belied her dainty appearance. Charity tugged back, the heels of her Mary Janes digging into the stone floor, giving her surprising leverage.

“Let go, Burbage,” he snarled, teeth clenched as he leaned his weight into the tug-of-war, his dark hair falling into his face as he yanked again.

“This is no way to treat a lady, Severus!” Charity huffed in response, her voice breathy with effort as she gave a firm tug of her own, her heels somehow keeping her balance even on the slick library floor. Her face was set in determination, brows furrowed as he held her grip with surprising strength.

“Lady, my foot!” Severus barked, throwing his full weight into pulling the book free, “You hag! ”

Charity’s eyes widened in full blown shock, mouth falling open as her grip tightening even further.

“You arsehole! ” she shrieked, pulling so hard that the two of them stumbled awkwardly against the table. Her golden hair swung wildly as she fought back, digging her heels in deeper, refusing to give him an inch.

Severus, enraged, did the first thing that came to mind. Without a second thought, he grabbed a fistful of her blonde hair, yanking it with a satisfying twist.

“Ow!” Charity screeched, slapping at his hand. “Ow! You barbaric — You can’t fight a girl! ”

“You’re a nightmare is what you are!” Severus shot back, gripping her hair tighter. He tugged the book hard enough that it almost slipped free, but Charity managed to keep her grip, albeit barely.

They were locked in a full-blown tug-of-war, pulling and yanking at both the book and each other with a furious intensity. Charity yanked back, dragging Severus closer, her face flushed with effort as she twisted in her seat. Her free hand slapped at his wrist hard enough for it to throb painfully, her hair falling into her eyes, but she was undeterred.

“Let go, Burbage!” Severus growled again, his frustration mounting as he felt the ache in his fingers from how tightly they were wrapped around the book.

“I need it!” Charity shot back, her face scrunched up with the effort of resisting him.

“No, you bloody don’t! ”

“I was reading it!”

“The book was upside down, you fucking idiot!” Severus snarled, his voice laced with pure irritation. He could barely believe they were having this argument in the middle of the library. Or the fact that she had gotten so far under his skin to make him debase himself like this.

Charity, no longer playing defense, reached up and grabbed a thick handful of his hair in retaliation. Her fingers dug into his scalp, yanking hard, and he let out an undignified yelp of pain.

“Bloody fucking hell!” Severus hissed, his vision blurring for a second as the sharp sting radiated down his neck. He jerked his head back, trying to free himself, but Charity’s grip only tightened.

“I told you—” Charity growled, her face red with frustration, “you can’t fight a girl!”

Severus winced, his scalp burning. He twisted his body, desperately trying to pry her hand out of his hair, but in doing so, he lost his footing.

In a flash of movement, Charity shoved him backward with surprising force, sending him stumbling into the nearest table. The impact knocked the breath from his lungs as his back collided with the hardwood, and he grimaced in pain.

“You—” Severus spat, clutching at his aching back. Charity’s eyes were blazing with fierce energy now, her fists still clenched around the book.

“You what? ” Charity shot back, her voice loud enough that heads began to turn from the other side of the library, “Speak up, Sevy.”

Students were starting to notice the commotion, whispering in shock and amusement as they peered over the shelves.

Severus launched himself forward again, aiming to trip Charity by hooking his leg around hers, but Charity saw it coming and nimbly dodged out of the way, leaving him stumbling off-balance as she made them circle around each other.

“Pathetic!” she taunted, giving him a wicked grin.

Severus’s face flushed with anger. He yanked harder on her hair in retaliation, his knuckles whitening. “Let go, you harpy! ”

“Like bloody hell I will! ” Charity shrieked, tugging at the book even harder. “If you had any manners—”

Severus yelped as she gave another vicious tug on his hair, her nails scraping his scalp. The students nearby were no longer just watching; they were outright laughing, some whispering to each other and pointing at the sight of the two professors locked in a ridiculous, childish struggle.

“Go on, shove him again!” one student snickered from behind a stack of books.

“I’ll bet Snape pulls her hair again!” another muttered.

“Wait, I thought Snape and Burbage were dating?” Another asked.

Through the haze of pain and frustration, Severus could hear them, and it only added fuel to his growing rage. He refused to let this devolve into further humiliation. He gritted his teeth and twisted the book hard in his grip, trying to rip it away from her once and for all.

But Charity was relentless.

“Let. Go,” Charity snarled, yanking the book back toward her with all her strength, her nails digging into his wrist. “You—absolute—cunt! ”

“You let go!” Severus bit out, jerking forward again, his hand slipping as he felt the pages of the book crease beneath their struggle. “You—bloody—cow! ”

Severus regained enough balance to yank her closer, their faces now inches apart as they both fought tooth and nail over the book. She managed to drive her elbow into his side, and he let out a sharp hiss of pain.

At that point, the laughter of the students reached a fever pitch. Several were practically standing on their toes, watching the absurd brawl unfold before them like a show. And then, all at once, there was a sound of a magnified shrill voice, loud and sharp, cutting through the chaos.

“ENOUGH!”

“Have you two lost your minds? ” Madam Pince barked, glaring at them with a look that could have peeled paint off the walls.

Severus and Charity stood outside the library, backs pressed against the cold stone wall, both thoroughly disheveled from their ridiculous brawl. Charity, with her golden hair a mess, was frantically using a compact mirror to fix it, smoothing her blonde locks back into place with exaggerated care. Her cheeks were flushed, and she sniffed dramatically, giving off the air of a girl who’d just been through such a difficult ordeal.

Severus, on the other hand, was a wreck of his own. His black hair, already prone to messiness, now looked like a full-on disaster. His robes were askew, his tie half-undone, and he was furiously trying to straighten himself out while casting furious glares at Charity. His hands shook with the effort to stay calm, but his face was set in a murderous scowl.

In front of them, Madam Pince paced like a general preparing for battle. She was seething, her sharp voice cutting through the tension like a knife. She had been going on for the past 10 minutes, which would have been rather impressive if they hadn’t been the recipients. Her voice was sharp enough to cut glass, her bony hands waving in the air as she continued to lay into them.

“What, exactly, did you two think you were doing in my library?” she hissed. “I have never seen such juvenile behavior from Seventh-years in all my years at Hogwarts! Hair-pulling? Screaming? And in front of students, no less! You two are supposed to be setting an example for the younger years! And my poor books! Do you have any idea how old that tome is?!”

Severus’s jaw tightened as he ran a hand through his knotted hair, wincing slightly when he hit a particularly painful tangle. Charity, on the other hand, was ignoring Pince completely, inspecting herself in the compact mirror and dabbing at an invisible mark on her chin with her thumb.

“I expected better from both of you,” Madam Pince continued, her voice rising. “And you had none of the decency to duel like civilized— a brawl, of all things!”

Charity gave a small sigh, finally lowering her mirror. “Right?” she muttered, giving a little nod of fake agreement, though her attention was clearly still on her hair.

Severus’s eye twitched.

Before Madam Pince could launch into her next round of scathing remarks, a familiar voice interrupted them.

“Wait.”

It was Professor Sprout, her voice steady yet clearly perplexed as she stepped forward, one hand placed lightly on her temple as though fighting off a headache. Her round face was flushed from hurrying down the hall, her robes slightly disheveled in her rush. “Would someone kindly explain to me exactly what is going on here?”

Professor Slughorn, standing beside her with an air of bemusement, stroked his mustache thoughtfully as he surveyed the scene, his round belly straining slightly against his vest. His eyes flickered between Severus and Charity, twinkling with curiosity as a small smile tugged at his lips.

“I must admit,” Slughorn said slowly, eyes twinkling with a smile pulling at his lips, “I’m a bit curious myself.”

Madam Pince opened her mouth to speak, but before she could get a word out, Charity, like clockwork, jumped in.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it, Professor Sprout,” Charity said, clutching a hand to her chest dramatically. “Poor Severus here is just so dramatic.” She cast him a sideways glance at the Slytherin boy next to her. “I was simply minding my own business, and he— ”

Severus’s expression went blank for a moment, as if his brain had shut down to process the sheer audacity of her words. Slowly, his hand fell away from his hair, and a dangerous light flickered in his dark eyes.

“Me?” he whispered, his voice trembling with barely restrained fury. “Me?!”

Charity made an exaggerated pout, leaning into her wounded act with all the subtlety of a Hippogriff. She shot him a condescending look, as if he were a small child throwing a tantrum.

“I mean, we all get worked up sometimes—”

Severus’s hand flew up, pointing at himself incredulously. “You’re pinning this on me?!”

Charity’s smile grew as she flicked a lock of her freshly fixed hair over her shoulder. “Well, if the shoe fits—”

Severus’s entire face contorted with rage. His hand shot out, finger jabbing toward Charity, eyes wide as he spoke with the frantic cadence of a man at the end of his rope. “She’s been harassing me for weeks—weeks! Everywhere I turn, there she is—popping up like a bloody whack-a-mole!”

Slughorn blinked in confusion. “A whack-a-what, dear boy?”

“I can’t even take a bloody piss,” Severus continued, voice rising in pitch, “without half-expecting her to jump out of a fucking stall!” He jabbed his finger toward her again, his face flushed with frustration. “And I’m being dramatic?!”

"Language, Mr Snape—"

Charity rolled her eyes, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, please. I’m just trying to be your friend, Severus.”

“Friend?!” Severus threw up his hands in exasperation. “This is not friendship, Burbage! This is full-blown stalking! It's psychological assault! ”

Professor Sprout raised her eyebrows, her gaze flicking between them as if trying to determine if this was some elaborate prank. “...Psychological assault?”

Madam Pince threw her hands up in frustration. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

“She knows everything about me!” Severus snapped, his eyes wide with mounting hysteria. “My schedule, my classes, my bloody assignments! I wouldn't be surprised if she even knew my fucking blood type at this point! The book we were fighting over? It was the only one I needed for my assignment—and she just happened to check it out right when I needed it? Does any of that seem normal to you people?”

At that moment, Slughorn, who had been watching the entire exchange with thinly veiled amusement, gave a weary sigh. “Ah, girls…”

Sprout shot him a withering look. “Horace, this is not a gender issue.”

Slughorn merely chuckled, rubbing his belly. “I meant no offense, Pomona dear. But really, Severus, you mustn’t let a little female attention rattle you so much.” He winked playfully at Charity, who gave him a blindingly sweet smile in return.

Severus’s eye twitched dangerously again. He turned toward Slughorn, his voice tight with a forced calm that suggested he was one word away from a complete meltdown.

“She’s not giving me ‘female attention,’ sir.” Severus said, spitting each word out as he yanked at his disheveled robes, “She’s waging a bloody campaign against my sanity.”

“Oh, calm down.” Charity piped in with a singular laugh, rolling her eyes.

“Calm down?” Severus sputtered, staring at her in disbelief. “Calm down? I don’t need to calm down, I need you to leave me the hell alone!”

Charity gave an exaggerated sigh, patting her hair once more for good measure. “Honestly, you need to work on your temper, Sevy. It’s not healthy.”

Severus opened his mouth to retort, but Professor Sprout quickly stepped in, holding up her hands in a gesture of peace.

“All right, enough.” She turned to Charity, her expression firm. “Ms. Burbage, whatever’s going on here, you need to give Mr. Snape some space.”

“But Professor,” Charity protested immediately, “We are just starting to get along…”

“Space,” Sprout repeated firmly, her eyes narrowing in a way that brooked no argument. “And you can start by serving detention for the next week with me in the greenhouse. That should keep you occupied and give Mr. Shape the space he so clearly needs.”

Charity’s face fell slightly at the mention of detention, but she quickly recovered, giving a dramatic sigh as if she were being asked to endure some great hardship. “Fine,” she said, casting a sideways glance at Severus, who was now smoothing down his robes with jerky, frustrated movements. “If that’s what you want, Severus…”

Severus didn’t respond. His entire focus was on not launching into another tirade. His mind was filled with a singular need to get as far away from Charity as possible. Sprout turned to him next, her voice softer now.

“And Mr. Snape—”

“I don’t care,” Severus cut in, his voice sharp and clipped, not caring about the surprised looks from the professors around him. “Take points off. Give me detention. Just as long as I get the book—and I’m as far away from her as possible.”

A tense silence followed his words, with Madam Pince muttering something under her breath about ‘utter nonsense,’ while Sprout regarded Severus with a calm, though sympathetic, expression. Slughorn, meanwhile, simply chuckled, clearly amused by the entire situation.

“This book…” Professor Sprout trailed off, as if waiting for an explanation.

“I specifically chose it as my topic for my Ancient Runes assignment,” he ground out, barely managing to keep his voice level.

“And you couldn't have just… gotten another copy?” Professor Sprout asked, a hint of confusion in her voice.

“She took them all!” he hissed, the words coming out with a mix of disbelief and outrage. “ Every. Single. Copy. All forty-eight! ”

The professors exchanged surprised glances. Even Slughorn, who had been chuckling moments before, raised his eyebrows. Sprout blinked, her face softening as understanding dawned.

“My my…”

Madam Pince stopped mid-pace, her eyes narrowing at Charity, who had the grace to at least look a little sheepish now.

“All of them?” Pince muttered, her tone incredulous.

Charity shrugged, giving a sheepish smile. “Well, I got a little carried away. They were really interesting.”

"She's insane." Severus stressed, but none of the teachers were paying attention. Is this what people diagnosed with hysteria felt like when no one would listen to them? He felt like he was going to faint just from the overexertion of how much anger he had boiling inside him.

“All forty-eight?” Slughorn echoed, shaking his head in amazement, his mustache twitching in amusement. “That’s quite the dedication, if nothing else.”

Sprout sighed, rubbing her temple as though the situation was finally starting to make sense. “Well… I see now why this has escalated.”

She gave a nod of understanding, her voice even as she spoke. Meanwhile, Severus seethed.

None of them were taking this seriously.

“Very well, Mr. Snape. Take the book, and consider this matter resolved.” She turned her gaze back to Charity, who was now sulking, arms crossed. “Clearly you’ve suffered enough. And Ms. Burbage, I’ll expect you in the greenhouse starting tomorrow evening.”

Without another word, and the situation seemingly coming to a close, Severus turned on his heel and stormed off down the corridor without so much as a backward glance.

Charity let out a theatrical sigh, staring after him with a mixture of annoyance and boredom. “Well, I suppose that went well enough,” she muttered, tossing her hair one last time with a dejected roll of her eyes.

Professor Sprout gave her a stern look. “Greenhouse. Tomorrow.”

“Yes, Professor,” Charity said with exaggerated sweetness, though her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Sprout and Slughorn exchanged glances before Sprout nodded toward the library entrance. “Horace, shall we?”

“Of course, Pomona.” Slughorn grinned, patting his belly once more. “Never a dull day at Hogwarts, eh?”

Chapter Text

ONE WEEK. SEVEN days. 168 blessed hours. That was how long Severus Snape had savored the absence of Charity Burbage. For the first time since Seventh Year began, the halls had been quiet, his walks to and from class uninterrupted by her bright, grating voice. 

No more pointless conversations. 

No more unwelcome attempts to chip away at his already volatile sanity. 

It had been peaceful, and he prayed to every god that inhibited the heavens and the earth—fuck, even the ones in hell—that this peace would last. 

But, of course, it hadn’t. 

“H—”

“Stay away from me,” Severus interrupted, his voice low and sharp, his strides never faltering as he passed Charity Burbage, who had been waiting for him at the corner of the hall that led to his Magical Theory class.

He picked up his pace immediately, and he heard the clatter of her heels try to keep up with his long strides.

“God, Severus,” Charity drawled, her tone dripping with sarcasm as she quickened her steps to catch up. “You really don’t let up, do you?”

Severus clenched his jaw, resisting the urge to sigh. Just when he thought he was free of her relentless pestering, she slithered back into his life like the viper she was. He didn’t stop, didn’t look at her—he’d learned in the short time he’d spent being haunted by her presence that even the smallest silver of attention would only encourage her.

“Leave me alone,” he growled, eyes fixed ahead. Severus clenched his jaw, his grip tightening around his books, knuckles white. His posture was stiff, shoulders straightened defensively, every muscle in his body screaming for her to just vanish.

He could feel the eyes of the other students watching them. Some openly stared; others whispered behind their hands. The echoes of their “catfight” in the library were still fresh. His reputation had plummeted after that—he fought a girl, they said, as if he’d actually done more than just yank her hair. The rumors worsened with each passing day, and at some point he began to wish he had decked her in the face like the current rumor circulating stated he had. 

If only they all knew what a demon she was.

“Oh, come on!” Charity scoffed, flipping her blonde hair over her shoulder with an exaggerated roll of her eyes,“You act like I’m the devil or something.”

“Self awareness,” Severus said as he moved, "Your only redeeming quality." 

“Sev, listen—”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped, not bothering to slow down.

“Russ, look—”

“Don’t call me that either,” he cut her off again.

Charity sighed, clearly fed up, but there was a sly smile on her lips as she said, “Keeper of my hear—”

Severus whipped around so fast, she had to stop short to avoid running into him. His dark eyes burned with disgust. “I will throw you out of this tower.”

She raised an eyebrow, a smirk still curling her lips. “Don’t they have safety wards for that?”

Severus took a step closer, towering over her. “Wanna bet?”

For the first time, Charity faltered, taking a small step back, though she quickly covered it with an exaggerated sigh.

“Okay, look,” she said, crossing her arms. She tossed her hair to the side, averting her eyes in the obvious air of someone who wasn’t used to passiveness, and as if admitting fault was the biggest burden in the world, “I came to apologize.”

Severus said nothing. 

Severus stared at her in silence, his eyes narrowed as if trying to figure out what kind of stupid game she was playing at now. 

An apology? 

From her?  

Did girls like Charity Burbage even have the word 'sorry' in their vocabulary?

His grip on his books tightened, fingers pressing into the worn leather spines. He studied Charity for a moment, weighing her every move. When his mind failed to give him a viable answer from looking at her, Severus turned on his heel and continued down the hall, the dull sound of his steps blending in with the muttered whispers around them.

“Severus?” Charity called, a hint of disbelief in her voice.

He didn’t stop. 

His boots echoed down the corridor, each step a deliberate, controlled beat.

“Severus, didn’t you hear me?” she raised her voice, the clacking of her heels following him quickly, trying to catch up. “I said I’m sorry!”

Severus kept walking, refusing to look back. Then he felt it—her hand grabbing the sleeve of his robes. He stopped dead in his tracks, the fabric pulled tight.

“Severus—”

“Oh for fucks sake what?” he snapped, spinning to face her, his eyes sharp and dark.

Charity stared at him like he was the one acting ridiculous. “I said I’m sorry, ” she repeated, slower this time, like he was dense.

Severus looked at her like she was insane.

“Then leave me alone,” Severus said incredulously, yanking his sleeve out of her grip. He didn’t bother hiding the irritation on his face.

Charity blinked, clearly taken aback. 

“Wait, no—" Charity faltered for a second, visibly thrown."That’s not how this is supposed to go."

Severus frowned, baffled.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” Severus asked, face twisted into a frown, “If you’re sorry, then you’re supposed to do everything in your power to make the other person forgive you. Luckily for you, all I’m asking is for you to piss off. So piss off.”

“No,” Charity huffed, crossing her arms, her tone dripping with that unflappable superiority she always carried.

Severus let out a short, incredulous laugh, shaking his head. “Then what the bloody hell are you sorry for?”

Charity simply stared at him, completely blank, like the concept of apologizing was foreign to her. Severus could hardly believe it. He let out a scoff of disbelief, muttering under his breath.

“Let me jog your memory,” Severus said, voice sharp as he let out a restrained, simmering sigh. “Are you sorry for ripping my bag on the first day of school?”

“I did you a favor,” Charity said without missing a beat, raising a manicured hand up in defense. “That bag was hideous. And I offered to get you a new one, but you told me to, and I quote, ‘shove it up my arse’.”

Severus took a slow, seething breath.

“Let's try again,” he said, voice dripping with disdain. “Are you sorry for making me drop my Transfiguration essay into the Black Lake during one of your brilliant attempts to get my attention?”

Charity pursed her lips, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she tried to vouch for her innocence. “Oh, come on, Sev, it wasn’t my fault the wind caught it when I tried to… nudge you. You can’t blame me for the acts of mother nature.”

Severus glared at her, teeth gritting. “You practically almost shoved me into the water.”

“I was trying to help you get your essay back,” Charity defended herself, seemingly baffled that Severus didn’t see things his way. 

Severus could feel his vein popping, his anger so bright and taut he felt lightheaded enough to fall unconscious from it.

Severus clenched his fists tighter, but before he could snap back, he added, “Are you sorry covering me from head to toe in pumpkin juice when you hurled yourself at me in the Great Hall?”

Charity blinked innocently, feigning hurt. “I was just trying to give you a hug!” Charity said, eyes widening innocently, but Severus could only think of wanting to gouge them out, “It’s not my fault you’re so jumpy.”

Severus stared at her, jaw tense. “You nearly broke my arm.”

“Devil in the details,” she waved off his complaint like it was trivial. “It’s called affection, Severus.”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath that sounded awfully close to ‘I should have drowned her when I had the chance.’

He turned on his heel and strode away, his pace brisk as he headed toward the more crowded parts of the castle. The second bell was about to ring, and students were rushing to their classes, eager to avoid being late. Severus hoped that the increased number of people would discourage Charity from following him.

But of course, it didn’t.

“Sev!” Charity’s voice rang out, louder this time, drawing even more attention to them, “Severus!”

Severus gritted his teeth and quickened his pace, determined to shake her off.

“I told you I can’t help you, Burbage,” he said through clenched teeth as she caught up with him again.

Charity sidestepped a group of younger students and fell into step beside him, her tone infuriatingly light. “Oh, of course you can. You’re just being stubborn.”

Severus shot her a withering look. “You don’t even have classes on this side of the castle . Why are you still following me?”

Charity shrugged, her smile never wavering. “Maybe I just like spending time with you.”

Severus snorted in disbelief. “Do you ever get tired of hearing yourself talk horseshit all the time?”

“Not really,” Charity replied breezily, clearly enjoying his frustration. “And god, you have a mouth on you. You curse more than a drunk, Sev. Where on earth did you learn to talk like that?”

“A drunk.” Severus answered snappishly, hardly apologizing when he bumped into her shoulder to make a turn.

“Oh?” Charity asked, latching onto the shift in conversation as she stumbled slightly, taking it in stride, “Tell me more.”

“Top yourself.” Severus said in turn.

Charity rolled her eyes, continuing with her words, “If you want to get rid of me so badly, you already know what you have to do.”

“No,” Severus shot back, his voice cold as he approached the door to his Arithmancy class. He could see the students filtering in, their eyes darting between him and Charity with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.

Before he could slip inside, Charity darted in front of him, blocking his path with a triumphant grin. 

Severus’s patience was at its limit. “Move,” he ordered, his voice deadly calm.

“Not until you agree to help me.” Charity insisted, her tone light.

Severus’s eyes narrowed. 

Charity leaned in with a shrug, crossing her arms as she blocked Severus’s way. “You could make this so much easier for both of us if you just listen to me.”

Severus’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in his shoulders spoke volumes. “Move, Burbage.”

“Set me up with Mulciber.” Her tone was easy, like she knew exactly what she was doing.

Severus’s lip curled in disdain. He spoke again, annunciating each word. “Piss. off.”

“Not until you agree to help me,” Charity replied, her voice sing-songy, reveling in his irritation.

“I can’t,” Severus gave her a hard look. “And even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“And why not?” Charity’s voice was exasperated, as if she genuinely, truly couldn’t understand why Severus was being so difficult.

Severus leaned in, his voice low and venomous. “Because I don’t bloody like you.”

Charity raised her eyebrows, amused, but didn’t step aside. “Well, that’s not very nice, is it?”

Severus didn’t dignify her with a response.

The second bell tolled, signaling the start of classes. He could see Professor Fairweather inside, already beginning the lesson. If he didn’t get rid of her now, he’d be late. And he had no intention of letting Charity drag him down any further.

He tried to sidestep her, but she mirrored his movements, blocking his path with an obstinate grin.

“Move,” Severus commanded, his voice icy.

“No.”

“Burbage,” he said more forcefully, irritation lacing his words.

“Set me up with Mulciber,” she countered, her tone cheeky and defiant, as if she knew exactly how to push his buttons.

Charity shifted her weight, anticipating his next move as he tried to slip past her once more. But every time he attempted to sidestep her, she darted into his path, determination etched across her face.

“Honestly, Severus, it’s not that difficult!” she barked out in frustration, her voice taking on the lilt of the spoiled brat she was.

He clenched his fists, frustration bubbling beneath the surface. 

“Move , Burbage,” he threatened, his voice low and venomous, “or I will make you.”

Her smirk faltered slightly, but she quickly regained her composure, jutting her chin up. “Oh, really? And how do you plan to do that?”

Severus stepped closer, his demeanor shifting as he straightened up, looming over her at his full height.

“Don’t test me,” he warned, his dark eyes narrowing.

Charity raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. “I dare you.”

Severus didn’t hesitate. 

He gave her a deadpan look before shoving her to the side with enough force to make her stumble and fall. She gasped in shock, her pristine composure shattered as she staggered backwards on her heels and hit the cold stone floor.

For a brief moment, Severus froze, something in him recoiling at what he had just done. But then, he steeled himself, turned on his heel, and walked into the classroom without a backward glance, ignoring the murmurs that rippled through the hall at the display.

Behind him, Charity scrambled to her feet, her knee throbbing from where she’d landed on it. Anger flared in her chest, hot and fierce, and she didn’t even hesitate before bursting into the classroom after him.

“You bloody bastard!” she screamed, her voice sharp and furious as she charged into the room, clearing forgetting herself.

The small group of seventh-year NEWT students turned in their seats to stare at her in shock as she burst into the room, but Severus kept his head forward, refusing to acknowledge her presence.

“Severus Snape, you vile, ingrated, cun—”

Professor Fairweather, a tall, thin man with greying hair and a perpetually calm demeanor, raised an eyebrow as Charity barged into his class with the interruption. 

As Charity stood in the middle of the classroom, panting and flushed from her outburst, the weight of several wide-eyed stares finally settled in. The seventh-year students, some still mid-turn in their seats, were gawking at her with a mixture of disbelief and fascination. Her face slowly drained of color as the realization of where she was—and what she had just done—sank in.

Her eyes flicked from one student to the next, then to the front of the room where Professor Fairweather stood, his hands casually resting in his pockets. His expression was one of mild amusement, as though this was simply another oddity of teaching.

“Ms. Burbage?” he said in his usual calm, almost amused tone.

Charity straightened her posture, the anger still burning beneath her skin despite her attempt at a composed exterior. “Professor,” she greeted with a strained smile, her voice clipped and tight.

Professor Fairweather regarded her with a raised eyebrow, his expression as calm as ever. 

“Good morning, Ms. Burbage,” he said, his tone polite but pointed. “To my knowledge, you are not a Theory student. So, may I ask—what brings you to my classroom?”

For the briefest moment, Charity faltered. Her eyes darted toward Severus, hoping for some reaction, but he remained stone-faced, resolutely refusing to acknowledge her presence. 

“I, um…” Charity said, grasping for an explanation, but her mind went blank.

Professor Fairweather gave a slow, deliberate tilt of his head, his expression unchanged. 

“Well… as intriguing as this intrusion may be,” he began, his voice carrying just a hint of amusement, “perhaps you and Mr. Snape could save this… lover’s quarrel for another time? After class, perhaps.”

Severus’s face twisted with visible revulsion, the mere suggestion making his expression darken as he finally turned toward the professor, his disgust palpable. 

“Oh, we’ll sort it out, Professor,” she said sweetly in that completely superficial and viper-like way of hers, eyes gleaming sharply as she caught Severus’s eye. “Not to worry.”

She limped slightly as she turned to leave, her knee still aching from the fall. As she walked out, she glanced over her shoulder, her eyes briefly caught the sight of Severus’s gaze shifting away from her, shoulders tense and squared. 

Severus found Charity waiting for him when the bell tower tolled to signal the end of class. She had her knee pressed against the wall, and it was forming a bruise that was already a darkening shade of purple. 

The sight was the first thing to catch his attention, and he hated the fact that he had enough of a conscience to notice it—and the fact that he had caused it.

In his defense, he hadn’t meant to push her that hard, or expected the fact that she’d fall.

She was stronger than that, and he had a still aching scalp from two weeks ago to prove it. 

Yet there she was, leaning against the wall, her knee pressed uncomfortably into the stone, letting it bruise.

From what little he knew about that blonde devil’s incarnate, he had no doubt that this was a tactic to result into guilt-tripping him, and it was bloody working.

Charity straightened up when she noticed him, that perfectly practiced smile of hers flickering on her face as she pushed herself away from the wall. 

Severus didn’t hesitate to walk past her, intent on making his escape. He was not about to let her antics draw him in any further. 

Maybe this would finally teach her to piss off.

But as he strode away, he heard the soft sound of her heels clicking against the stone floor, uneven and hurried.

“Severus—ow, ow!” Charity exclaimed, stumbling slightly as she tried to catch up with him, her voice laced with seemingly genuine pain. The rhythm of her steps faltered as she limped, the sharp clack of her heels uneven as they echoed in the corridor.

His shoulders tightened uncomfortably as his steps involuntarily slowed, a sense of irritation mixed with an unwilling pang of guilt stirring inside him. Despite his best efforts, he could hear her struggling to keep pace, the slight wince in her voice making it hard to ignore her.

Severus turned around stiffly, his eyes trained on a point above her obnoxiously perfectly styled head of shiny blonde hair, not exactly meeting her eyes. 

“What do you want, Burbage?” he asked, his tone sharper than intended.

Charity stopped a few paces away, trying to regain her composure despite the evident discomfort. 

“Look, I just want to talk,” she said, her voice slightly breathless. “You don’t have to be so rude.”

Severus let out a sigh, feeling the tension between them shift. “I don’t owe you anything.”

“You shoved me onto the floor.” Charity deadpanned, her watercolor eyes holding a dry sense of judgement.

“And you’ve left me mentally scared,” Severus said, posture shifting as he folded his arms defensively. He was not about to apologize, “Consider us even.”

“That hardly—”

“Severus!” a voice called out, interrupting the standoff between them. Both Severus and Charity turned at the sound. Charity’s curiosity piqued, while Severus felt a twinge of confusion. He could count on one hand the number of people in the school who had ever called him by anything other than “Snape”— if they were trying to be polite, that is.

The hallway was still bustling with students, laughter and chatter reverberating against the stone walls. When he caught a clear glimpse of the source of the voice, his entire body seized in shock, his heart dropping to his stomach at a staggering pace.

It was Aurora Sinistra.

She was walking over, a casual air of grace about her as she moved through the crowded hallway, even as she handed out apologies while bumping into people that walked alongside her. Her hair was braided, hair styled so the long, dark strands framed her face in a way that always flattered her, falling over her shoulders and contrasting with her smooth, warm brown skin. 

She smiled when she saw him—bright and infectious, with a perfect set of sparkly white teeth and her large, puppy-like brown eyes glittering when they caught his gaze.

Her steps were quick, her eyes trained specifically on reaching Severus. In her walk, she was momentarily distracted when she glanced to Severus’s side, and her eyes widened in surprise. That illusion of grace disappeared almost in an instant, and Aurora tripped over her own two feet. The natural flow of her walk became an awkward juggle, and Severus instinctively reached out to catch her before she fell. His hand brushed against her arm, steadying her as she regained her balance.

“Sinistra,” Severus said, his voice coming out in a rough octave, jerking back the moment the Ravenclaw got some semblance of her balance back, his limbs feeling disjointed, like they were unsure of how to move with her so close, and the heat of embarrassment rushed up his neck. “Are you…alright?”

“Oh Merlin,” Aurora muttered, her eyes darting between Severus and Charity, a hint of nervous energy rippling through her. The flush of embarrassment warmed the brown of her skin, her gaze shifting between the Slytherin and Hufflepuff before she quickly straightened herself, her composure returning as she adjusted a strand of her braids. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I didn’t know you were busy.”

“I’m not.” Severus stumbled over his words quickly, looking over at Charity, giving her a look before he shook his head. “She’s— no, I’m not busy.”

I don’t even know her, he wanted to add, but he could feel Charity’s gaze piercing through him, eyebrows raising as her expression became a mix of amusement and intrigue, observing the exchange, and he knew he wouldn’t have been able to get her to shut up if he did.

Aurora’s eyes kept shifting, looking between Severus, who seemed to have become some sort of statue with how stiff he stood, and Charity, who had her arms folded, her gaze sweeping over Aurora curiously, sharp eyes assessing every detail, from the way Aurora’s hair fell around her shoulders to her attire. 

The corners of her mouth lifted into that practiced smile of hers that was equal parts charming and stilted.

“Cute look,” Charity remarked, the tone of her voice sweet.

“Yes, that’s me.” Aurora answered, her words coming out in a rush it was almost breathless. She glanced at Severus in horror when Charity raised her eyebrows, stumbling over her words in embarrassment as she quickly shook her head as if trying to take it back. “No, that wasn’t—I mean, hi. Hello. That wasn’t what you said either. Thank you. That’s what I mean. You too.”

Charity’s smile stretched into a grin, and Severus didn’t like one second of it.

“Merlin, I’m sorry.” Aurora apologized.

“Oh no, love, you’re perfect.” Charity said, grin widening when Aurora seemed to have no idea how to respond to that.

“I was just—” Aurora said, her movements nervous as her eyes fluttered between the two again, looking back to Severus. She rummaged through her bag, her fingers fumbling slightly as she searched for the item. “Well, it’s just— You left this in class, and it seemed like you were in a hurry, and I thought it might be important to get it back to you, so I—”

Aurora pulled out a book, and Severus grabbed it before he could even fully access what it was that she had handed him, or whether or not it was actually his.

“Of course,” Severus replied quickly. Severus’s tongue felt heavy in his mouth, and he tried to keep his focus, blocking out the fact that Charity’s eyes were boring into his side, or that her smile was getting more devilish the more this interaction continued. “Right. Thank you. So much.”

Severus wanted to slap himself. What the fuck was he even saying? 

“Of course,” Aurora replied, her hands fidgeting slightly with the strap of her bag as she took a small step back. In her haste, she bumped into someone passing by, her eyes widening in alarm. She wobbled precariously, and Severus instinctively reached out again, but before he could react, Charity was quicker, stepping forward and catching Aurora by the elbow just in time to prevent her from falling completely. 

The unexpected gesture caught Severus off guard, and for a brief moment, all eyes were on Charity.

“Careful there,” Charity said with a laugh. There was a smile on her lips that was equal parts genuine concern and sheer amusement, making it clear she was finding great amusement in whatever she’d just witnessed. “I’ve never seen someone fall over so many times in my life.”

Aurora straightened up immediately, her face a deep shade of crimson as she stumbled over her words as terribly as she had her feet. 

“I didn’t—I’m not—” she muttered, her embarrassment palpable, “I swear I’m not actually like this,” Aurora reassured, her embarrassment so true and clear, warming her brown skin even more.

Charity grinned. “I believe you.”

It wasn’t necessarily what she said, but how she said it, as if you couldn’t really tell whether she was laughing at you or with you. 

“Right,” Aurora said, voice sounding a little faint, “I’m just gonna—yes, I’m gonna go.”

She pointed her hand blindly backwards as she took a step away, her hands still awkwardly clutching her book and bag.

“No need to run off,” Charity reassured, her tone teasing as she leaned slightly towards Aurora, her face so sincere it made Severus’s skin crawl. 

Aurora’s eyes darted back to Severus, a hint of uncertainty mingling with the embarrassment still painted on her features. 

“No, really it’s okay.” she said quickly, glancing back at Charity, “I’ll see you in class, Severus. Sorry again.” 

And she was gone before Severus could even muster up the words for a response.

He stared into the hallway, his mind still trying to catch up with the events that had just happened, and the fact that Aurora’s citrusy scent had rubbed off onto his book and his sensitive nose could catch it in the air.

This wasn’t good for his health.

“Now this…” Charity said, breaking the silence that hung heavily between them with a spreading, “is what I call a development.”

Her tone was light, teasing, almost sing-song, as she leaned against the wall with an amused grin that grew wider by the second, as if she was a cat that just caught a canary.

“Say one more word and I’ll kill you,” Severus breathed out, his eyes still looking out into the hallway, voice low and laced with a threat, but lacking air.

“Oh, come on—” Charity started, but he cut her off, reaching into the folds of his robes with a quick motion.

With a swift flick of his wrist, he shoved something into her arms, catching her off guard. 

“Leave me alone,” Severus muttered, turning on his heel and walking away, his shoulders tense and his expression set in a scowl.

He was halfway across the hallway, turning a corner when she bothered to look at what he had shoved into her hands.

It was a container.

Clearly recycled from something else, with the exterior now a patchwork of creases, scratches and dents, and a crumpled label that bore his spidery handwriting.

Ointment, it read.

Charity blinked down at the container, the playful smile fading slightly as she raised her brows in surprise. She’d forgotten all about the bruise on her knee, given she’d pretended it hurt more than it is. It had helped that she bruised easily, so it had looked worse than it was, but still, the fact that Severus had noticed—and acted on it—told her a great deal of exactly what she was working with.

Charity grinned.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS SAT CROSS-LEGGED by the edge of the Black Lake, his fingers stained with ink. 

The late afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the scene, the water shimmering with ripples from the gentle breeze. It was quite beautiful, not that Severus had lifted his head up from the array of books lay scattered in the grass to notice. 

With one hand, he bit at his fingernails. On the other, his quill darted across the parchment of his Advanced Potions textbook with fervent intensity, balanced precariously on one leg, the faint sound of scratching barely audible over the rustling leaves and distant chatter of students.

Severus’s robes were slightly askew, stray strands of his hair falling into his eyes, but he paid them no mind either, too absorbed in his work. The margins of his Potions book were filled with tiny, meticulous notes, diagrams, and spider scrawled cross-references of his notes.

Every now and then, he glanced at the other books, his eyes scanning for particular passages before returning to his primary focus. 

A faint smudge of ink marked his cheek where he had absentmindedly brushed it with his hand. To anyone else, this scene might have looked chaotic, where each page of a book was opened to a different page and no one subject even directly correlated to the others, but to Severus, it was a perfectly ordered symphony, each book exactly where it needed to be.

Severus felt her presence before he even saw her.

The hairs on the back of his neck prickled, a strange, crawling sensation prickling through his shoulders. Then came the unmistakable scent of vanilla—soft but insistent, cutting through the earthy lake air and the slightly acrid smell of ink. His fingers tightened on his quill, his jaw clenching slightly.

It was like a trauma response, the way his entire body had such a negative and visceral reaction to being in that cursed Hufflepuff’s presence.

For three weeks, she had been nothing short of an unshakable nuisance. The initial burst of irritation he once felt upon seeing her—that sharp twist in his stomach, the immediate bristle of his temper—had dulled, faded to a quiet, grinding annoyance. It was as if she had worn him down by sheer persistence, wearing away his defenses with a never-ending stream of seemingly innocuous words and practiced smiles that were her signature staple.

It was exhausting. 

He had gone from seething at her very presence to merely resigning himself to it, each time hoping that this might be the last. But every time, she returned, uninvited and unwelcome, until his irritation felt as worn out as he did.

Severus didn’t have the energy to snap at her, nor the desire to give her the satisfaction of any reaction at all. Instead, he settled on a deep, abiding tiredness, a bone-deep fatigue that felt heavier with every vanilla-scented step she took in his direction.

Then came her voice.

“H—” 

That first syllable filled the silence like a needle piercing his last sliver of peace. He didn’t lift his head, and instead, he closed his eyes, summoning every last shred of restraint inside him. 

All he fucking wanted was to be left alone.

“No.” Severus said without even a break in what he was doing, his quill continuing to move along with his words. 

There was a dramatic, audible huff behind him, and a light thud as someone crossed their arms in a way that somehow spoke volumes.

“Sevy—”

“No.”

“Would you—”

“No.”

“Oh for—”

“No.”

“Christ, you are such a killjoy,” Charity Burbage drawled, rolling her eyes skyward as if the mere effort of talking to him was borderline exhausting. 

A soft scoff, almost one of amusement, reached his ears when he didn’t answer, eyes kept to his book, and Charity Burbage shifted her weight with a dramatic roll of her eyes, the sound of her Mary Janes tapping impatiently against the grass. Even without looking, he could picture her—head tilted just so, one eyebrow quirked, arms crossed as though waiting for him to realize that, regardless of what he said, she was still going to talk to him. When she opened her mouth again, her words cut straight to the point.

“200 Galleons.”

Severus paused. 

His hand hovered just above the parchment, and a droplet of ink pooled at the tip before smudging the line he’d been carefully crafting. Slowly, deliberately, he tilted his head up, his face a mask of cool indifference. He looked at her as if she were a problem in Arithmancy, his expression unreadable, flat.

His eyes started at the polished and shiny toes of her three-inch Mary Janes— did she ever wear anything else? —then flicked to her neat high socks, and then her pleated skirt, its hem brushing her knees. Her shirt was a blinding white, collar straightened with meticulous precision, and her Hufflepuff tie knotted stylishly. Her hair was swept back into flawless blonde waves, held in place by a headband made of what looked like silk that kept every strand obediently in place, framing her face with an unnervingly perfect halo.

“What?” he asked. 

His voice was flat, edged without inflection, the single word slipping out in an almost careless manner, devoid of any annoyance that would usually color any of the words Severus used when talking to the Hufflepuff.

“200 Galleons,” she repeated, arms folded and chin lifted, her expression a careful mix of amusement and mild impatience. “Set me up with Mulciber.”

Severus stared at her, his dark gaze narrowing just slightly. His expression didn’t change, but his grip on the quill tightened imperceptibly.

A tense silence fell between them, stretching on, broken only by the rustling of leaves and the faint lapping of the lake’s water. Severus held her gaze, his ink-black eyes locked with her crystal-blue, cold and unflinching. Charity shifted, almost imperceptibly, but he caught it—the flicker of surprise, the way her expression faltered ever so slightly. She shifted her weight, her brows twitching, clearly expecting the usual reaction: him snapping, flying into one of his characteristic fits of anger, but all she received was silence, a heavy, impenetrable wall.

They held each other’s stare, and he could sense her growing unease. She cleared her throat, as though to regain her footing, and finally broke eye contact. Reaching into her bag—a small, bister-colored handbag Severus didn’t recognize but vaguely recalled seeing in some glossy cutout left abandoned in the common room. The logo embossed on it was tiny and discreet, its smooth silhouette and fine stitching practically radiating wealth. It seemed almost laughably out of place beside his ink-stained fingers and the rough, crumpled pages of his books.

From inside it, she pulled out a small, velvet pouch, the sound of clinking coins filling the air. She held it out, her manicured fingers grazing the top of the pouch as if to ensure she looked graceful, poised, in every movement.

“I’m serious,” Charity said, her voice low but determined. She held the pouch out between them, her fingers dainty but firm, the confidence of her offer exuding from every polished inch of her. “I’ll pay you. 200 galleons. Set me up with Mulciber.”

Severus blinked.

Once. 

Twice. 

His gaze flicked down from the pouch, then back to her pristine, polished appearance, an image of cultivated perfection that only girls like Charity Burbage could pull off. 

His lips twitched. 

It wasn’t quite a smile—more of a faint tug at the corner of his mouth, really, caught between something humorless and bitter. He let out a breath, though it sounded more like a scoff. Without a word, he reached for the ink bottle beside him and began to cap it, movements stiff and deliberate. He gathered his books, one by one, stacking them precariously in his arms since the girl in front of him had ripped his only one beyond repair. 

He didn’t know what he was angrier about—that she was so fucking obtuse and oblivious of her actions or that she genuinely thought he’d consider this offer. 

Severus was pissed. 

He was so fucking pissed.

Beneath his calm exterior, a hot, simmering anger brewed, each piece of her offer clawing at his pride, at something raw and vulnerable he rarely allowed anyone to see. He wasn’t sure he could remember ever feeling so livid.

“You’re unbelievable,” he said as he rose to his feet, balancing his books in his arms as he turned his back on her.

Charity’s brow furrowed, her pristine expression briefly cracking with confusion. 

“What?” she asked, a note of irritation creeping into her voice as she took a step forward, unwilling to let him walk away without a clear answer. She followed him immediately, practically gliding beside him, her steps graceful and determined.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” Severus said, his tone uncharacteristically harsh as he rounded back on her, even from the usual tone he used with the Hufflepuff, roughened by the suppressed fury boiling within him. 

It was obvious that the sound surprised her, the way her eyes widened almost imperceptibly and her steps stumbled back ever so slightly.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Charity snapped, eyes narrowing in annoyance. She threw back her shoulders with an irritated huff. “What’s got you all prickly now? Is the money not enough?”  She asked, crossing her arms with an eye-roll, as if he were being the unreasonable one. Her tone was mocking, as if the problem here was his lack of gratitude. “How much do you want? Name your price. Three hundred? Four hundred? Five hundred?” She rattled off numbers with casual ease. “I’ll give you—”

Severus had kept walking, but this stopped him dead in his tracks. He spun on her, the force of his movement nearly making her stumble backward again. His gaze was searing, his dark eyes lightened with barely concealed fury, a rage that pulsed just beneath the surface of his skin, tempered only by the cold restraint in his expression.

“Do you think I’m some fucking low mill begger?” he asked, his voice low and seething. His eyes blazed with a fury that seemed to scorch right through her, burning with the pent-up resentment of a thousand small humiliations he’d endured since the day he first stepped foot in this castle.

For the first time, real apprehension flickered across Charity’s face. Her mouth opened, but the words seemed to die in her throat. She wasn’t used to this. She’d been so sure he would agree, that he would see the offer as a godsend. But now, confronted with his fierce, accusatory glare, her confidence faltered. Her mouth opened, the edges twitching, but the confidence in her stance wavered, faltering for just a moment.

“What? No! Of course not—” She tried to force out a smile, something placating, but Severus cut her off before she could finish.

“Throw money at the down-and-out half-blood, and he’ll do whatever you want—is that it?” His words were sharp, slicing through the air, and the way he looked at her made her feel as though she were transparent, all her careful intentions laid bare. “A poor kid will do anything as long as money’s involved, right?”

Charity’s cheeks flushed. 

There was a flicker of something unfamiliar in her expression—whether it was regret, confusion, or surprise, Severus couldn’t be sure. Her expression morphed to one of dawning realization, as if she were only just now comprehending the gravity of her mistake. She took a small, instinctive step back, the pouch of coins hanging loosely in her hand, its weight suddenly feeling out of place, inadequate. 

She opened her mouth again, but Severus was already gone, turning and striding away from her with all the books still balanced in his arms, his shoulders hunched with fury. For the first time, Charity Burbage was left standing there, watching someone walk away from her, her flawless image unraveling in the presence of someone who wanted nothing from her—not her money, not her attention, not even her apology.

Severus walked, each step heavy with restrained fury, his mind already slipping back into the familiar murky defenses he used to keep his resentment safely contained. The late September air drifted past him, carrying the chill of the oncoming autumn, but he barely registered it, each step intent on leaving the very image of that wretched Hufflepuff standing there—her manicured fingers clutching that velvet pouch like it held his pride.

“Severus, wait—”

The faint hint of desperation in her voice only spurred him forward, jaw clenched and shoulders squared as he climbed the hill leading back up to the castle. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of looking back, not even to watch her flounder.

“Severus, come on—”

Still, he kept walking, his hands tightening around his books, ignoring her like a pesky, buzzing insect he could swat away with his silence. His only priority now was to get as far away from her as possible, to let the last of September’s cool, late-afternoon air cleanse him of her scent, her words, her infuriating presence.

“Severus—”

It was like déjà vu, what happened next.

Severus felt Charity’s fingers latch onto the sleeve of his robes, her grip insistent and sure. Before he could pull away, she yanked him backward with a force that made him stumble, his books toppling from his grasp as he struggled to keep his balance.

His books hit the ground in a series of dull thuds, the sound vibrating in the otherwise quiet afternoon. His ink bottle tumbled out from between the pages, rolling in a brief, dizzying arc in the air. The cap, which he must not have fastened properly in his haste, popped off with a faint click, and in a heartbeat, the bottle toppled over, spilling a dark, viscous splatter of ink onto the grass. 

For a moment, time seemed to slow as Severus watched in a dawning sort of stillness—the ink tipping over, spilling in a thick, dark stream that splattered across the grass, sinking into the earth like a stain. He could only stand there, his anger simmering just under the thin layer of his skin as he saw the ink pour over his notes, the careful margins filled with tiny diagrams and observations, each precious line vanishing beneath the creeping black.

The ink had splashed across Charity’s pristine Mary Janes and her spotless white knee-high socks, leaving a dark, spidery stain creeping over the polished leather and pristine wool. She looked down, aghast, one hand lifting her skirt away as if it were suddenly diseased. Severus felt a brief, vindictive satisfaction seeing the ink ruin her, just a little—until the reminder that Charity Burbage could probably afford to buy herself an entire factory of socks and shoes without blinking, and it soured the satisfaction.

But what really caught his attention was the loud, unmistakable sound that followed—a rip, sharp and jarring, slicing through the air with the cruel clarity of old, worn fabric giving way.

He didn’t have to look down to know what had happened. He could feel it, the loose fluttering of his sleeve hanging just a little too freely. Her hand still gripped his sleeve, but now it held only half of it. The other half, the part she had yanked, remained in her hand, the threads frayed and dangling, leaving his arm half-bared to the chilly afternoon air.

For a moment, they both stood there, staring at the torn sleeve, his rage pooling beneath his skin like molten lava threatening to erupt, while Charity looked at the torn fabric with something close to genuine shock. The pristine white of her socks now marred, the ink smeared across her shoes—the signs of her impetuousness everywhere, standing in stark contrast to the ruined remains of his sleeve and the dark ink spreading across his notes in the grass.

Severus stared unseeingly ahead, his eyes fixed on nothing as he breathed heavily, each breath rough around the edges, rattling in his throat. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, blinking.

Once. 

Twice. 

The furious heartbeat in his chest slowed, leaving a cavernous emptiness that felt deeper than anger. It was humiliation—raw and silent, simmering beneath his skin.

“Oh…god…” Charity said weakly, her voice little more than a whisper, drifting through the cool air.

Severus lifted his gaze, his dark eyes meeting hers. Charity flinched under the intensity of his stare, her face caught between apology and a fragile uncertainty. Her face held a rare expression—something close to real regret, her wide eyes clouded with the kind of dismay that suggested she was realizing, far too late, what she’d done. 

Severus took a deep breath.

Once.

Twice. 

He forced himself to move, leaning down to pick up the scattered remnants of his things. The ink had stained his hands, a dark blotch spreading across his fingertips and under his nails, but he didn’t care. His fingers closed around the edge of his books, lifting the ruined notes, his quill—each item picked up with a quiet, brittle resolve. The ink bottle rolled into his hand, its cap lying somewhere in the grass, and he forced it back on, pressing down harder than necessary.

He took another breath, then another, each one trying to fill the hollow ache sitting low in his chest. Finally, he rose up to his full height, holding his things in his ink-stained hands as he looked down at the Hufflepuff with a face as expressionless as stone. His dark gaze bored into her, unyielding and steady.

Wordlessly, he held out his hand, palm up and open, waiting for her to return the torn half of his sleeve.

“Severus—” she began, voice uncertain. 

He didn’t respond, just continued to stare at her, his hand outstretched, waiting with an unmovable patience that somehow felt even more unnerving. She looked at him, her lips parted as if to say something, to justify or explain, but then she seemed to realize there was nothing to say. She reached forward, slowly, holding the torn fabric as if expecting him to snatch it from her grasp.

But he didn’t. He waited until she dropped it into his hand.

Severus folded his fingers around the fabric. He could feel her eyes on him, searching, her gaze a tangle of apology and discomfort, but he gave her nothing to hold on to, not even a flicker of response. His voice, when it finally broke the silence, was calm, sharp as the first bite of winter frost.

“You want me to set you up with Mulciber?” He spoke without inflection, each word flat, unfeeling. His voice was still calm, his tone almost deceptively polite, as though he were discussing the weather. Charity watched him with wide, uncertain eyes, as if she knew that any wrong move could set off whatever terrible storm she’d ignited. 

“Alright,” he said quietly, his voice level, “I'll set you up with Mulciber.”

Charity’s mouth opened as if to argue, to let out some denial or apology, but he turned on his heel, fully intending to leave. The coolness of his voice and the abruptness of his movements seemed to shake her, but she recovered quickly, lunging after him.

“Severus, wait—” Her hand reached out again, but he rounded on her, his face taut, voice a warning, cold and unyielding.

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, each word laced with a venom that sent her stumbling back. “Fucking touch me.”

Charity faltered, her face paling, but she rallied quickly. “I’m sorry—” 

“Shut up.”

The words snapped out of him, sharper than any curse he could have cast. He turned away from her again, every muscle in his body coiled and tense, his hands clutching his ruined notes, the ink bleeding through the pages like dark, ugly veins. He didn’t look back, each step carrying him closer up the hill and towards the courtyard leading into the school.

But Charity was fast, heels clacking against the stone path as she hurried in front of him, blocking his path with a determined set to her jaw, arms spread as if she could somehow contain his wrath by sheer force of will.

“Severus, listen to me—”

He stopped, staring at her, his voice low, each syllable drawn out in icy precision. 

“Move.”

Charity swallowed, her face a mixture of frustration and helplessness, her gaze darting between his torn sleeve and the ink-stained notes in his hands. She opened her mouth, the words spilling out in a rush, clumsy and graceless.

Then the words came.

“I didn’t know you were poor!”

Silence.

The words hung between them, crass and raw, louder than they should have been, her voice somehow both embarrassed and matter-of-fact. Severus stopped dead, his eyes widening in shock before they narrowed into something far more dangerous. 

This was, by far, the most tactless attempt at an apology he’d ever heard, and he stared at her, dumbfounded.

Charity’s face blanched, as if she only just realized the words that had slipped out of her mouth. She backpedaled instantly, her hands lifting, her expression somewhere between apology and panic. 

“I wasn’t trying to offend you,” she talked, words tumbling out in a nervous torrent. “The money—it wasn’t—god, I didn’t even know you were a halfblood—”

“Move,” he repeated, his voice dangerously calm.

She didn’t move. 

Instead, her hands twisted together in a way that made her look young, almost childlike, but he felt no sympathy as he watched her flounder, grasping for words that didn’t exist.

“I wasn’t trying to make you seem like a charity case,” she protested, her voice almost pleading. “I don’t even do charity!”

He let his gaze slide over her, cold and indifferent, the same look he might give a flobberworm squirming in the dirt. Of all the things he felt in that moment, pity was not one of them.

He couldn’t even begin to process what she’d just said, or how blatantly ignorant and privileged it sounded.

She was a disgrace to her name, that was for sure. And to think she was a Hufflepuff—Severus wondered how the Sorting Hat had even managed to place her there, of all houses.

Severus’s eyes narrowed, his expression shifting from cold anger to something more incredulous as Charity’s words sank in. 

“That’s not something to be fucking proud of,” he said, a hint of genuine disbelief in his tone as he looked at her.

Charity threw up her hands in exasperation. She looked like she was on the genuine verge of an anxious break, and Severus hoped she would.

 “Oh, for gods’ sake, Severus,” she said, her voice threaded with frustration. “You hate me for apparently trying to treat you like charity, and now you hate me for not doing it?

Severus shook his head, looking off to the side, the gesture one of pure disbelief. He couldn’t fathom how she was still talking, how she was somehow finding ways to dig herself into an even deeper hole with every single word. 

The early afternoon sunlight cast a cold, pale light over the hill, filtering through the thinning September trees. Shadows stretched across the grass, the silence around them heavy and unforgiving in the absence of any other students. They were lucky—it was too early for classes to have let out, sparing him the humiliation of an audience. If anyone else had been around, this mess might have transformed into a full-blown spectacle, one that he could never even hope to live down.

He just wanted to leave. 

He wanted her to stop talking.

But Charity seemed oblivious to the depth of his resentment, her voice cutting into the stillness with a faint, persistent edge of guilt. 

“Look—” she said, sounding defeated, “I’m really sorry—”

“You’re many things, Burbage,” Severus said, cutting her off with a thin, humorless twist of his lips, “but a liar isn’t one of them.” He paused, looking down at her with a cool, appraising stare. “Don’t start now.”

Charity’s face shifted, her mouth tightening as if she was wrestling with the urge to keep speaking. But she didn’t back down. Instead, she raised her chin, meeting his gaze with a mixture of shame and insistence. 

“I am!” she protested, a note of defiance slipping into her voice. When she realized her tone, he doubled back, trying to sound gentle again. 

“Look,” she added, reaching into her robe to pull out her wand with a swift, determined motion. “You don’t want me to buy you a new one. Okay, I get it. But I’m good at charms. Let me—”

Severus recoiled immediately, stepping away from her, his expression twisting in an almost visceral rejection. 

“Are you fucking mad?” he demanded, the disgust in his tone unmistakable.

Severus wasn’t about to let her so much as touch his robes again. He looked at the torn fabric in his hand, his jaw tightening at the sight of the frayed edges. 

If Charity even understood Charms like she was so confidently suggesting, she’d know better than to try and use them on fabric this damaged. A severed piece like this needed to be stitched together physically before any charm could work. The rip she’d caused wasn’t some minor tear—a careless little slip of fabric. She’d torn his entire sleeve off, a clean, irreparable break that no amount of wand work could mend without ruining it further.

The grass beneath their feet was still damp from the morning dew, the smell of wet earth rising faintly in the air, mingling with the bitter scent of spilled ink. Severus could still see the dark stain spreading across the ground from where he stood above the hill, marking the place where his ink bottle had toppled, staining his notes, his books, and even the soil beneath. 

The cool afternoon air hung thick between the Slytherin and Hufflepuff, and he could see her brow furrow, some flicker of realization finally breaking through her obliviousness.

“Put that away,” he said coldly, his tone as cutting as glass.

He watched the Hufflepuff as she slid her wand back up her sleeve, and Severus took a long, steadying breath. 

He had to. 

The heat of his anger felt like a fire spreading beneath his skin, each second he spent standing here feeding that flame. His hands were shaking. In an attempt to steady himself, he lifted one hand toward his face, intending to rub his fingers over his eyes. But he paused, catching sight of his ink-stained hand, black streaks smeared across his skin from his ruined notes. He clenched his fingers instead, dropping his hand as he gripped his books with a vice-like hold in the other. 

Another breath—once, twice—pushing back the fury coursing through him.

Severus lowered his hand, locking his gaze on Charity, who stood there, her bright blue eyes wide and unflinchingly fixed on him, as if she could will him to soften. She opened her mouth to speak, but he held up his hand, silencing her with an expression that made his thoughts unmistakable.

“Listen carefully,” he said, voice low, every syllable weighed down with restraint. “And don’t you dare open your fucking mouth.” 

He saw her close it, her mouth snapping shut, the words swallowed as she shifted her weight slightly, her shoulders falling back, the faintest hint of something like penitence flickering in her eyes.

Severus let out another breath. 

Once. 

Twice.

“You want me to set you up with Mulciber?” he asked, his voice like steel, leaving no room for denial. “It’s why you’ve been harassing me for weeks, following me around like some rabie infected stray, right?”

He paused, watching the flicker of indignation and offense on the Hufflepuff’s face, but he didn’t wait for her to respond. 

“Fine,” he bit out, voice sharp as he straightened, standing taller. “You win.”

“But—”

“I told you to shut up,” he snapped, and she did, her mouth closing again, the hint of apology in her expression, though it meant nothing to him. 

Her crystal-clear eyes were fixed on him, but all he could feel was the pressure in his chest, rising with each furious thought. His chest rose and fell, and his breathing grew faster, his pulse like thunder in his ears.

He hated her—her privilege, her arrogance, her obliviousness, the way she could stand there with her spotless clothes and perfect posture, thinking herself innocent because she wasn’t openly or intentionally cruel, the way she could casually demand things from him, as if he existed only to serve her whims. He hated this damn school, with its manicured halls and its polished, wealthy students who had never known a day of real struggle in their lives. He hated that he was forced to breathe the same air as them, to be part of their world, to be nothing but collateral to their indulgent, passing amusements. The rage clawed at his throat, burned through his veins.

Severus took another deep breath, forcing his gaze up to the stone archway of the courtyard. The cold autumn air bit at his face, but he bit his lip, grounding himself, swallowing the storm of his rage inside him before it could overflow. When he finally looked back down, he saw Charity standing there, her posture stiff and poised, but he could see the subtle tension in her hands, her fingers fidgeting against her skirt.

Severus breathed—once, twice—then spoke.

“I’m going to give you exactly what you want,” Severus said, his voice steady and sharp as glass. He spoke slowly, deliberately, each word a nail hammered into place, as if trying to drill them into her mind. He took a step toward her, and she held her ground, her mouth opening as if to protest again. Severus stopped, just a few inches from her, and extended his ink-stained finger, pressing it against the pristine white of her blouse, nudging her back with just enough force to make her take a step away from him.

“Because the only way people like you” —he punctuated the words with another push, watching the ink smudge against her blouse, a dark, spidery mark against the spotless fabric—“ever leave people like me alone is if you wring us dry of everything we have.”

Her expression wavered, a mixture of guilt and uncertainty. She looked down at the ink stain spreading across her blouse, her cheeks turning pink, but Severus felt no satisfaction. She would wash it out, replace the blouse, buy an entire whole wardrobe if she so damn well pleased, and go on as if none of this had ever happened. Meanwhile, he’d be left with his ruined notes, his torn sleeve, and the bitter memory of this encounter etched into his mind.

“So go on, Burbage. Gloat,” he said, his voice low and biting. “It only took you three weeks to get me to crack. You’ve got my trampled pride, broken spirit, and unquestionable cooperation all in one now. Good for fucking you.”

She said nothing, her face falling, but he didn’t care. He was done with her, done with this charade. He’d wasted enough breath. 

“I’ll set you up with fucking Mulciber,” he spat, each word dripping with contempt. “You win, alright? You fucking win.”

He stepped away from her, his movements brisk and mechanical, not sparing her another glance. All he wanted now was to get as far away from her as possible, to put this entire debacle behind him. The ink stained his hands, his robes, even the cuff of his sleeve where her fingers had gripped, and he felt every inch of it as if it were a mark of burning resentment that threatened to consume him whole.

She didn’t follow him, and Severus thought, appraisingly, that it was maybe the smartest choice Charity Burbage had ever made. He didn’t glance back to see if she watched him leave, but he hoped she felt the sting of his rejection as keenly as he felt the sting of her thoughtless entitlement.

He walked briskly through the stone corridors, clutching his torn sleeve in one hand, the ink-stained books in the other. The ink had seeped between his fingers, dark and sticky, and with every step, he felt its slick presence against his palm. His grip was tense, his knuckles white. He needed to get back to his dormitory. He needed to be alone.

His back was straight as he walked, each step an effort to hold back the fury he could feel pressing against his ribs. He’d sew his sleeve back together in his dorm. He had a sewing kit there, tucked carefully into his trunk, just for moments like these. He’d stitch the fabric together first, then cast a Mending Charm to make it seamless. His robes would be as good as new. That was what he needed—a return to order, to control. That was how he steadied his anger.

Being angry—being emotional—was pointless, he reminded himself. He didn’t have time to wallow, to let his thoughts spiral into resentment. Instead, he needed to find solutions. That was how he’d always managed, by breaking down the problem into steps, actions he could take to rationalize the feeling away.

Why was he angry? Simple. His sleeve was torn, his pride trampled, his books stained with ink. How could he fix it? Easy. First, get as far away from Charity Burbage as possible. That was already done. Next, he’d cast a Straining Charm over his books, separating the wet ink from the pages so he could salvage whatever notes weren’t ruined. He’d wash his hands, scrubbing the ink from his skin until there was nothing left of Charity’s thoughtless destruction. Then he’d sew his robes back together, careful and exact. And whatever anger was left? He’d sleep it off.

With each step, his mind repeated the process, finding comfort in the sequence, the plan. The anger would pass. He wouldn’t give it the satisfaction of lingering. He’d purge every trace of it from his system, leave no embers for it to ignite again tomorrow.

He just had to put one foot in front of the other.

Severus continued down the sunlit hall, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone walls. With every step, he could almost hear the soft splatter of ink dripping from his books, hitting the floor in slow, deliberate drops, and he tightened his grips on the books, fingers growing numb with the effort, but he didn’t stop walking.

The world around him felt blurry, as if the rage had softened the edges of his reality. His attention was trained, but it wasn’t on anything in particular. His mind kept circling back to Charity’s face, to her fidgeting and apologies, to the feeling of the ink on his hands, the sense of violation, his wounded pride, and then the anger was back, and it held him in a suffocating grip.

So he kept walking.

Maybe that was why he didn’t notice the figure approaching until it was too late. His boots scuffed against the stone floor as he turned the corner, not looking up, not aware of the other person’s presence until he collided with them with a sharp, jarring force.

The impact knocked him back, his books teetering dangerously in his hands. His body flailed for balance, but his foot caught on the edge of a stone and sent him sliding backward. The floor came at him too quickly, and in the split second before he hit the ground, his mind screamed at him to keep a hold of his books before they splattered to the floor. His left hand instinctively stretched out to catch them, but that was when he felt it—one strong hand wrapping around his arm, pulling him back just as his body tipped toward the floor.

For a moment, everything was hazy. His heartbeat was loud in his ears, and the ink-stained pages seemed to pulse in his hands as he tried to steady himself. His breath was uneven, and his mind scrambled to regain control over his surroundings. It took him a moment to realize that the hands gripping him weren’t his own—someone else was holding him up.

He looked up, still slightly disoriented, and through the fog of his thoughts, he saw the face.

Bruce Mulciber Jr.

The recognition hit him with a strange combination of emotions that were too quick for him to process—other than his rage. He could process that.

Mulciber’s face was only inches from his, the reflex of pulling Severus up seeming to have pulled him closer than Mulciber had intended. 

Severus’s first glance up was met with the color of Mulciber’s eyes—and it was odd, the sudden realization that in the six years they had been dormmates, Severus had never actually looked Mulciber in the eyes.

Amber.

Mulciber’s eyes were amber.

They were startling—not the cold, indifferent brown his mind had filed to associate him with, but a rich amber, like the gleam of honey, or the deep warmth of whiskey reflected in crystalline glass. They were framed in thick, dark lashes that softened the harsh angles of his face. The sunlight filtering through the arched windows illuminated them, casting them in a strange, flickering light that made them almost dance like fire. 

Mulciber’s face was expressionless, though there was a familiar trace of boredom that everyone seemed to recognize in him as his staple. But as he looked down at Severus, he tilted his head just slightly, studying him, his gaze unreadable.

“You alright?” Mulciber asked. 

There wasn’t an ounce of concern in that drawl, merely the detached, almost lazy curiosity that Mulciber seemed to carry about everything. He may as well have been asking Severus about the weather rather than his emotional or physical wellbeing.

The simple question was enough to snap whatever fragile control Severus had managed to cling to. His rage swelled, filling every corner of his mind like water rising in a chamber, threatening to overflow. Without thinking, Severus shoved Mulciber back, hard.

The shove was instinctive, raw—a physical release of the anger Severus had held tightly wound within himself for far too long. For once, he allowed his frustration to escape, driving him to push Mulciber with a force he hadn’t anticipated. It wasn’t simply a reaction to whatever Mulciber had said; it was an expression of every ounce of annoyance, every shred of bitterness, every bottled-up shard of rage inside him. His hand connected with Mulciber’s chest with a fierce, trembling energy, channeling weeks, months, maybe years, of buried resentment. 

“Get your fucking hands off me,” he snarled, his voice sharp with barely contained anger.

The sudden aggression seemed to catch Mulciber off guard. His brows shot up as he stumbled back, and for the first time, a flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. It was a rare expression, one Severus had never seen on him before, and it only fueled his fury further. A deep, uncontained satisfaction surged through him as he saw Mulciber momentarily off-balance, grappling with whatever emotion he felt in the wake of Severus’s reaction.

But then Mulciber’s surprise faded, replaced by a hardening expression. His brows furrowed, his face twisting into something puzzled. He glanced down at himself, his once pristine white shirt now marred with ink splatters that bled into the fabric in thick, uneven stains. It was on his arm too, black ink painted into Mulciber’s dark skin, staining the hand that had held him up.

Slowly, almost methodically, he raised his gaze back up to Severus, his amber eyes now colder, flickering with an unreadable deliberation, as if he was actively contemplating what emotion was necessary for the situation at hand. His gaze raked over Severus, taking in every detail—the ink smeared across his cheeks and hands, the stains blurring the edges of his textbooks, the torn sleeve he clutched in one hand, hanging uselessly at his side. Severus could see the flicker of something calculating in Mulciber’s eyes as he examined him, as if he were making mental notes, piecing together whatever mess he assumed Severus had been through.

Mulciber opened his mouth, as if to ask a question, but before he could get a word out, a voice echoed through the hallway, cutting sharply into the tension between them.

“Bruce!”

Severus twitched slightly, his mind immediately bracing itself for the appearance of a blonde Hufflepuff as Mulciber’s head turned at the sound of his name. 

A girl was approaching them, her heels clicking against the stone floor. She was blonde, yes, but she was dressed in Slytherin colors, her green and silver tie slightly askew and her robes flowing behind her as she hurried over. She looked young—probably sixth year, maybe younger. Severus didn’t recognize her, which meant she wasn’t a seventh year, and was of little consequence to him, but her gaze was fixed solely on Mulciber.

She held out a neatly folded green tie in her hands. 

“You forgot your tie,” she said, her voice soft but distinctly affectionate—almost shy—her gaze locked onto Mulciber with a warmth that Severus found instantly irritating. But her eyes didn’t linger on Mulciber for long—she finally took in the scene around her, her gaze shifting from Mulciber’s ink-stained shirt to Severus himself, her expression turning quickly from confusion to surprise.

“Oh…” Her eyes widened, flicking between the two boys. Her gaze trailed over the ink splattered across Severus’s books, the smeared stains on his cheeks, his hands, and then down to the torn sleeve he held in one hand. It was obvious she was piecing together her own version of events, her eyes narrowing slightly as she looked back at Mulciber, her brows drawing together.

“What… happened here?” she asked, glancing at Mulciber for an explanation, her tone a strange mix of curiosity and concern, as though she’d walked in on something she wasn’t meant to see.

Mulciber, however, said nothing. His gaze turned on Severus, inclining his head as if wordlessly asking the same question. He took the tie from her hands without breaking eye contact with him, his movements slow, almost mechanical. He seemed unbothered by the ink stains seeping into his shirt, or the look of bewilderment on the girl’s face.

Severus felt the rage simmering just beneath his skin, so close to boiling over. His jaw clenched, and he tightened his grip on his books, forcing himself to hold back the biting retort that lingered on the tip of his tongue. He didn’t owe either of them an explanation. And he certainly didn’t care to give them one.

Severus moved forward, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched so tightly it almost hurt. His footsteps were sharp and deliberate. 

“Get out of my fucking way,” he muttered, his voice dripping with contempt as he brushed past a girl standing near Mulciber. The coldness in his tone was enough to send her scrambling back, nearly tripping over her own feet in her hurry to put distance between herself and the fuming Slytherin.

But Mulciber didn’t move. 

He stood there, arms at his sides, watching Severus with a curious, infuriating calm. Severus didn’t slow down. He shouldered into Mulciber without a second thought, the impact hard enough to make his own bones ache for a second as the thud of the collision resounded through the empty hall.

This was all Mulciber’s fault. 

Severus’s seventh year was supposed to be like all the others—focusing on his studies, avoiding nonsense, and steering clear of the unnecessary drama he loathed. 

He was fucking sick of this school. 

But ever since the beginning of term, his life had been turned upside down. All because some idiot girl couldn’t keep her obsessive interest to herself. She’d fixated on Mulciber, of all people, for reasons Severus couldn’t even begin to fathom, and in her obsession, had decided he was somehow a part of the equation, and made it his fucking problem just because they shared a fucking room .

Severus’s eyes flashed with reignited anger as he shot Mulciber a searing glare. His stare was practically a weapon, loaded with weeks of frustration built up. 

Mulciber’s face remained impassive, though. His hooded golden eyes stayed fixed on Severus, though there was a hint of confusion in his expression. 

Without another word, Severus turned sharply and left.

Severus had managed to fix two out of three things by the time he returned to his dorms.

He carefully separated every page of his books, painstakingly straining out each splotch of ink with magic until the words emerged clean once more, thankfully unharmed. His notes, to his relief, had survived intact, and he gently smoothed the parchment, feeling the familiar texture beneath his fingertips as he double-checked his work.

He had washed the ink off his hands. He cast Scourgify to loosen the ink, then scrubbed his hands under the tap until the inky water running down the drain finally turned clear. 

Then came his robes. 

He had worked with precision, scrubbing out the ink in rough, repetitive strokes, a familiar rhythm that seemed almost therapeutic, something to take his anger out on. His fingers had traced over the fabric, his mind half-focused as he scrubbed and watched the water darken, waiting until each streak faded and his robes looked close to normal again. He’d done the same with his white shirt, dousing it with another Scourgify and rubbing out as much ink as he could. Finally, he cast a drying charm over his clothes, watching the dampness disappear as the fabric smoothed itself back into place.

It wasn’t perfect—there was still a faint reminder of ink in places he couldn’t quite reach—so he had scrubbed until his hands were raw, casting Scourgify every other minute until he’d managed to get all the ink out. Severus allowed himself a moment, standing in the dim, empty bathroom of his and Mulciber’s dorm room, feeling the faint satisfaction of having reclaimed at least that much.

The one thing he hadn’t managed to fix, however, was his sleeve.

He’d sat on his bed with his torn sleeve draped across his lap, worn fabric frayed from Charity’s grip. Digging through his trunk, he’d pulled out a small sewing kit—an old, scuffed tin box filled with a few needles, scrap cloth, a handful of buttons and sewing thread collected over the years. But, as he rummaged through it, he realized he was missing the one thing he needed most: thread.

All of it had been used up. 

Severus had clenched his jaw and stared down at the torn fabric, his mind swimming in frustration. He didn’t even remember when he’d used it last, or why he hadn’t replaced it. He was usually meticulous about that, because he always needed to patch up his uniform or bag for one reason or the other, but he didn’t have it today,

He could almost imagine the delicate thread stitching everything back together, each stitch tightening back his rage. But without it, the tear remained open and unresolved, his sleeve cut cleanly away from his robes.  

He didn’t know how long he sat there, just staring, when the dorm door opened. 

Mulciber had stepped inside, his expression blank as he moved through the silence. Severus didn’t say anything, and Mulciber didn’t look at him. Wordlessly, Mulciber had peeled off his ink-stained shirt, Severus’s doing, and tossed it into the rubbish bin beside his bed, the careless gesture landing with a finality that Severus could feel in his chest.

Severus had blinked.

Once.

Twice.

His pulse had been a steady throb of anger and he’d known, somewhere in the back of his mind, that if he didn’t lie down and close his eyes immediately, he might just snap. So, without another word, Severus had closed the drapes surrounding his bed and thrown himself under the covers, shutting out the sight of the torn sleeve and the rubbish bin, the whole tangled mess of all this fucking bullshit, and let his eyes close.

The thing about the universe though, was that when Severus was having a bad day, it seemed to find every possible way to make his day worse.

It was the next morning, and Severus was in the Great Hall, sat alone at the edge of the Slytherin table, fingers working methodically as he peeled an apple. 

The skin unraveled in one smooth, unbroken loop, twisting in his hands as he directed his knife around his apple. The knife moved in precise, practiced circles, stripping the skin away in long spirals that curled and collected beside his plate. Around him, whispers began to rise, voices barely hushed as students tossed glances in his direction. Severus, however, kept his focus on the fruit in his hands. His hair slipped forward, brushing his cheek, and with a swift movement, he tucked it back behind his ear, fingers still curled around the knife before he returned to his apple.

The whispers grew louder, drifting over him, a persistent buzz that was punctuated here and there by the occasional muffle of laughter.

A low snicker echoed down the table, louder than the rest, until—

“What the bloody hell are you wearing, Snape?”

The voice cut through the hall, loud enough to reach every nearby ear. 

Severus didn’t have to look up to know who it was. 

Corban Yaxley was sitting just a few rows away, his mouth twisted in a smirk, flanked by his usual entourage, Macnair and Travers, who eyed Severus’s appearance with open amusement.

They were all staring at his clothes. 

Severus’s outer robes were missing, the fabric folded away in his dorm, its torn sleeve still unfixed. He’d considered using Transfiguration to make thread to fix his sleeve, but he’d dismissed the idea as quickly as it came. Transfigured fabric was temporary; it would fade in a set couple of hours, and he would spend a good amount of time doing more harm than good on the fabric of his robes the more he transfigured it. Severus would have had more luck waiting to form a permanent fix than a temporary one that would do more harm than good. 

So he didn't bother. 

Hogsmeade was this coming weekend—he’d buy proper thread there and make the repair the way he ought to. And all it would cost him was a single Knut. 

(It was a project he could consider—modifying transfiguration spells to see if Gamp’s Law could be bypassed into creating permanent transfigurations.)

In the meantime, Severus wore his uniform. His shirt was the typical standard white, slightly oversized, but clearly not the typical cut for a male student’s uniform. It skimmed his shoulders closely, the sleeves slightly billowed, falling a touch more delicately at his wrists where he had rolled up the sleeves just enough to keep them from interfering with his hands. 

Paired with it was a long, black flow of cloth that reached his ankles, its fabric pooling slightly around his shoes. It might have passed for robes if not for the lack of an upper half—but the lack of the upper half made the difference obvious as to what it was.

Yaxley and his gang took it in with open mockery, sharing grins as though he were the best joke they’d seen all day.

Ordinarily, Severus would have ignored them. Let them jeer to the walls, let their words fall into silence without so much as a glance. Usually, that was enough.

But today…today, a steady anger pulsed beneath his skin, fueled by the events of yesterday, mounted by the events of the past week, packaged by the events of the past month. Hell, throw in the past six years and blend it together if you had to. 

Severus was pissed. 

Slowly, Severus lifted his eyes, meeting Yaxley’s sneering expression with a cold, unblinking stare. The Great Hall had quieted around them, heads turning in curious silence to watch the scene unfold.

“Since you’ve got no use for your fucking eyes,” Severus said, his voice low and cold as he lifted his knife, pointing it with deliberate, steady precision at Yaxley, “how about I carve them out for you?”

The Great Hall went silent.

The silver of Severus’s knife glinted in the morning light, a silent, shimmering threat. For a fleeting moment, Yaxley’s smirk faltered, his expression flickering between surprise and unease, probably at the fact that Severus was aiming a knife at him instead of a wand, but Severus held his gaze, unwavering, the edge of fury clear in his eyes.

Severus let the silence stretch, his hand steady on the knife, his stare fixed and unyielding. Then, without another word, he returned to peeling his apple, dismissing Yaxley and his cronies as if they were nothing more than insects buzzing around his head.

It took Yaxley a heartbeat too long to process the threat, but when he did, fury flashed across his face, his sneer replaced by a look of cold rage. He shot up from the table, his chair scraping loudly, and pulled out his wand, face twisted in anger.

“You—”

“Yaxley,” came a new voice, warm and steady.

Wilhelm Wilkes had spoken, his tone cutting through the tension like a warm breeze. He was seated just a few chairs away, watching Yaxley with an expression of friendly ease. Severus took a moment to glance at him, eyes shifting over to the other Slytheirn momentarily.

Wilkes, as he always did, looked as if he had stepped out of a portrait. 

His blond curls were styled in an equally boyish and polished manner, framing his face with a perfection that seemed almost out of place on an 18 year old boy. His blue eyes were striking—a shade so vivid and clear that they seemed to brighten the dim morning light, calmly assessing the situation with an unruffled polite smile. His skin was pale and smooth, his features arranged with a symmetry that made him almost unnaturally handsome.

Even the robes he wore were impeccably pressed, each fold falling just right, the tailoring sharp and fitted to his lean frame in a way that subtly set him apart from the rest of the Slytherins. He stood out, an unmistakable figure even in a house filled with students who took so much  pride in their appearance. On the lapel of his chest, a silver prefect badge gleamed, polished to an almost mirror-like finish. 

Now that Severus looked at him properly, he noticed something else. There was a resemblance between Wilkes and Charity Burbage, their features sharing a certain delicacy he couldn’t quite point out. 

Maybe they were just the same brand of rich. 

They could almost have been twins—if not for Wilkes’s hair, which was just a touch lighter than Charity’s, which were like spun gold catching morning light.

Wilkes smiled at Yaxley, a pleasant, friendly smile that held not a hint of reprimand. It was as though he wasn’t breaking up a fight at all but merely engaging in light conversation over tea. His expression was open, his blue eyes warm, the kind of look one might expect from a close friend rather than someone intervening.

“Everyone is trying to have a calm breakfast,” Wilkes said, his voice soft, almost coaxing. “It’d be very considerate of you to sit down, don’t you think?”

The smile stayed in place, unwavering, a picture of friendliness that somehow left no room for disagreement.

Yaxley stood there for a long moment, wand still half-raised, his face shifting with anger. The hard glint in his eyes faded as he looked between Severus, who remained seated, and Wilkes, who simply waited with that warm, unhurried smile. Yaxley’s fingers tightened around his wand, knuckles turning white, but finally, with a sharp exhale, he lowered it and, after another tense pause, sat down.

Involuntarily, Severus let out a small breath, feeling the tight coil of tension in his body ease as he finally allowed himself to relax. He turned his attention back to his apple, slicing it into neat pieces before popping one into his mouth, savoring the moment of peace.

Mulciber was nowhere to be seen, his seat vacant despite the fact he’d been gone by the time Severus had woken up. And, thankfully, Charity wasn’t in the Great Hall either. 

His day was…normal.

It was as if a switch had been flipped, and Charity Burbage had vanished from Severus’s life.

Tuesday came and went, then Wednesday, then Thursday. Not once did he see that perfectly blown-out head of blonde hair, didn’t hear the rhythmic click of three-inch Mary Janes coming his way, didn’t even catch the faintest hint of vanilla or tonka in the hallways. She was gone, and it felt strange—a quiet, disorienting absence of something Severus realized his mind had internalized as part of his daily routine.

But it was exactly what he’d wanted. Severus wasn’t about to question it.

Now and then, he would remember that he had technically said that he would do what Charity had been asking for—setting her up with Mulciber. But genuinely? They both knew it’d been a lie. And even if it hadn’t been, how was he meant to go about talking to someone that, while they’d never outright spoken about their dislike of each other, was pretty fucking obvious. He’d pushed the thought aside whenever it crept in; Charity wasn’t badgering him about it anymore, so he reasoned it was fine. He didn’t owe her shit anyway.

Today was Friday. 

Severus had spent his morning in comfortable silence, taking comfort in the restored rhythm of his routine as he drifted from Potions to Herbology, thoughts absorbed in upcoming assignments. The week was nearing its end, and his mind was already wandering to the stack of notes he’d review later, and the fact that he had to go to Hogsmeade this weekend to get some thread for his robes. He turned a corner, books held at his side, and—

A hand suddenly seized his arm, pulling him back before he could react. Before he knew what was happening, he felt his back hit the wall, hard, the cool stone pressing against his shoulder blades. His books tumbled to the ground, pages fanning out across the floor.

The corridor was mostly empty, only a few scattered students milling about in the distance, oblivious to what was happening. Severus’s eyes darted up, and he found himself face to face with a Hufflepuff boy. 

The Hufflepuff boy towering over Severus was big, the kind of broad-shouldered, heavyset figure that could make most anyone feel cornered. His presence dominated the narrow corridor, his shadow casting long over Severus. His expression was cocky, a self-satisfied smirk stretching across his round face as he looked Severus over with an almost cocksure glint in his eye. His robes were worn loose, the Hufflepuff crest emblazoned on his chest, and he had the air of someone who knew he didn’t need much effort to intimidate.

Two other boys flanked him, close enough that Severus could feel their presence like a wall at his sides. One of them was tall and thin, with a hawkish face and sharp, narrow eyes that darted around as if constantly searching for potential amusement. He stood slightly hunched, his long fingers twitching at his sides, giving the impression of someone perpetually restless. The other boy was shorter but stocky, with a mean look about him, his small, beady eyes narrowing at Severus like he was trying to figure out exactly how to make the most of this opportunity.

This was…odd. 

None of these boys were regulars in Severus’s usual rotation of bullies. He didn’t even know their names. That might have been one of the strangest parts of it—he knew, at least by sight, most of his bullies. But these three? They were strangers to him, which meant he had no idea what this was even about or what to brace himself for.

The Hufflepuff’s smirk widened as he leaned in, his voice low and dripping with mock cordiality. 

“Well, well, Snape,” he said, voice like gravel. “Glad I could finally catch you up for a chat.”

Severus blinked, his mind scrambling to piece together what could’ve provoked this. As far as he was aware, he hadn’t pissed off anyone in particular this week, though he supposed it didn’t matter much when you were dirt poor in a rich private boarding school. Sometimes, that was all it took.

He gave the boy an incredulous look, eyebrows furrowing as he glanced from one face to another. 

“Who the fuck even are you?” Severus asked bluntly, his face twisting in a mixture of confusion and annoyance. The question slipped out before he could stop himself, the words drenched in bewilderment, because honestly, he was genuinely just… confused.

They didn’t answer right away. Instead, the Hufflepuff boy leaned in closer, his voice low but steady, a sneer curling on his lips. “What the bloody hell did you do to Burbage, huh?”

At first, Severus blinked, his mind struggling to process what was being said. His thoughts spun in confusion, but then—

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Severus muttered, his eyes darting to the side in exasperation. He could not believe this was happening right now.

The Hufflepuff boy’s grip on his collar tightened, forcing Severus to choke back a breath. The boy wasn’t finished. “We’ve been seeing you harassing her—bloody fighting her and yelling your arse off at a girl . Burbage at that. We let you off the hook ‘cause she seemed to like your spindly arse. Then all of a sudden, she comes back to the dorms crying, and the last person she went to see was you.”

Was this Charity’s boyfriend? No, that didn’t make sense. She was as shallow as they came—there’s no way she’d be with someone like him. And maybe it spoke on his opinion of her to hope she’d have better taste in men. She had her eyes set on Mulciber after all. Which meant he couldn’t be a jealous ex-boyfriend. No, if that were the case, he would’ve confronted Severus long before now. No, this was just another boy who thought sticking up for her would somehow score him points.

And once again, Severus found himself caught in the crossfire.

“What the bloody hell did you do to her, Snape?” the Hufflepuff demanded again, his grip tightening on Severus’s collar.

Severus stilled for a moment, his eyes flicking from one boy to the other, the absurdity of the situation finally hitting him. A chuckle bubbled up from deep within his chest, and before he could stop it, the laugh escaped—bitter, disbelieving, and loud.

The Hufflepuffs stared at him, taken aback by his sudden outburst. It wasn’t a laugh of amusement, but one of disbelief, as if the situation was so preposterous that it almost didn’t make sense. The boys exchanged confused glances, unsure whether they were being mocked or if Severus had completely lost it.

Severus wiped his hand across his mouth. 

“Listen,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I have to give you credit where credit is due. Using an impressive number of words to say absolute horseshit must be a skill on its own.”

With a grunt, he shoved the Hufflepuff off him, feeling a small measure of satisfaction as the boy stumbled back slightly. Severus rubbed at his neck, suddenly aware of the tightness there, the way the confrontation had left him stiff and keyed up.

“What did I do to her?” Severus repeated, mocking the question as he bent down to pick up his books, the sound of pages rustling filling the air. “Wasting my bloody fucking time asking stupid questions.”

Standing up again, Severus straightened, shaking his head in disbelief as he met the confused, angry stares of the three boys. They were silent, frozen in place, still trying to figure out what the hell was going on. Severus wasn’t going to make it easier for them.

“You can go on,” Severus said with a sneer, “I was just pointing out this remarkable skill set of yours of saying so much and yet absolutely nothing.”

One of his friends choked on a laugh. Severus heard it—a quiet, barely-contained sound—and he saw the Hufflepuff look over with a flash of rage.

Severus should have probably kept his mouth shut. He knew from years of experience that pissing off people that were already trying to hurt you was a bad idea. But he was feeling reckless today.

The Hufflepuff’s face twisted in fury. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”

Severus tilted his head, eyes lifting as he met the boy’s gaze. “I just think a ridiculous question deserves a ridiculous response.”

That seemed to hit a sore spot.

The Hufflepuff boy drew out his wand, his grip firm and his expression set with anger, his eyes fixed on Severus. Before Severus could even reach for his own wand, however, a voice cut through the corridor, clear and commanding.

“ Expelliarmus! ”

All heads snapped toward the source of the spell as the Hufflepuff’s wand flew from his hand, arcing through the air before landing into someone’s hand several feet away. 

Standing at the end of the hallway was none other than Charity Burbage, her presence immediately drawing attention. She was perfectly put together, as usual—her hair smoothed back with hardly a strand out of place, her uniform meticulously pressed, three-inch Mary Jane’s polished.

“Really, Preston?” she said, the edge in her voice palpable.

The boy in front of Severus, who had been glaring with a barely contained fury, instantly deflated. His shoulders slumped, his expression softened, and his hand moved up to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck, as if hoping the gesture might explain his actions. In that moment, Severus finally recognized him: Preston Fawley.

“Burbage,” Fawley began, his voice a poor attempt at casual, as though he could brush off what had just happened. He forced a smile as she approached, but there was a clear sense of unease in his posture. Charity’s heels clacked sharply on the stone floor with every step, her arms folded across her chest.

“I was just—” he stammered, fumbling for an excuse.

But Charity cut him off, her tone sharp and unwavering. “Apologize.”

Fawley’s mouth fell open, his face mirroring the stunned silence in the corridor. For once, Charity wasn’t wearing her usual cheerful smile, not even the sugary fake one she always seemed to have ready to have plastered on her face. Instead, her expression was almost cold, her brows pinched in a way that made even Severus blink in surprise. 

Fawley finally seemed to gather himself, though he still looked bewildered. He glanced between Charity and Severus, clearly struggling to understand the turn of events. He opened his mouth to speak, only for Severus to sneer slightly, his lips twisting in displeasure.

“I don’t need help from—”

“Not to you,” Charity interrupted, her gaze flicking to Severus with a touch of annoyance before focusing back on Fawley. “To me .”

Severus stiffened in surprise, caught off guard by her words. It took a moment for Fawley to process them, too. He looked at her in confusion, his forehead creasing as he tried to comprehend what she meant.

“W-what?” Fawley stammered, his cheeks beginning to flush. “What’d I do?”

Charity’s expression didn’t waver as she continued, her tone laced with impatience. 

“Embarrass me,” she replied simply. Her voice had a prim, clipped quality to it, as though she were scolding a child.

Severus watched, brow furrowing, his confusion mounting. And he wasn’t the only one. Fawley’s friends, who had been standing a few steps behind, were now exchanging baffled looks. Fawley himself seemed completely at a loss, glancing around as if hoping someone might help him understand.

“ Embarrass you?” he repeated, his voice rising slightly. “How—what are you talking about?”

Charity’s eyes narrowed, her lips pressing into a tight line. She folded her arms a bit tighter, her voice steady and calm, but with an unmistakable bite. “Tell me, Fawley, why I’m suddenly hearing rumors that you like me?”

Fawley’s face went beet red, his composure crumbling. He opened his mouth, only to close it again, floundering for a response as Charity’s words seemed to settle over him like a lead weight. He spluttered, his face growing more and more crimson with every second, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Severus arched a brow, mildly entertained by the spectacle unfolding before him. He hadn’t expected this at all, but watching Fawley trip over himself was more amusing than he cared to admit.

“So tell me,” Charity continued, her voice cool and composed, “what am I doing wrong?”

The question seemed to knock the breath out of Fawley. He stared at her, his mouth moving wordlessly as he tried to process what she was saying.

“W-what?” he managed to stammer, his voice barely audible. “Nothing! You’re… perfect.”

“Oh, but I must be doing something wrong,” Charity said, her tone calm yet scathingly direct, “if I somehow managed to give someone like you the impression that you could like me .”

There was a stunned silence, and then a snicker broke from one of Fawley’s friends. It was quickly muffled by a cough, but the damage was done. Fawley shot them a furious look, his face turning an even deeper shade of red, but it only seemed to make him look more flustered.

Severus couldn’t help the disbelieving twist hat crept onto his lips, his eyes flicking between Fawley and Charity with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. He hadn’t expected her to tear into him quite like this, but he wasn’t about to complain. This was her fault to begin with.

Fawley looked like he wanted to sink into the floor, his eyes wide with embarrassment and indignation. He stammered again, his gaze darting from Charity to his friends, as though hoping for an escape. But Charity wasn’t finished. With a dismissive shake of her head, she turned toward one of the arched windows lining the hallway, her heels echoing against the stone as she walked over to it.

In her hand, she held Fawley’s wand, twirling it idly between her fingers. She leaned out the window slightly, her arm extending until the wand dangled precariously outside, held only by her fingertips.

Fawley’s eyes widened in horror, his embarrassment forgotten as he took a step toward her. “Oh, come on, Burbage,” he said, his voice pleading.

With a slight tilt of her head, Charity released her grip on the wand. It slipped from her fingers and plummeted down toward the ground below.

There was a stunned silence in the corridor, broken only by the clattering sound of Preston Fawley’s wand as it bounced against the stone ledge of the open window and plummeted down to the grounds below. Fawley’s mouth dropped open, his eyes wide as he looked at Charity.

“Fetch,” Charity said simply, her tone cool as she watched him.

Fawley sputtered, glancing helplessly at his friends for support, but they merely snickered, looking away as if they wanted no part of whatever was unfolding here. One of them actually stifled a laugh, glancing at Fawley with poorly disguised amusement.

“Are you kidding me?” he finally managed, the color in his face deepening from red to something close to purple.

Charity, perfectly composed as ever, folded her arms and leaned one shoulder against the window frame. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” she asked, arching an eyebrow.

Severus couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow as Charity held her head high, watching Fawley with an unimpressed glare.

Fawley’s face went red with fury, his jaw clenched tightly as he glared at Charity. For a brief moment, he took a step forward, his fists curled as if he’d forgotten himself entirely. Severus immediately pulled out his wand, but before Fawley could get any closer, his friends pulled him back, their hands gripping his shoulders, trying to hold him in place.

“Come on, mate,” one of them muttered, his voice low but firm.

“She’s a girl,” the other added, glancing uneasily at Charity, who looked completely unperturbed.

Fawley’s face twisted in frustration, his eyes darting between Charity and the open window where his wand had disappeared. His hands balled into fists, and he let out a furious exhale. With one last scowl directed at Severus, he pulled free from his friends’ grip and stomped off down the corridor, muttering curses under his breath as he headed toward the stairs to retrieve his wand. His friends exchanged awkward glances, then hurried after him, clearly trying to calm him down as they went.

And then, as the footsteps faded away, it was just Charity and Severus in the corridor.

Severus slowly straightened, still holding his books in one arm, eyeing Charity with a mix of confusion and something close to curiosity—like he was looking at an odd mixture of elements in a potion, or incompatible equations in Arithmancy. 

As soon as Fawley and his friends rounded the corner and were out of sight, Charity seemed to sag a little, letting out a small, shaky breath. The steely mask she’d worn during the confrontation slipped away, revealing a hint of uncertainty in her eyes. She took a moment to gather herself, but then her gaze drifted sideways, and she seemed to realize—perhaps for the first time—that Severus was still there, watching her.

Instantly, she stiffened again, lifting her chin, as if trying to rebuild the composure she’d just lost. But her usual bravado was nowhere to be found, especially not with Severus’s dark eyes studying her so closely. Her shoulders squared, and she cleared her throat, her gaze darting between him and the floor.

“I’m… sorry,” she began, her voice uncharacteristically hesitant, though she tried to keep it steady. “I know you told me to leave you alone, and I have, mostly. But this—” She glanced down the hall in the direction Fawley had gone. “This was my fault, so…”

Severus didn’t respond, just stared at her in that unnerving, silent way he had, which only seemed to make Charity more flustered.

She shifted, visibly struggling under the weight of his stare, and eventually managed, “I’ll… get out of your hair.” As soon as she said it, she seemed to realize what she’d said, her face coloring slightly. “That wasn’t me making fun of you—or your hair,” she clarified quickly, stumbling over the words. “I mean… I actually like the look.”

Severus blinked, the faintest crease of confusion crossing his features as he watched her.

Charity, on the other hand, was spiraling, her nerves breaking through. “It’s very L’Uomo Vogue , actually. Designers like Pierre Cardin and Rudi Gernreich—they love putting a good-looking boy in a skirt. And, you know what they say: ‘Before it’s in fashion, it’s in Vogue.’ So—good on you for setting trends.”

She trailed off, clearly aware that she’d just been rambling. Her cheeks flushed a little as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, glancing off to the side as if hoping the wall might swallow her whole.

Charity hesitated, her gaze flickering up to Severus as if there were words just on the tip of her tongue. Her lips parted, and for a second, it seemed she might actually say something more—some final comment or maybe even an explanation. But then, as quickly as the moment came, it vanished. She pressed her lips together, her expression faltering, and she closed her mouth.

“Yeah,” she muttered finally, nodding to herself. “I’ll just… go.”

She took a step back, still not quite meeting his eyes, her heels echoing in the silence of the corridor as she left.

Chapter Text

CHARITY BURBAGE DIDN’T do things by halves. Severus knew this—he’d suffered firsthand for an entire month since school had started. 

She had no concept of moderation, no understanding of restraint. If she wanted something, she pursued it with relentless enthusiasm, a hurricane of perfectly tailored robes and sugar-sweet charm that—personally, made his skin crawl—even the most stoic professors couldn’t help but crack a smile. And since the start of term, what she had wanted was Bruce Mulciber.

Her persistence had been spectacular, at least—in the most horrifying way possible that is.

She had hounded Severus so thoroughly for the entire month since the term had started to the point that he had begun to hallucinate her distinct Keningston drawl voice in his sleep.  He had woken up in a cold sweat at least three times since meeting her, where Charity had somehow infiltrated his subconscious, demanding to know why he was so difficult, why he wouldn’t just help her—as if facilitating a relationship with Bruce Mulciber was his life’s calling.

It had scarred him so deeply that at any sight of blonde polished hair, or the distinct click of Mary Janes, or even the smell of vanilla and tonka, triggered him enough that he was willing to hex someone. 

Which, incidentally, had happened. 

Twice. 

But then, the incident by the lake happened, and everything changed.

For weeks now, Charity Burbage had finally left him alone, and for that brief reprieve, he had been indescribably grateful. Aside from a brief encounter in the corridor with Fawley, where she’d helped him, and after an awkward attempt at complimenting him, had passed by him without so much as a word, and it seemed she had finally gotten the message.

Or so he thought.

Because while Charity Burbage may have stopped talking to him, she had apparently decided that the only way to earn his forgiveness—or maybe his approval—was to make it her personal mission to apologize to him in any way she could without directly talking to him.

But Jesus fucking Christ.

The room was in absolute chaos. 

Flames were climbing the walls, twisting and writhing in unnatural shades of green that cast eerie shadows across the dungeon. The fire roared with a life of its own, hissing and crackling as if it were feeding on more than just the wooden desks and parchment scattered about the room. The air was thick with smoke, acrid and choking, curling toward the ceiling in dense black clouds.

Students screamed as they pushed and shoved toward the narrow doorway, the din of hysteria filling the air. Some girls clutched each other, their shrill cries rising above the chaos. Others stumbled in their rush to escape, sending chairs clattering to the floor.

“Out! Everyone out!” Professor Slughorn bellowed, his usual jovial tone replaced by sharp urgency. He waved his pudgy arms like a conductor trying to corral a stampeding orchestra. “Prefects, take charge—hurry!”

The prefects snapped into action, weaving through the mayhem to herd the panicked students toward the door. Edgar Bones, the Ravenclaw prefect, stood near the back, his voice cutting through the din like a whip.

“Come on, everyone! Move! Single line, no bloody pushing! Don’t stop—just go!” he shouted, gesturing frantically for the stragglers to hurry.

Near the edge of the chaos, Severus was entirely unbothered by the flames or the smoke. His focus was on his desk, where his battered books and carefully written notes were spread out. He snatched up his quills and ink bottles with swift, quick movements, shoving them into his fraying, patched-up bag. His Potions textbook, Herbology textbook—tattered, second-hand editions—were tucked under his arm as he worked to collect the last of his scattered parchment.

“Snape, what the bloody hell are you doing?!” Edgar Bones roared, his face red with frustration as he stormed toward him. “Move! Or do you not see the bloody fire?”

Severus didn’t even glance up, stuffing the last of his parchment into the bag. 

“I see it perfectly fine, Bones,” he replied, his voice cutting and dry as he coughed through the smoke. “But unless your illustrious monthly allowance is going to buy me replacements, I’d suggest you mind your own fucking business.”

Edgar’s mouth fell open in disbelief, his exasperation practically radiating off him. “Are you joking? You’re seriously going to stand here while the classroom burns down just to save some scraps of parchment? Have you gone mad?”

“I am serious,” Severus said over the fire, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Unlike you, I can’t afford to let scraps of parchment burn to ash. Some of us don’t have the luxury of popping off to Flourish and Blotts every term.”

“You’re mental,” Edgar sputtered, throwing his hands up in the air. “Absolutely bloody mental!”

“Thank you for the diagnosis,” Severus said as he moved towards the back door along with the prefect, bumping into his shoulder as he walked out of the door. He had his wand drawn, the smoke thickening around them as they rushed into the hallway.

At the front of the room, Slughorn was having his own battle with the flames. His usually jovial and unflappable demeanor was cracked wide open as he stumbled backward from the roaring fire.

“Aguamenti!” he shouted, sending a jet of water from his wand toward the blaze. The fire hissed angrily in response, but instead of dying down, it flared higher, spreading even faster across the desks.

“Ventus!” he tried next, casting a powerful gust of wind. The flames leapt hungrily, greedily feeding on the fresh oxygen. Papers swirled through the air, and chairs toppled over, clattering loudly against the stone floor.

“ Glacius! ” Frost crept across the floor, spreading in a thin layer of icy blue, but the fire seemed to defy the spell, crackling louder, its green glow burning brighter.

“Get back! Everyone, get back!” Slughorn shouted, his voice hoarse now as the heat in the room became unbearable.

Through the chaos, Professors Merrythought and Flitwick appeared coming through the hallways, moving towards Slughorn at the door, their wands already drawn. They began casting spells in quick succession, their movements sharp and controlled, but the fire fought back as if it was alive, growing louder and fiercer with each attempt. Professor McGonagall came by in quick succession.

Severus moved back along with the other students. Because he also wasn’t an idiot, he moved to the complete back, using the rest of the class as flesh shields as they all stumbled to get away from the fire. He had his bag clutched tightly to his chest as he moved.

Severus stumbled, foot catching on loose stone, and he caught himself by bracing his elbow against the wall. It was getting so damn hot in the dungeons with that fire, and the students kept pushing back.

When he moved back further, he felt a sharp, unexpected tug at the strap of it that had been hanging at his side.

Severus turned sharply, his hand shooting out like a striking snake to grab the wrist of whoever had touched him. His grip was iron, his eyes blazing with a warning as his lips twisted into a sneer.

“Who the—” he hissed, his voice low and venomous. For a brief moment, the classroom’s chaos seemed to fall away, and it was just him, every instinct honed and conditioned over the years into making sure he was always ready for the potential of getting mugged.

He got ready to twist the wrist of whoever it was—before he actually saw who had grabbed his bag. 

It was Charity.

She stood frozen, wide-eyed, one hand half-raised in surrender, the other still gripped into his bag.

“Burbage?” he hissed, recoiling as his body relaxed. Charity was standing there, her hair—along with every part of her—still put together even in the chaos. He didn’t even know where she had appeared from. She didn’t take this class, after all. And her face was set with an uncharacteristic urgency.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Severus hissed out, his voice harsh.

“Give me your bag,” Charity demanded, her hand still gripping the strap as she pulled slightly.

Severus tightened his hold instinctively. “Are you insane?”

“Severus, listen to me!” she snapped, her voice low and urgent. Her gaze darted toward the professors, who were shouting incantations over the roaring flames. The fire was beginning to spit sparks across the room, and the oppressive heat made the air shimmer. “Travers put a—” 

Before she could finish, the classroom exploded into a deafening boom .

A blinding cloud of thick, acrid smoke erupted, rolling out like an unstoppable wave and consuming the dungeon in seconds. The once-dim halls plunged into utter chaos. Shrieks and panicked cries rang out as students ducked instinctively, their arms flying up to shield their heads from the imagined debris.

The smoke clung to the air like a living thing, dense and choking, clawing its way into lungs and noses. The sharp stench of burning ingredients stung eyes and throats, forcing them to cough and wheeze in ragged gasps. Shadows of students stumbled blindly, clutching at desks, walls, or each other for stability, their faces pinched in panic.

Someone tripped, sending a suit of armor clanging to the stone floor, the noise sharp and jarring against the cacophony of chaos. Others huddled low, pulling their robes over their faces in a desperate attempt to filter out the noxious air.

Severus doubled over, one arm braced against the cold stone wall, hacking violently. The sour, acrid air burned his throat and lungs, and tears stung his eyes as he fought to see through the impenetrable haze. His thin frame shuddered with each cough, his vision blurred by tears streaming from the smoke. He could hear others stumbling, the scrape of shoes against stone as students groped blindly for safety.

In the chaos, his grip on the bag slackened.

Charity seized her chance, wrenching the bag from his hands as they both struggled to breathe.

Through the smoke, a commanding voice rang out—Fenwick, the Hufflepuff prefect. 

“Ventilatus!” he bellowed, and a gust of clean air swept through the dungeon corridors, carrying the choking smoke away.

As the haze began to lift, Severus straightened, coughing harshly, his lungs burning with every breath. His sharp eyes darted around the chaos until they landed on Charity Burbage. She was a few feet ahead of him, crouched low, fumbling with something in her hands.

There on the floor lay his bag, crumpled and open, the contents spilling out haphazardly. For a moment, Severus’s stomach dropped as he took in the sight. Charity had his bag—and, worse, it looked as though she had taken something from it.

Her hands were clasped tightly around a few small objects, something she seemed to tuck into the folds of her robes. She glanced up suddenly, her eyes wide as if caught in the act.

“Burbage!” Severus hissed, his voice sharp and venomous, cutting through the din of the remaining chaos.

But Charity didn’t stop. With a startling burst of speed, she turned and bolted down the corridor, her heels clicking against the stone floor in rapid, uneven strides. Severus could hardly believe it—how was she moving so fast in those impractical shoes?

“Charity!” he snarled out, louder this time, his fury rising with every second. He surged forward, but before he could take more than a step, she was gone—vanished into the shadows of the dungeons, leaving him staring at the empty space where she’d been.

His fists clenched at his sides as he stood over his bag, his mind racing. He barely had a chance to process what had just happened when a cold, clipped voice sliced through the remaining air like a knife.

“Enough!”

Severus’s head snapped up to see Professor McGonagall standing at the head of the corridor, her stern face illuminated by the flickering light of the green flames still smoldering in the classroom. She looked utterly livid , her sharp eyes raking over the cluster of NEWTs students who had spilled into the hallway.

“Everyone will remain exactly where they are, ” she commanded, her tone leaving no room for argument. Her lips were pressed into a thin line, and her tartan robes billowed slightly as she stepped forward, surveying the disheveled, smoke-streaked crowd.

Severus froze, his anger momentarily eclipsed by the commanding presence of the professor. Whatever had just transpired with Charity would have to wait. For now, McGonagall was demanding answers—and it was clear she wasn’t leaving without them.

The professors continued their efforts, moving further back as the stubborn fire hissed and crackled, refusing to yield. Slughorn waved his wand with increasingly desperate movements, sweat dripping down his ruddy face as he muttered incantations to smother the flames. Merrythought, her expression as grim as Severus had ever seen it, cast precise, methodical spells, her wand slicing through the air. Flitwick, standing on a conjured platform to gain height, also worked, his tiny frame tense as he directed spells to counter the fire’s rapid spread.

Soot swirled in the air, a thick, cloying presence that coated everything. It settled into the students’ hair and robes, streaking their faces with smudges of black. The smell was suffocating and sharp, filling the corridor and clinging to their clothes and skin. Students coughed and rubbed at their eyes, some still trembling from the chaos as the last embers of the fire were extinguished.

Professor McGonagall stepped forward with a commanding presence, her expression stern as she surveyed the disheveled group of students. With a sharp flick of her wand, she muttered, “ Purgo Aerem! ” 

A refreshing gust swept through the air, expelling the lingering soot and clearing the atmosphere of smoke and ash. The same motion cleaned the students and professors alike, their hair and robes suddenly pristine. 

“Much better,” McGonagall said briskly, her tone leaving no room for argument as she straightened. Beside her, Professor Flitwick worked diligently, directing small bursts of magic toward the classroom to repair the damage. Splintered desks reassembled themselves, broken glass leapt back into place, and blackened walls were slowly restored to their former state.

McGonagall’s sharp gaze swept over the gathered students. 

“Is anyone injured?” she demanded, her voice calm but firm. “If you require urgent assistance, speak now.”

The prefects sprang into action without needing further instruction. Edgar Bones and Benjy Fenwick began moving through the crowd, checking on their fellow students. Edgar crouched next to Emmeline Vance, a Ravenclaw who was sitting on the floor, her face twisted in pain as she clutched her ankle.

“It’s sprained,” she said with a wince, biting her lip.

“Yeah, it is,” Edgar replied. Drawing his wand, he pointed it at her ankle and cast, “ Episkey! ” A soft blue light wrapped around the injury, and the sharp angle of the sprain corrected itself.

“Better?” he asked, helping her stand.

Emmeline nodded, though her face remained pinched. “The pain’s still there,” she admitted, gingerly testing her weight on the foot.

From his place near the back of the group, Severus’s hand instinctively went to his bag. He knew exactly what would help. His soothing balm was specifically designed for situations like this—where the spell had done its job of mending the injury, but the swelling and discomfort persisted. He had painstakingly refined the potion to be more effective than anything available in the hospital wing.

His hand paused on the strap of his bag. What was he doing? He frowned, shaking off the impulse as quickly as it had come. This was Edgar Bones’s job, not his.

Some students who had been closest to the fire had their hair singed, the edges frayed and uneven, and faint scorch marks streaked their robes. But beyond the cosmetic damage, no one had been burned or seriously hurt. The explosion had been more about force and smoke than flame, though the lingering acrid smell was enough to make anyone’s eyes water.

Once the injured had been seen to and the soot cleared from the air, the professors finally stepped away from the classroom. The flickering remnants of the fire were extinguished, and the classroom now stood in a state of charmed disrepair, with parts of the furniture still mending themselves under Professor Flitwick’s careful guidance.

“Well!” Slughorn exclaimed suddenly, breaking the heavy silence with a hearty laugh. He clapped his hands together, his expression a mix of lingering tension and forced cheer. “I do love teaching NEWTs students! Never a dull moment, eh?”

Several students gawked at him, and a few exchanged incredulous glances.

“This is no laughing matter, Professor Slughorn. I would advice you not to make light of it,” came Professor McGonagall’s icy tone, cutting through the room like a blade. She stood stiffly, her arms crossed and her lips pressed into a disapproving line. “What on earth were the students brewing to cause such a spectacle?”

Slughorn cleared his throat and gestured toward the scattered cauldrons through the door. “Ah, well, Minerva, they were working on a rather advanced potion today—the Ouroboros Draught . It’s quite a complicated brew, one designed to temporarily enhance mental clarity and memory retention. Useful for academic purposes, you see, but very tricky to make. Requires precise handling of volatile ingredients, such as powdered bicorn horn, essence of moonstone, and…” He trailed off, counting on his fingers. “Oh yes, a delicate infusion of scarab beetle extract during the final stages. Very temperamental.”

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow, her sharp gaze scrutinizing him. “And how on earth did a reaction such as this occur? There are no ingredient in that list that should have caused an explosion of this magnitude.”

Slughorn tugged at his mustache, a jovial laugh escaping him. 

“You’re quite right, of course,” he admitted, his jovial tone slightly subdued. “Nothing in the standard recipe would account for such an… energetic reaction. But, as you know, potions are an ever-evolving art. The smallest deviation—intentional or otherwise—can yield unexpected results. And when you’ve got a classroom full of creative minds…” He trailed off with a shrug and a hesitant chuckle.

McGonagall’s frown deepened. “Creative minds or reckless hands, Professor Slughorn? There is a difference,” she said sharply, her voice low but cutting. Her gaze swept over the students again, her expression unreadable but unyielding.

The tension in the air grew once more as her eyes lingered on the Slytherins clustered in the back, their expressions guarded. A few in particular shifted uncomfortably under her scrutiny, their fingers twitching at their sides.

“We will discuss this further,” McGonagall said, her voice dropping into a dangerous calm. “For now, I expect full cooperation from everyone. We will find out what caused this.”

Her words hung heavily in the air, a promise that left no room for argument. McGonagall’s sharp gaze flicked over the room once more, her eyes narrowing with growing suspicion. 

“Whose cauldron exploded?” she asked, her voice controlled. A beat of silence stretched through the room, until, with a slow and hesitant motion, a hand rose from the front of the hall. 

Cynthia Macmillan.

“I promise, Professor,” the Gryffindor began quickly, her voice tinged with desperation as she met McGonagall’s gaze, “I followed all the proper instructions. I was even done brewing and had set my cauldron down to simmer. I only looked away for a second and then—”

Her words trailed off, and McGonagall’s expression softened just slightly, though the coolness never left her eyes. 

“A second?” she repeated quietly, her tone challenging yet patient. “A second is all it takes for disaster to strike, Miss Macmillan. Now, what exactly did you see when you turned back?”

Cynthia swallowed, feeling the weight of McGonagall’s scrutiny, and quickly began to explain.

“I…I’m not sure,” Cynthia replied, pursing her lips, “It all happened so fast.”

Silence.

Mcgonagall paused, her attitude seeming to have softened now that it was one of her lions at the scene of the crime, but she remained resolute.

As the silence stretched uncomfortably in the corridor, another hand slowly rose into the air. A Hufflepuff girl, her robes badly singed and her hair uneven and frayed from the explosion, shifted nervously on her feet. Her face was pale, and she looked like she would rather be anywhere else.

“Yes, Miss Travers?” Professor McGonagall prompted, her sharp gaze softening slightly at the girl’s clear unease.

“I—I think I saw something,” Travers stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes darted nervously toward a group of students before fixing on the floor.

“Speak up,” McGonagall urged, her tone firm but not unkind. “What did you see?”

Travers swallowed hard, clutching at her singed robes. “I—I saw Snape,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “He… He put something into Cynthia’s cauldron.”

The words echoed in the corridor like a lightning strike.

Every head turned toward Severus, and he froze, rooted to the spot. His pulse thundered in his ears, drowning out the hushed murmurs that immediately rippled through the gathered students.

What. 

The. 

Fuck.

The weight of their stares bore down on him like a physical force, a mix of suspicion, shock, and curiosity painting the faces around him. Even the professors were looking at him now, McGonagall’s sharp eyes narrowing with the kind of scrutiny that made Severus’s skin prickle.

He clenched his fists at his sides, his mind racing. What the fuck was Travers on about? He hadn’t touched anyone’s cauldron, let alone Macmillan’s.

“Miss Travers,” McGonagall said evenly, though her voice carried a dangerous edge. “Are you certain of what you saw?”

Travers nodded hesitantly, her voice a little stronger now. “Yes, Professor. I saw him lean over her cauldron just before the explosion.”

The silence that fell over the corridor was suffocating, a weight pressing down on everyone in the hall as Severus Snape’s lips parted. His jaw didn’t quite drop, but his expression came dangerously close to one of genuine shock—an uncharacteristic crack in the carefully constructed mask he wore.

His dark eyes darted first to the other students, their faces alight with curiosity and scandal, then to the professors, all wearing various shades of suspicion. Finally, his gaze zeroed in on Travers.

She stood a little apart from the others, her Hufflepuff robes still charred from the explosion. The hem was frayed, and her yellow tie hung loosely, as though hastily retied. Her bangs were uneven, a jagged mess of singed ends that framed her pale, freckled face. She looked ready to bolt but somehow held her ground, her trembling hands clutching at the edges of her robes.

The silence shattered like glass.

“Are you on fucking drugs?” Severus asked, his voice sharp and incredulous.

The collective gasp that followed was almost deafening. Students turned to each other, eyes wide, mouths agape. Even the professors, seasoned veterans of classroom chaos, looked momentarily stunned. Professor McGonagall’s lips pressed into a tight line as her sharp gaze snapped to Severus.

“Mr. Snape,” she said, her voice cutting through the murmurs like a whip. “That language is utterly unacceptable. And I will not have such vulgarity in this school, let alone directed at a fellow student.”

Severus’s hands flared out in exasperation, incredulity still plastered on his face as if the reaction around him was completely unwarranted.

“It was an honest question.” 

McGonagall’s nostrils flared, her tone icy but controlled. “There is nothing honest about a question meant to humiliate and demean another student—“

“And what about her?” Severus said, his shock seemingly making him stupidly fearless—enough to argue with Mcgonagall, “She’s demeaning me right now —”

“You are expected to conduct yourself with dignity and respect, Mr. Snape—qualities which you are sorely lacking at the moment.”

“Well, what am I supposed to say?” Severus shot back, his tone biting, “when she sounds half coked up on bloody fairy dust—”

“That will do!” McGonagall’s voice rose sharply, silencing him mid-sentence. Her expression was livid now, her tone laced with disappointment and anger. “Ten points from Slytherin! And you will watch your tongue, or it will be a week of detention before you can even blink.”

“I’m not lying!” Travers suddenly screamed, her voice shrill and jarring, cutting through the tension like a knife. 

Severus rolled his eyes dramatically, his sneer widening. “Oh, of course not. But tell me, do your delusions come with subtitles, or do we just have to interpret the madness as it goes?.”

McGonagall’s head snapped toward him, her voice sharp enough to make the students flinch.

“Mr. Snape, that is enough!” she snapped, her tone brimming with authority. “You are treading on very thin ice. Another word, and I assure you, your insolence will earn you far more than a loss of House points.”

Severus exhaled harshly through his nose, shaking his head as he looked off to the side. 

“Unbelievable,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Travers’s face crumpled further under the weight of Severus’s glare, but she refused to back down. Her voice trembled but was steady enough to carry through the corridor. 

“I’m not lying!” she insisted, and oh for gods sake she was crying now, tears glinting on her cheeks. How the bloody hell was he supposed to win against that? “Check his bag if you don’t believe me!”

Severus stiffened, his heart skipping a beat. 

His bag? 

McGonagall’s gaze sharpened, her lips pressed into a line so thin it was barely visible. 

“Miss Travers,” she said, her voice lowering to an unnervingly calm tone, “you are aware of the gravity of accusing another student of such behavior? Do you understand the consequences of making a false accusation?”

Travers nodded quickly, her voice cracking under the weight of the situation. “I—I swear, Professor! I saw it! I saw him! He took something from his bag and put it in her cauldron! Then he put it back in his bag!”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Severus spat, his voice loud enough to echo.

“Mr. Snape!” McGonagall’s voice thundered once more, her face a mask of fury. “This is your third and final warning. Not another word of profanity! If you cannot control your tongue, I will personally ensure that you do so under detention for the remainder of the term!”

That shut him up.

Severus clenched his jaw, his glare fixed on Travers, who flinched but didn’t back down. 

McGonagall gave a satisfied nod. Then, her stern voice broke through the tension. 

“Mr. Snape,” she said, her tone sharp and unyielding, “is there anything in your bag that might explain this allegation?”

Severus stared at McGonagall, his expression unreadable, though his jaw clenched tightly. His fingers tightened around the strap of his bag as though it were the only thing tethering him to reality.

“Explain?” he echoed, his tone dripping with disbelief. “No, there’s nothing in my bag because I didn’t do anything.”

Travers’s trembling voice cut in again. “I saw you! You took something from your bag and—”

Severus whirled on her, his voice slicing through her protest like a blade as he pointed a finger at her, moving forward. “You shut up you lying little rat— ”

“That’s enough, Mr. Snape!” McGonagall snapped, her voice carrying enough authority to silence the growing murmurs around them. She turned back to Travers. “Miss Travers, I will repeat: if you are mistaken, or if this is some petty attempt at sabotage, you will be held accountable. This is a serious accusation.”

“I’m not lying!” Travers insisted, her face red now. “Just check his bag!”

At that, Mcgonagall nodded, then turned to Severus, along with everyone else.

“Well, then,” she said, her voice even, “Mr Snape?”

Severus paused. 

His eyes flicked to Travers, then to McGonagall, and finally to Slughorn and the other professors, who all stood by with an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

“No,” Severus said sharply, holding the bag closer to his side.

McGonagall’s sharp brows rose. “No?”

“You heard me,” Severus said, his voice rising in frustration. “I’m not letting anyone paw through my things because of some Hufflepuff’s ridiculous story.”

“Severus, my boy,” Slughorn interjected gently, stepping forward with his hands raised in a placating gesture. “If there’s nothing to hide, let’s clear this up, hmm? I’ll be quick, I promise.”

“It’s the principle,” Severus snapped, his voice venomous. “What’s next? Searches every time someone throws around baseless accusations? How convenient for people like her.”

Travers flinched.

“I’m telling the truth.” she was adamant.

“Mr. Snape,” McGonagall said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument, “hand over the bag. Now.”

Severus hesitated, his grip tightening as if he could will the situation away. He looked around at the sea of faces, all staring at him, their expressions ranging from curious to accusatory.

He didn’t like this one bit.

He didn’t like how confident Travers sounded, how sure she was in her accusation that he had done something. It could only mean—

Severus wasn’t listening anymore to Mcgonagall. His mind was racing, replaying the scene in the classroom, trying to figure out if at one moment he got close enough to let someone slip something into his bag. 

Maybe when he had gone off to collect ingredients? Or when he had finished his potion early and gone off to submit it to Professor Slughorn? Where had she been sitting? Mcmallian had been sitting at a table in front of her, and Travers had been…off to the side?

Fuck.

His mind worked, frying, and then it stopped.

The fire. 

The smoke. 

Charity. 

She’d come toward him, grabbing his bag in the chaos. And she’d been saying something—her voice frantic, cutting through the din—but he’d been too pissed off to process what she’d been saying.

‘Travers put a—’

Severus froze.

Oh. 

Oh.

His blood ran cold as the realization dawned.

Travers hadn’t just lied. 

This was a fucking setup . 

Something had been planted—something that wasn’t in his bag now. Charity had taken it. She had tried to warn him during the fire.

His jaw clenched, and he forced himself to look at Travers again, properly this time. The tremble in her lip, the glistening tears pooling in her wide brown eyes, the slight quaver in her voice—it all painted a convincing portrait of innocence and distress. Too convincing.

But now, with clarity cutting through the fog of his anger, Severus saw it for what it was: theatrical.

Her teary face seemed frozen in an almost-too-perfect balance of fear and righteousness. Her hands were clutching the hem of her robes, twisting it dramatically, as though she were moments away from crumpling into sobs. And yet… her eyes darted, calculating. Gauging the reactions of the crowd. Of McGonagall.

The pieces slid together. Travers, the picture-perfect Hufflepuff, so sweet, so trustworthy, standing there feigning terror as she lied through her teeth. And the whole room was buying it.

Except him.

Severus’s stomach churned with fury, and his lips curled into a snarl. He wanted to scream, to hex her right there, but his instincts hissed at him to hold it together.

Travers sniffled loudly, clutching her robes tighter, and shuffled a step back as if shrinking under McGonagall’s stern gaze. 

“I swear, Professor,” she stammered, her voice trembling just enough to sound authentic. “I wouldn’t lie.”

McGonagall’s eyes flicked toward Severus, and he could feel the weight of her scrutiny. Around them, the murmurs of students grew louder, suspicion weaving itself into the crowd like a tangible force.

Severus’s fists tightened at his sides, his nails digging into his palms. Who the hell would believe a Slytherin over a Hufflepuff? Let alone him?

The corners of Travers’s mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, as though she knew exactly the trap she had laid for him and how deep he was about to sink into it.

Finally, with a scowl and a muttered curse, he shoved the bag toward Slughorn. 

“Fine,” he bit out. “Have at it. Waste everyone’s time.”

“Apologies, my boy,” Slughorn murmured, taking the bag with a sympathetic look. Severus tensed as Slughorn opened it carefully, as though it might contain a biting potion or a volatile ingredient.

Severus stood rigid, his arms crossed tightly over his chest.

Slughorn began to sift through the contents slowly. The bag was meticulously organized, every item in its proper place. Neatly labeled vials of potions were set aside, followed by tightly rolled scrolls of parchment and a small collection of quills.

“A soothing balm,” Slughorn remarked, holding up a jar of greenish ointment. His mustache twitched with approval. “One of yours, isn’t it, Severus? My, my— excellent work! Is it modified? I doubt it’s made from scratch, as I’ve yet to teach the class the fundamentals of potion creation, but then again, you are quite brilliant—”

“Please focus on the task at hand, Professor Slughorn,” McGonagall interrupted sharply, her patience clearly fraying.

“Ah, yes, yes, of course,” Slughorn said, waving his hand as if to dispel her irritation.

Severus stood rigid, saying nothing. His dark eyes were fixed on a point beyond the group, his face carefully impassive, though his heart pounded violently against his ribcage.

Slughorn continued to sort through the bag, occasionally nodding in approval. “Impressive precision,” he muttered. “Nothing out of place. Hmm…”

After several tense moments, he closed the bag and handed it back to Severus. “Well, there’s nothing here,” he said, brushing his hands together. “Completely aboveboard.”

McGonagall’s lips thinned further, and her gaze turned to Travers, who had gone pale. 

“Miss Travers,” she began, her voice slow, “do you care to explain this fabrication?”

Travers’s mouth opened, and her wide, tearful eyes darted desperately around the corridor. “I—I’m not lying! I swear, I saw him—”

The murmurs in the hall grew louder, but this time the undercurrent was skepticism, not suspicion.

“Pull the other one,” someone muttered from the crowd.

“She just made that up?” another whispered.

Travers stumbled over her words, her confidence evaporating as the mood of the students shifted. She looked helplessly at Cynthia Macmillan, who was resolutely avoiding her gaze, then back at McGonagall. 

“I—I swear I saw him,” she stammered weakly.

McGonagall sighed heavily and pressed her fingers to her temples, as though the situation had caused her a physical headache. “Miss Travers, you are fully aware of the seriousness of lying to your professors, are you not?”

Travers nodded miserably, her face crumpling as she began to sniffle.

“Forty points from Hufflepuff,” McGonagall said with a note of finality, “and two weeks’ detention.”

The corridor erupted into murmurs and whispers again. Travers’s teary performance was thoroughly dismantled now, leaving her to wilt under the weight of her punishment and her house’s obvious displeasure.

Severus stood frozen, his heart still hammering in his chest. The vindication felt hollow. Travers’s accusation had been disarmed, but the pieces of the puzzle were still sharp and jagged in his mind.

Then, a loud scream pierced the air from the far end of the hall.

“Oh dear,” Slughorn said, his jovial tone doing nothing to soothe the tension.

McGonagall looked like she was seconds away from losing her composure. Her hand tightened around her wand as her head snapped toward the commotion.

It was Charity.

Charity Burbage came sprinting into view, her polished heels clicking madly against the stone floor as she chased after a cackling Peeves, who was soaring just above her head.

“GIVE THAT BACK!” Charity shrieked, her voice echoing down the corridor.

Peeves turned upside down midair, holding something aloft and taunting her in a sing-song voice. “Not a chance, my lovely little lamb! Too shiny! Too precious! Mine now!”

Charity reached out in vain as Peeves darted just out of her grasp. “I’m serious, Peeves! It’s not funny—give it back this instant!”

“Oh, but it is funny!” Peeves howled, spinning gleefully. “Look at your little stompy-stomp shoes— clickity-click!”

Charity flushed crimson but didn’t stop chasing him. Her heels continued to clatter furiously against the stones as she made a wild grab for his leg.

“Careful, or I’ll drop it,” Peeves teased, waving his stolen prize tantalizingly.

Before anyone could intervene, Peeves let out a mischievous giggle and let the object tumble from his fingers. It clattered to the floor right in front of McGonagall’s feet.

Peeves’s cackling filled the corridor as he vanished through the wall, leaving the students in a fit of laughter that quickly subsided when a loud clink echoed through the hall.

Charity skidded to a stop, her wide, panicked eyes locked on McGonagall. Her face went pale as she took a step back.

Everyone froze, their gazes snapping to the floor where Peeves had carelessly dropped several small, charred objects—fragments of ingredients that looked suspiciously volatile. A jagged piece of what seemed to be exploding snapleaf lay amidst shattered glass vials, still faintly smoking. Beside it, a partially melted core of pyroclastic resin gleamed ominously under the afternoon light.

McGonagall bent down to pick it up, inspecting it with a critical eye. Charity’s throat bobbed visibly as she swallowed hard.

Slughorn leaned in closer beside Professor Mcgonagall, adjusting his glasses as he examined the remains of the ingredients. 

“Oh, dear me,” he muttered, inspecting the glass vials in Mcgonagall’s hands. “Is this… powdered fulgurium? And pyroclastic resin, goodness gracious. These two should not be in the same room, let alone in the same cauldron!”

All eyes turned to Charity.

She had gone pale as a ghost, looking like a deer caught in headlights. Honestly, after having seen her in nothing but polished charm, this was the first time she actually seemed human, and not like a Barbie doll come to life. 

“I…” she stammered, glancing off to the sides and then at Mcgonagall again, “There is… a perfectly reasonable explanation for this.”

McGonagall raised an eyebrow, her expression a mixture of disbelief and simmering fury. “By all means, Miss Burbage. Enlighten me.”

Charity opened her mouth, then closed it again, her mind clearly racing for an answer that wouldn’t result in her immediate evisceration. 

“Well,” she began weakly, her voice cracking, “you see, it’s…not as bad as it looks?”

2 months.

8 weeks.

61 days.

Charity Burbage had been given in-school suspension until the end of term.

Severus ran a hand over his face, the heel of his palm pressing briefly into his eye socket as though he could scrub away the thoughts racing through his head. The cool stone wall of the corridor outside the Charms classroom pressed against his back, anchoring him in place as he leaned heavily against it, his other hand shoved deep into the pocket of his robes. The hallway was relatively quiet, with only the faint murmur of distant voices echoing from down the corridor. It left him too much space to think, to brood, and that was never a good thing.

He hated owing people anything. 

Detested it, really. 

Not just because of pride—though he’d admit, if only to himself, that pride played its part—but because it placed him in a position he loathed: dependent. A favor given freely always came with an unspoken price. It was a weight that settled uneasily on his chest, an itch that couldn’t be scratched, a persistent gnawing sensation that only faded once the debt was repaid. 

And this was, unfortunately, one of them.

Charity Burbage had saved him.

It wasn’t that he had asked her to do it—he never would have. But she had intervened on his behalf nonetheless, stepping in to stop what could have easily been a catastrophic situation. Two month of in-school suspension like her. Maybe longer. Maybe something worse. Travers had been out for blood, and Severus still didn’t fully understand why. He’d never even spoken to Travers, had barely registered her presence in their shared classes. Yet somehow, she had decided to plant a bomb recipe—of all things—in his bag. The audacity of it was staggering.

He didn’t know what Travers’ problem was.

 He didn’t care, really. 

All he cared about was the fact that Charity had seen the whole thing unfold and, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, had stepped in to save him. 

And now Severus owed her.

It wasn’t like she didn’t deserve some of the misery she was getting. She had spent the first weeks of the term making his life hell, as if she were on a mission to break him down. She owed him, not the other way around. 

At least, that’s how it should have been. 

But no, Charity had gone out of her way to make things right, to apologize for her behavior, and now she wouldn’t stop. It was like she was on some misguided quest to atone for her sins. Every time he turned around, there she was, doing the absolute most for no goddamn reason. 

It was infuriating.

Even the math wasn’t in his favor, and that only made it worse. Charity had spent three weeks—twenty-one days, give or take—harassing him at every opportunity. Then she’d apologized, been actively bending over backward to win his forgiveness ever since, and now she was stuck serving two months—sixty-one days, precisely—in in-school suspension for stepping in to save him from Travers’ ridiculous stunt.

Severus didn’t owe her a damn thing. Not by any reasonable measure. She’d made her own choices, dug her own grave. She could have just let him take the fall. Let the accusation stick, let the weight of Travers’ lies crush him. It wouldn’t have been fair, no, but life had rarely been fair to him anyway. He could’ve handled it. Would’ve handled it. 

But she didn’t. 

Charity Burbage had chosen to get involved. 

And Severus hated it. 

Not because he pitied her or felt guilty for the consequences of her actions. No, he hated it because it complicated everything. Because it left him with that nagging weight in his chest, that unbearable sense of imbalance that came with being in someone’s debt. Charity didn’t seem to expect anything from him, didn’t demand gratitude or acknowledgment, as if this was some act of repentance on her part—but that only made it worse. 

Severus dragged his hand down his face again, exhaling sharply. 

He hated this. 

The Charms classroom door opened, and students began to file out, chattering and laughing as they passed him. He straightened immediately, pulling his hand from his pocket and smoothing the front of his robes.

The Charms classroom door creaked open, releasing a steady stream of students spilling into the corridor. Severus pushed off the wall, straightening just enough to blend into the flow without drawing attention to himself. He was taller than most of them, and it gave him the advantage of scanning over their heads for one person in particular.

His dark eyes searched the moving crowd for any sign of shiny blonde hair, the kind that caught the light even in the dim corridors, or for the distinct sound of Mary Jane shoes clicking against the stone floor, a sound he had grown used to pinpointing despite himself. The students jostled past him in pairs and small groups, chattering noisily about whatever Charms essay Flitwick had just assigned.

Some glanced curiously in his direction. Maybe they wondered why he was loitering outside a class he didn’t take, why he was standing there alone with that sharp, impatient look on his face. 

Severus ignored them. 

The stream of students slowed until the classroom was nearly empty, save for Flitwick gathering his materials inside. Severus glanced one last time at the stragglers, waiting for the telltale gleam of blonde, the faint rhythm of familiar steps.

But she wasn’t there.

Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line. Where else would she be? He didn’t know any of her other classes, not really. The only reason he knew she took Charms at all was because she’d once mentioned it, in that casual, chatty way she always filled the silence when he ignored her attempts to make small talk.

He waited another moment, long enough for Flitwick to peer curiously out of the classroom door before Severus turned and walked down the corridor. His steps were clipped, his robes swishing around his ankles as he moved, though he had no real destination in mind.

She wasn’t in the Great Hall during lunch, either. He scanned the tables, his gaze sweeping over Hufflepuff’s bench more than once. Nothing.

Dinner brought the same result, and by then, irritation had begun to creep in. Not that he cared where she was—it was her life, after all. She could have been holed up in some dark corner of the castle for all he cared.

Except…

He frowned as he loitered awkwardly near the entrance of the Great Hall, fingers tugging absentmindedly at the cuff of his sleeve. Maybe he should ask someone. Just to know. She could have been serving her suspension somewhere particularly tedious or miserable, and… well, it wasn’t like he owed her anything, but…

His eyes flicked toward the Hufflepuff table. He didn’t know any of them by name—not well enough to walk up to one and start asking questions without it feeling entirely unnatural. Still, his gaze lingered on a group near the end of the table, their yellow ties catching the firelight as they laughed over their meal.

He sighed sharply and folded his arms, lingering at the edge of the Hall like a shadow. 

The Great Hall buzzed with the usual hum of dinner conversations, the clatter of plates and goblets filling the space. Severus lingered near the entrance, shifting his weight between his feet as he cast another irritated glance toward the Hufflepuff table. His patience was wearing thin, and the longer he stood there, the more foolish he felt.

Then, luckily, a Hufflepuff student wandered out, clutching a book against their chest. Severus recognized them vaguely—Matthew Smith, a fifth-year who looked perpetually out of his depth no matter the situation. He was of average height, with a mop of sandy brown hair that stuck up in odd places, as if he’d just rolled out of bed. His face was round and freckled, his hazel eyes wide and darting nervously behind a pair of slightly crooked glasses. He clutched a Charms textbook tightly to his chest, his knuckles whitening as he turned to face Severus, visibly startled.

“Hey, you—” Severus called.

Smith jumped with a yelp, his glasses slipping further down his nose. His gaze flicked between Severus and the exit like he was considering making a break for it.

Severus wanted to roll his eyes. Was everyone in this House so damn skittish?

The Hufflepuff stared up at him as Severus took a step closer, his full height making them shrink slightly. “I—uh—w-what did I do? If it’s about the thing in Potions, I swear I didn’t mean to knock over the cauldron, and I—”

“Would you shut up?” Severus snapped, his voice cutting through the Hufflepuff’s rambling.

The boy immediately clammed up, his lips pressing together in a tight line as his arms tightened protectively around his book. His gaze darted to the floor, then back to Severus, his hazel eyes wide behind his smudged lenses.

Severus exhaled sharply, forcing his shoulders to relax and adjusting his posture to seem slightly less towering. 

“Calm down,” he said dryly. “I’m not going to mug you.”

Matthew nodded so quickly that his glasses slipped further down his nose. “Right. Of course. Sorry.”

“Do you know Burbage?” Severus asked, his tone clipped. He immediately thought how ridiculous the question was. Of course they know Charity Burbage. She’s Charity Burbage.

Smith blinked. “Charity? Yeah, I know her—”

“Tell me where she is,” Severus cut in impatiently, folding his arms across his chest.

Matthew blinked again, his face twisting into a look of confusion. “I-I don’t really know. I haven’t seen her since this morning—she’s not in the dormitory, or—uh—at dinner—and, um—”

“Just tell me where you think she might be,” Severus interrupted, his tone enough to stop Matthew mid-ramble.

“Well…” Matthew hesitated, looking down at his shoes like they might offer some clue. Before he could come up with an answer, the sound of footsteps behind them interrupted.

The girls who walked out of the Great Hall were unmistakably twins, and Hufflepuffs at that. They moved in sync, their sleek black hair tied into low ponytails that swung as they walked. Their almond-shaped eyes were hazel and sharp, and their tan skin seemed to glow in the flickering light of the torches lining the corridor. Though they were identical in nearly every way, one wore her yellow-trimmed robes impeccably neat, while the other had her tie loosened and her sleeves casually rolled up.

When Severus flagged them down, they paused mid-conversation, their gazes locking on him with matching looks of interest.

“You two,” Severus said impatiently, gesturing toward them, “do you know where Charity Burbage is?”

The twins exchanged a glance, and then a look passed between them. Their voices overlapped as they began bouncing possibilities off each other, like they were in a match of verbal tennis.

“She could be in the library—”

“Or maybe she went to the courtyard—”

“No, wait, she mentioned the Owlery earlier—”

“Unless she’s still with McGonagall—”

Severus pinched the bridge of his nose, his patience wearing thin. “Of those options, which one is the most likely?” he demanded, glaring at the two.

The twins didn’t seem fazed by his tone. They glanced at each other again before one said, “Well, last we heard, she went to see McGonagall—”

“For her suspension,” the other added in a conspiratorial whisper, her expression smug as if they were sharing something scandalous.

Severus stared at them blankly, his lips pressing into a thin line. Without a word, he turned on his heel and strode away, his robes billowing behind him.

As he disappeared down the corridor, he could hear one of the twins whisper loudly, “I told you they were dating!”

Severus felt his jaw tighten. He resisted the urge to gag and kept walking.

It took a while to find her, but he did.

The room was larger than expected, a circular space that arched up into a domed ceiling, its height accentuated by walls lined with tall wooden shelves. Ladders stretched up to the higher reaches, their wheels squeaking faintly on metal tracks whenever they moved. The shelves were packed with decades of trophies, gleaming shields, polished medals, and heavy leather-bound yearbooks stacked in neat rows. A few forgotten trinkets—old plaques, broken Quidditch cups, and framed portraits of long-past faculty and students—peeked out from between the more prominent displays, gathering dust. The room’s centerpiece was a grand wrought-iron chandelier, its crystals catching the light from a dozen hovering lanterns and throwing faint rainbows onto the stone floor. It had the musty, unused air of a museum or storeroom, a place few people bothered to linger.

The Hogwarts Archives.

Charity Burbage wasn’t in her uniform. For the first time, she looked—different. She wore an oversized cream-colored sweater, the thick wool soft and fluffy, nearly swallowing her frame. Its sleeves hung past her hands, the cuffs bunched up where her fingers poked through, curled lightly around the edges. Her long blonde hair, usually a curtain of polished silk, had been swept into a loose bun, stray strands curling against her cheeks and neck. Severus blinked; he’d never seen her hair up before. And for once, there were no tell-tale clacking Mary Janes on her feet. Instead, she wore ballet slippers, their pale satin molding to her feet, the ribbons loosely tied at her ankles.

For a moment, Severus just watched.

Charity moved across the room with an air of quiet boredom, her steps almost lazy, though still deliberate. She balanced on her tiptoes, her posture shifting effortlessly into a pose—one leg extended, her arms following some invisible rhythm. She held the position for a breath, then dropped back onto flat feet, exhaling softly as though unimpressed with herself. One foot brushed idly against the stone as she began to walk, placing one pointed toe in front of the other, still on the tips of her shoes. She drifted toward the ornate brass railing in the center of the room—a low barrier designed to cordon off the oldest, most delicate displays—and curled her fingers around it. With another languid motion, she began to trace her steps alongside it, using the railing like a ballet barre, her body moving in smooth, absentminded arcs.

Severus found himself feeling oddly intrusive, like he’d stepped into a private moment he wasn’t meant to see.

Just as he thought to clear his throat, Charity turned. Her fingers slid from the railing as she pivoted gracefully, mid-step. When her blue eyes lifted and met his, Severus froze. Her gaze was clear and piercing, a contrast to her otherwise unbothered demeanor. Blue against black—her light against his shadow.

The silence stretched between them, and Severus shifted his weight uncomfortably, his arms folding across his chest. 

Severus got straight to the point.

“How did you know that Travers was going to set me up?” His tone was laced with suspicion, the question hanging heavy in the air.

Charity paused, glancing at him before casually shrugging. 

“Her bangs.”

Whatever answer Severus had been expecting, it hadn’t been that. His posture slackened slightly in shock, his eyes narrowing as he tried to process the absurdity of her response. 

“…What?”

“Her bangs,” Charity repeated, this time with an exaggerated roll of her eyes, as though the answer were painfully obvious. “I thought I was looking at a failed DIY haircut tutorial on the back of a cereal box.”

Severus stared at her blankly, his lips parting as though to say something, but the words didn’t quite form. His face was frozen in incredulous disbelief.

“They’re a disaster—a tragedy, even. It’s like she put a bowl on her head and hacked at it with a rusty pair of shears—which I honestly don’t doubt she did—and no one in her little entourage had the guts to tell her she looks like a demented garden gnome.”

Severus blinked, processing the vicious tirade. 

“…What?” he asked again.

When he still looked confused, his expression torn between bemusement and disbelief, Charity rolled her eyes. “While I was staring at that nightmare of a haircut this morning, I saw her take a strand of it. She was sitting near Henry at breakfast and she snipped it off with a pair of scissors.”

“Her…bangs?” Severus interrupted, scowling.

“No,” Charity said slowly, as if Severus was the idiot. “She snipped off a piece of the ingredients for the smoke bomb she’d made and put it in one of the vials she was holding. That’s when I saw her get up with her little gaggle of friends, and—surprise—they just happened to bump into you.”

Severus stiffened, his mind replaying the moment. Breakfast had been crowded, as usual, with students rushing to finish before their first lessons. When Travers’ friends collided with him, he had barely glanced at them, too focused on his schedule for the day to even suspect that they’d planned it.

“That was intentional?” he muttered, more to himself than to Charity.

Charity shrugged.

“Yeah… well, it didn’t help that your bag is—” She hesitated for a beat, shifting on her feet as she gestured awkwardly toward it, her voice dropping slightly. “—you know… broken.”

Severus glanced down at the tattered bag slung across his shoulder, the very same one that Charity had ruined on the first day back to school. He’d mended it as best as he could with thread he’d picked up in Hogsmeade, but the clasp remained broken. He’d been meaning to transfigure a replacement—or at least sew on a button—before the week was out.

Charity scratched the corner of her neck, avoiding his gaze before shifting it back. 

“I was going to warn you earlier,” she admitted, “but you did tell me never to speak to you again and all…”

Severus blinked. 

Right. 

He had told her that. 

And he had enough self-awareness to know he would’ve ignored her if she’d tried to approach him before class.

None of this made any sense.

“Why would Travers want to set me up?” Severus asked, his voice low and edged with confusion.

He didn’t even know the girl.

“I don’t know,” Charity replied with a shrug, her tone breezy but her expression slightly guarded.

Severus stared at her, waiting for more, but Charity said nothing else. She glanced at one of the shelves, dusting idly at a golden plaque, her motions more aimless than effective.

After a beat of silence, she spoke again, softer this time. “I was just trying to help.”

Her words hung there for a moment, quiet but certain, cutting through the tension like a knife.

Severus frowned slightly, unsure how to respond. He studied her from across the room, his dark eyes narrowing as though he were trying to read something on her face that she wasn’t saying.

“Help?” he finally echoed, skepticism lacing the single word.

Charity’s gaze flicked back to him, almost challenging, though her shoulders remained relaxed. 

“Yeah,” she said plainly.

Severus didn’t answer. 

He didn’t know what to make of her.

They stood in silence for a good while. It was long and heavy, filled only by the faint flicker of lantern light against the chandelier and the occasional creak of a ladder shifting on its tracks.

Finally, without a word, Severus walked deeper into the room. 

Charity stared after him, brows raised in clear surprise as she watched him unhook his bag and set it aside on a table, hidden from view. He pulled off his outer robes next, folding them with meticulous care before placing them neatly on the same surface. Then, rolling up the sleeves of his white undershirt, he turned and grabbed one of the dusters hanging from the corner.

“What are you doing?” Charity asked, blinking as though she couldn’t believe her eyes.

Severus didn’t look at her as he stepped toward the towering shelves. 

“Don’t you know what a duster is?” he said dryly, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Charity immediately bristled, her face scrunching up as she caught the insult. “Of course I know what a duster is.”

Severus finally turned his head to glance at her, a single eyebrow arched in challenge. “Do you know how to use it?”

The words, spoken with such pointed disdain, left no room for misinterpretation. He doubted very much that a rich girl like Charity Burbage had ever so much as picked up a broom, let alone how to clean a room with one.

Charity huffed, her chin jutting out stubbornly. 

“It’s a straightforward process,” she countered, clearly affronted.

Severus gave an unamused snort, the sound sharp and low as he turned slightly to look at her, duster in hand. “Then you wouldn’t have worn that sweater.”

Charity looked down at herself reflexively, tugging at the oversized sleeves of her cream-colored sweater as though only just realizing how ill-suited it was for cleaning duty. She huffed indignantly.

“Well, I didn’t know McGonagall would be shipping me off to take Filch’s job,” she shot back, as though that excused her choice.

Severus didn’t dignify that with a response, turning back toward the shelves. Charity, however, was undeterred.

“She said the rest of term is enough time to dust the entire archive,” she added, her voice pitched with exaggerated incredulity. Severus could almost hear her rolling her eyes behind him, even without looking.

He ignored her, shifting his focus to the shelf in front of him. The duster moved with efficient precision in his hand as he began to work, brushing methodically across the rows of old leather-bound yearbooks and forgotten trinkets. Each flick of his wrist sent small clouds of dust spiraling into the air, the particles catching in the lantern light before drifting lazily to the floor. He worked with an almost mechanical rhythm, as though his mind had instinctively adopted a strategy for tackling the monumental task ahead.

He tilted his head to inspect a particularly thick layer of grime gathered in the carved edges of a wooden trophy base and leaned in slightly, narrowing his eyes. With a swift motion, he swiped the duster along the surface, dislodging the dust that had been collecting for decades. A faint streak of clean wood emerged from beneath the gray film.

“Are you seriously cleaning?” Charity’s voice interrupted his focus.

“You’re not gonna do it,” Severus replied dryly, still not bothering to look at her.

“Of course I’m not,” Charity insisted, her tone indignant as though he’d just accused her of something unthinkable. “It’s seventh year. What is she going to do? Shackle me to the school if I don’t finish it by the end of term?”

“She could always extend your punishment to the term after,” Severus remarked, his tone cutting, as he flicked his wrist to shake free the clinging dust from the duster. He straightened, his dark eyes briefly glancing at Charity, as though daring her to continue her absurd reasoning.

“And I’ll still not do it then,” Charity shot back without missing a beat, folding her arms. Her voice carried a note of triumphant defiance, as though she’d just presented an irrefutable argument.

Severus scoffed softly, his lip curling in faint disdain.

“It’s not like she can hold back my graduation,” Charity added, her tone smug, clearly confident in her assessment.

Severus let out a breath. He didn’t even try to dignify that with an answer either. He only shook his head faintly as he reached up, dusting the top edge of a shelf where someone—probably Filch—had given up trying to reach. His movements were deliberate, the sleeves of his white undershirt still neatly rolled up to his elbows. A speck of dust drifted down, landing on his shoulder, but he ignored it, too focused on his task.

Charity, clearly unwilling to let the silence settle for long, kept going. “I mean, it’s absurd. The entire archive? Who has time for that?”

Severus paused long enough to flick a pointed glance over his shoulder. “You do.”

Charity only scrunched her nose in annoyance.

Severus turned back to the shelf, his hands steady as he carefully cleaned the edge of a silver plaque commemorating some long-forgotten student. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he caught her moving. Charity had wandered toward the brass railing in the middle of the room again, her annoyance melting into something resembling boredom. Without even realizing it, she rose up onto her toes, the soft satin of her ballet shoes flexing as she balanced effortlessly on the balls of her feet.

Severus’s brow furrowed slightly. His motions slowed as he observed her with mild curiosity. Charity pivoted lightly, her arms extending into a loose arc before she tipped forward, shifting her weight gracefully onto one foot. She performed a delicate turn, the ribbons at her ankles fluttering with the movement.

It wasn’t perfect—her movements were casual, almost lazy—but there was a practiced ease to the way she moved, her balance unshakable.

“You’re going to trip and crack your skull,” Severus said, breaking the silence.

Charity ignored him completely, her lips twitching in faint amusement as she stretched her leg into a high arabesque, her arms extending fluidly. She came back down with a soft, controlled step, twirling once more as though testing the limits of the space around her.

Severus tilted his head slightly, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Is that… a hobby of yours?”

Charity paused mid-turn, one foot still lifted, and shot him a surprised look. “Ballet?” she asked, as though the answer were obvious.

Severus shrugged, not looking away. “You seem practiced.”

Charity dropped her foot back to the floor and straightened, brushing her hands against her oversized sweater. 

“Of course I am,” she said, her tone light but tinged with pride. “What else do you think rich little girls like me do during summer holidays? Learn how to churn butter?”

Severus huffed, half-amused despite himself. “So you’ve been wasting your time twirling around in the Muggle world?”

Charity gave him a sharp look, though her eyes sparkled mischievously. 

“Hardly a waste,” she countered, flicking her hair out of her face. “It’s not just about ‘twirling,’ you know. It’s discipline, grace—”

“Pretentiousness,” Severus interjected dryly.

“And style,” Charity finished pointedly, ignoring his jab. She raised her chin a little, looking pleased with herself.

Severus only shook his head faintly and returned to dusting, though his thoughts lingered on the surprising fluidity of her movements. For once, he didn’t have a biting retort.

A silence fell over the room, broken only by the faint, rhythmic sounds of Severus’s duster brushing against the shelves. Charity had stopped talking, though it was unclear if she was sulking or simply waiting for the next opportunity to speak. Severus didn’t care enough to check. Instead, he focused on the task at hand, his movements steady, deliberate. Dust drifted lazily through the air, catching in the glow of the chandelier above.

As the minutes stretched on, Severus paused, lowering the duster. He took a measured breath, his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, as though bracing himself for what he was about to say. Then, finally, he turned around, his expression carefully neutral.

“I’ll set you up with Mulciber.”

The reaction was instantaneous. 

Charity’s blue eyes widened, her expression flickering like a kaleidoscope. First shock—her jaw slackened, and her brows shot up as though she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. Then surprise—her lips parted slightly, her mind clearly scrambling to process the unexpected offer. Disbelief followed quickly, her head tilting as though to confirm Severus wasn’t joking. And finally, unrestrained glee—her whole face lit up, a dazzling smile spreading across her lips, her pearly white teeth flashing. Her blue eyes sparkled like sunlight on water, bright and effervescent, her excitement radiating from every pore.

“A—”

“No.” Severus cut her off sharply, “Shut up,” he instructed, pointing a finger at her as if to physically stop her from speaking.

Charity’s reaction was immediate. 

Her mouth snapped shut, though her smile remained firmly in place. Her glee overflowed, so palpable that it seemed to hum in the air around her. She all but vibrated with excitement, her hands twitching at her sides as though barely containing the urge to jump or squeal.

“Grab a towel,” Severus ordered, his voice cool and composed, as if he hadn’t just made her year.

Charity spun on her heel so fast it was almost comical. She practically lunged for a stack of old rags neatly folded on a nearby shelf, pulling one free with a flourish. It was a little threadbare, but she didn’t seem to care, clutching it eagerly as though it were the key to some grand mission.

Severus pointed toward the shelves he had already dusted, the wood now faintly gleaming beneath the lantern light.

“Start wiping,” he instructed firmly. His dark eyes locked onto hers, narrowing slightly. “Before I change my mind.”

Charity didn’t hesitate. She scurried toward the indicated area, her grin so wide it looked almost painful. Without a word, she began wiping at the shelves, her movements almost gleeful as though this were the best thing that had ever happened to her. 

Chapter Text

SEVERUS SHOULD HAVE never agreed to this. He was certain now—absolutely certain—that this was one of the worst decisions he had ever made in his entire life.

The dormitory felt unbearably stifling, yet cold at the same time, a peculiar dampness lingering in the air that Severus usually associated with the fact that they were deep under the Black Lake. The arched window on the far wall, enchanted to keep the water from flooding in, gave a constant, otherworldly view of everything under the lake. Shafts of light filtered through the water, casting flickering patterns across the walls and ceiling of their dormitory. The Black Lake was alive with its own strange magic, and the scenery outside the glass could captivate anyone who bothered to look long enough.

Schools of fish darted past in synchronized movements, their scales shimmering with unearthly hues that seemed to shift and dance with every tilt of their bodies. Some were small and delicate, like silver darts flitting through the water, while others were larger, with scales that reflected kaleidoscopes of color, glowing faintly in the dimness. These fish seemed to leave trails of iridescent light in their wake, as though the water itself was imbued with their magic.

Occasionally, one could catch sight of a moonlight pike, a sleek and elegant predator with translucent fins and eyes that glowed faintly blue. It would drift lazily past, its movement unhurried but purposeful, exuding a quiet menace that sent the smaller fish scattering into the shadows.

The lakebed itself was a mosaic of textures and life. Large, smooth stones jutted out from the silt, some covered in a soft green moss that swayed gently in the current. Other rocks were craggy and dark, their surfaces home to clusters of tiny, glowing snails that pulsed with a faint golden light, like miniature stars dotting the underwater landscape.

Long strands of kelp stretched upward, their undulating movements hypnotic. The kelp ranged in color from deep emerald to pale, translucent green, some even speckled with violet. Smaller plants clung to the rocks and lakebed, their leaves fluttering like streamers in the water, while tiny bubbles rose from the patches of algae.

Here and there, unusual plants bloomed. One had petals that opened and closed in time with the current, their edges emitting a soft, bioluminescent light. Another plant resembled a tree, its branches stretching out like coral, each tip adorned with tiny buds that released glittering spores into the water.

Every so often, a grindylow would slink past the window, its long, gangly limbs curling and uncurling as it moved. The creatures were more curious than threatening at this distance, their bulbous eyes peering briefly through the glass before they swam away. Occasionally, a larger silhouette would loom in the distance—the giant squid, maybe, its movements slow and graceful, its tentacles unfurling like ribbons.

The view was mesmerizing from the window. It felt vast, like the lake stretched endlessly in every direction, an entire world teeming with life hidden from those who walked above it. 

It was the closest Severus had ever gotten to being in an aquarium.

He remembered once, years ago in primary school, when the children of Spinner’s End had been offered the chance to visit an aquarium in London. The children of Spinner’s End didn’t get chances like that often, so it’d been a big deal when they had. The teachers had shown glossy photos of enormous tanks filled with strange, glittering creatures, promising an unforgettable experience for those who could afford the fee.

It hadn't been a big fee, either. But Severus, of course, hadn’t been able to pay it. 

So instead, while all the other kids had been getting on the bus to go off to London, Severus had snuck off to the library on the better side of town, and spent the entire day leafing through books about marine life. He told himself then, with all the bitterness and self-assuredness of a boy trying to protect his pride, that there was nothing in the aquarium he couldn’t learn from a book. But in hindsight, he could admit now that he had been upset—jealous even.

When he was sorted into Slytherin, however, all the creatures he had once only read about were suddenly all around him, their lives weaving through the currents beyond the arching common room windows. The grindylows, the squid, the other mysterious shadows that flitted too fast to name—they were real, close enough to touch.

Severus had often wondered how his dormmates could ignore it so easily. The view was constantly shifting, constantly alive, yet for them, it seemed no different than a curtain on a window. Even now, as fish shimmered past and the light from a glowing algae patch cast faint, golden rays across the dormitory floor, Bruce Mulciber remained unbothered, his attention occupied.

Of the creatures in the lake, there were, of course, the merpeople. They weren’t particularly shy, especially when curious about what went on in the lives of the castle’s inhabitants. Occasionally, one would swim up close to the window, peering in with sharp, gleaming eyes. Tonight, a particularly nosy mermaid hovered outside, her long silver hair billowing in the current, her attention fixed on Bruce Mulciber.

And, objectively, Severus didn’t have to question why.

Bruce Mulciber was seated on his bed, his back against the headboard, utterly oblivious to the spectacle he was causing. He was shirtless—as he usually was in their dorm. His skin was a deep, rich brown that seemed to drink in the dim, greenish light filtering through the dorm’s massive lakefront window. The lines of his shoulders sloped naturally into strong arms, each muscle subtly flexing with every shift of movement. His chest, broad and evenly toned, moved with a slow rhythm, each breath deliberate and unhurried. 

Mulciber wore loose-fitting black trousers that clung lazily to his hips, the fabric bunched slightly where his leg was bent. The material moved faintly when he shifted, catching the faint glow of the underwater light. One knee was propped up to balance the notebook resting against it, while his other leg was stretched out in front of him, bare foot resting against the cold stone floor.

A quill moved deftly in his hand, the scratching of its tip against parchment the only sound in the room besides the occasional faint gurgle of water from beyond the glass. Tucked behind his ear was a pencil, its yellow wood stark against the tight coils of his black hair. 

Severus tore his gaze away from Mulciber again, looking down at his own bed. It wasn’t as if this was anything new—Mulciber often studied at this point in the afternoon, right before he went off to Quidditch practice. But the sight of the mermaid pressed nearly flat against the window, her gaze openly appraising as she stared at Mulciber, made Severus’ skin crawl.

He couldn’t decide what was more irritating: the merpeople ogling his roommate or Mulciber’s complete lack of awareness. He was utterly indifferent to the attention, focused entirely on whatever he was scribbling in his notebook.

The dormitory was otherwise as it always was: dark, with heavy green velvet curtains framing the beds sat on opposite sides of the room. Severus shifted uncomfortably on his own bed, glancing toward the arched window once more. A merman had joined the first, their faces pressed close to the glass, their wide, sharp-toothed smiles both unnerving and ridiculous.

Severus sat cross-legged on his side of the dorm, the green velvet curtains tied back to let in the light from the enchanted window. His Potions textbook lay open across his knees, its pages pristine save for the occasional neat underlining in ink. It had been there for the past hour, even though he hadn’t turned a single page.

Instead, his dark eyes flickered upward every so often, glancing at Mulciber across the room. The movements were subtle, practiced. Each glance lingered a little longer than the last, catching on the curve of Mulciber’s shoulders or the focused furrow of his brow as he worked.

This was the rhythm of their dormitory—a routine neither of them had acknowledged aloud, but one that had become unshakable. Just the two of them, sitting in silence, neither making an effort to fill the quiet with words. The room felt heavy, not with tension but with an unspoken understanding. It was as if some unspoken rule had been established long ago: they wouldn’t bother each other. No idle conversations about classes, no inane chatter about Quidditch or house rivalries. Just silence, punctuated only by the occasional scrape of a chair leg or the faint gurgling sounds from the Black Lake outside.

Severus didn’t mind the quiet. In fact, he preferred it—usually. It gave him space to think, to plan, to lose himself in his own mind. But tonight, he had to break that peace. 

All because he had promised to set Charity Burbage up with Bruce Mulciber.

Severus shifted slightly, tugging the hem of his skirt over his legs and tapping his finger against the corner of his book. His eyes flicked back down to the pages, scanning the same paragraph he’d been staring at for what felt like forever.

From time to time, Mulciber would move—adjusting his position, scratching his head, leaning forward to jot down something in his notebook—and Severus would glance up again, his gaze sharp and uninvited, as though drawn by some unseen force. Each time, he told himself it would be the last.

But the room remained quiet, and the routine continued.

How the bloody hell was he even supposed to do this?

Six years they’d been dorm-mates, and Severus could count on one hand the number of conversations they’d had—none lasting more than a few words. That suited him just fine. He avoided the dorm whenever possible, and was always the first to leave in the mornings. Him and Mulciber existed parallel to each other, their routines overlapping without ever truly intersecting.

And now, suddenly, Severus was supposed to break it all just to play matchmaker. For Charity fucking Burbage.

It was that added fact that seemed to piss him off more.

He scowled, glaring down at his book as though the words might somehow provide an answer. How was he supposed to do this? Bring her up out of nowhere? Sing her praises? What praises? He had nothing to say about her—at least nothing nice.

And then there was what had happened in the hallway weeks ago when he’d bumped into Mulciber. His stomach twisted at the memory.

This was a nightmare.

When was the last time he’d willingly started a conversation with someone his own age? One that didn’t involve his impressive vocabulary of curse words—courtesy of his father—or negotiating with his ever-rotating supply of bullies? He could count on one hand the number of times, and most of them involved Aurora Sinistra, who he had astronomy with. And those had been strictly academic. And they were usually conversations she started.

But now? What in Merlin’s name was he supposed to say? “Hey, Mulciber, fancy Charity Burbage?” He winced at the thought.

No, he was well and truly fucked.

Severus glanced up again, and Mulciber’s eyes were still trained on his books. Severus noticed the small silver chain around Mulciber’s neck, glinting faintly in the dim, watery light filtering through the window. The chain itself was simple, unassuming. No pendant, no embellishment. Just a loop of silver that rested against the hollow of Mulciber’s throat, barely noticeable unless one was looking for it—which, Severus realized with a vague notation, he had been.

The chain had been there for years. Since fourth year, at least. That was the first time Severus had caught a glimpse of it, peeking out from beneath the collar of Mulciber’s uniform during a particularly grueling Potions lesson—which he’d been asleep in. At the time, he’d dismissed it as an oddity, a peculiar accessory for someone as otherwise rough-edged as Mulciber. But now, years later, it seemed to belong to him, a part of his character as much as his sharp jawline or the ever-present nick on his brow.

Mulciber tugged on the chain absently as he worked, his fingers wrapping around the thin silver links before letting them slide through his grip. It was a repetitive, thoughtless motion, as if the chain served as an anchor while his mind wrestled with whatever he was writing. The gesture was oddly hypnotic, the silver glinting faintly as it caught the light.

Again, Severus dropped his gaze back to his textbook, feigning interest in the words that blurred together on the page. The quiet scratch of Mulciber’s quill continued, punctuated now and then by the faint metallic sound of the chain slipping through his fingers.

Severus brought a finger up to his mouth, his teeth grazing the nail as he frowned down at the open Potions textbook on his lap. His brow furrowed further, his dark eyes narrowing in concentration as if the blurred text on the page might suddenly rearrange itself into the solution he needed.

Think, Severus, think.

There was always an answer to everything. He knew that. A formula, an equation, a passage tucked away in the forgotten corners of some book—there was always an answer. He just had to find it.

His teeth pressed harder against his nail, the faint sting grounding him as he turned the problem over in his mind like a puzzle cube he couldn’t quite solve. His hand hovered uncertainly over the book, fingers twitching, before he jerked it back to his lap.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know how to think—he was better at thinking than almost anyone he knew. It was that this required a completely different kind of thinking, one he couldn’t neatly pin down with logic or intelligence. This wasn’t an academic problem; it was a social one.

There must have been a book about this somewhere. A guide, a manual, a chapter on how to start a conversation that wasn’t laced with scorn or meant to humiliate someone. Surely someone had written it down. Someone must have figured out this… stuff.

He scraped his teeth lightly over the edge of his nail and let out a breath through his nose, shifting his gaze back toward Mulciber. The quill still moved deftly, and that damned chain slipped between his fingers again in that slow, repetitive motion.

Severus looked down at his book again, the words a blur of meaningless ink on paper. He tugged at the sleeve of his shirt, adjusting it needlessly, before his hand hovered once more near his face. His teeth grazed his nail again, his thoughts spiraling, searching for some key he couldn’t find.

There was always an answer. Always. He just had to think harder.

Severus furrowed his brows, his teeth releasing the edge of his nail as a flicker of memory surfaced. Yes—he had read a book on this once. It was years ago, back when he’d exhausted nearly every book in the Cokeworth library. The memory came with a faint pang, unbidden and unwanted, tugging at the edges of his thoughts.

It wasn’t a book he’d sought out intentionally, at least not at first. It had been after he’d worked his way through everything else of interest—math, biology, chemistry, and the like—most of them far above his year, which was precisely why they’d caught his attention. He’d devoured them all, hungry for something—anything—that might teach him something useful.

And then, in one of those rare moments of whimsy that came with being young, he’d ventured into the section with fairytales and other oddities, drawn less by curiosity and more by a vague, embarrassed hope of finding something that didn’t remind him of his drab existence on Spinner’s End. It was there, between a dusty encyclopedia on marine life and a battered collection of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, that he’d found it, an old, worn book tucked in the farthest corner of the library.

The title had been something painfully dull— Social Dynamics for the Curious Mind, or something equally pretentious. He remembered pulling it out more out of spite than genuine interest. He had been young then, naive enough to feel the sharp sting of hurt every time the other kids on Spinner’s End excluded him from their games. The girls whispering behind their hands, the boys roughhousing just out of reach—always just far enough to make it clear he wasn’t welcome.

Back then, he’d thought that perhaps it was his fault. That there was some secret code everyone else knew, some formula he’d missed. The book had seemed like a map to that world, a way to crack the code. He’d read it from cover to cover in one sitting, driven by equal parts desperation and morbid curiosity. He hadn’t expected much, but he’d taken it to one of the rickety wooden desks, opened it, and started reading.

What had it said again?

Severus furrowed his brow further, fingers tightening on the edge of his textbook as he tried to recall the words. Something about breaking the ice. 

Smile often, it had said. People respond better to friendliness.

That part had made him laugh bitterly, even at ten years old. Smile? That was ridiculous. It wasn’t in his nature to plaster on a fake grin and pretend. Even now, the thought felt absurd.

He raked his fingers through his hair, the memory as unwelcome as it was unhelpful. What else had the book said? Something about shared interests. About finding common ground. About being approachable.

He glanced at Mulciber again, his expression darkening. None of that would work with him. He wasn’t like the kids on Spinner’s End, wasn’t even like most of their housemates. Mulciber had his own gravitational pull, a quiet sort of power that made others want to follow him. Severus didn’t have that—not even close.

Still, there had to be something in that book he could use. Some shred of advice that wasn’t completely idiotic. Something that might actually work.

Fuck, what the hell had that book said?

It had laid out basic principles—how people responded better to warmth, to open body language, to compliments. 

Ask people about their interests, it had suggested, and listen as if what they say matters to you.

The second chapter had been no better—full of tips about mirroring body language and nodding encouragingly. The third chapter had talked about observing people’s routines, looking for small details that revealed their interests. 

If they always carry a book, ask what they’re reading. If they wear the same accessory every day, ask about its meaning. People like to talk about what matters to them.

Severus’s dark eyes flicked toward Mulciber’s silver chain, gleaming faintly in the light of the Black Lake. His fingers tightened reflexively on the edge of his book.

The necklace.

He could use it as an opening—couldn’t he? People liked talking about themselves, didn’t they? That’s what the book had said. But the moment the idea took root, the question came: how?

His mind churned through potential scenarios, each more unbearable than the last.

He could start with something neutral, maybe casual: “That necklace of yours—been wearing it for years. Any reason why?”

No. Too blunt. Mulciber would probably give him one of those blank, unreadable looks, then shrug and go back to whatever he was scribbling in that notebook.

What about something more flattering? “That’s a nice necklace, Mulciber. Where’d you get it?”

He cringed so hard at the thought that he nearly dropped his Potions book. Absolutely not. Compliments? On a necklace? He’d sooner down an undiluted vial of Bubotuber pus.

Maybe he could try a feigned curiosity: “I couldn’t help noticing that chain you always wear. Does it mean something?”

No, he thought immediately, scowling. Too eager. With his luck, the damned necklace would go missing and he’d be accused of stealing. The last thing Severus needed was for Mulciber to think he was prying all of the sudden.

Severus pressed his fingers to his temples, gripping at the skin as though he might physically squeeze out an idea that wasn’t mortifying. What if he just… didn’t bring up the necklace?

Because even if he somehow managed to bring up the necklace without embarrassing or making himself seem like a loon beyond repair, how in Merlin’s name was he supposed to pivot from that to Charity? What was he supposed to say? “Oh, nice necklace. By the way, there’s this girl who thinks you’re fit.” He winced so hard his neck tensed. 

He’d rather be hung upside down in front of the entire school.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath, the words barely audible in the quiet room. 

Who even gave a fuck, seriously? He was just going to rip the band-aid off.

Severus took a breath.  

One. 

Two. 

And then—

“Your necklace isn’t real silver.”

Someone shoot him.

It was as though all the faint noise in their dormitory—the scratching quill, the distant gurgle of the lake, even the soft hum of his own blood in his ears—was sucked out in an instant and vanished completely. The world stopped. Froze. The balance shattered into a thousand irretrievable pieces.

There. 

He’d done it.

Even the merpeople outside the enchanted window startled. That was probably improbable, but Severus couldn’t shake the feeling that they had actually flinched at the sound of his voice. Still, they darted off into the murky waters, their pale, sharp-toothed faces disappearing further into the lake.

And Mulciber? Mulciber paused.

His quill stopped moving mid-stroke, his broad shoulders locked in place, and even his breathing seemed to suspend in some impossible, frozen limbo. His eyes didn’t leave his notebook, didn’t flicker in Severus’s direction, didn’t betray even the faintest indication that he’d heard the words.

But Severus knew he had.

Meanwhile, Severus was spiraling into a full-blown internal meltdown. What the fuck was that? Out of all the things he could have said—out of every word in the goddamned English language—that was what he’d gone with? He wanted to launch himself out of the enchanted window and let the grindylows drag him to the lakebed.

Severus’s mind was already doing its very best to calculate the quantum mechanics of time travel. If he could just crack it—just once—he could erase this moment from existence entirely. Wipe it out of the space-time continuum before it became a permanent stain on his already twice-fucked dumpster fire of a reality.

Because if that wasn’t one of the stupidest fucking things he had ever said in his life, then he didn’t know what was.

Severus swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. His heart, already drumming anxiously in his chest, seemed to pick up a furious, panicked rhythm. He felt heat rush up his neck, scorching his ears so badly it was almost painful, and he clenched his hands so tightly around the edges of his textbook that the spine gave an ominous creak.

Still, Mulciber didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t even look at him.

The silence stretched so taut it felt like it might snap. Severus sat there, every nerve on fire, and waited for the inevitable moment when Mulciber would acknowledge him—laugh at him, sneer, something.

Finally—finally—Mulciber lifted his head, his movements slow and deliberate, like he was giving Severus every chance to crawl into his own grave. His amber eyes flicked up, meeting Severus’s with an unreadable expression that made his stomach drop through the floor.

They didn’t speak.

They just stared at each other, the air between them so still it felt oppressive.

Mulciber’s expression, as always, remained infuriatingly neutral, that same perpetual mask of disinterest he seemed to wear like armor. But this time, faintly, just faintly, it was cracked by a sliver of surprise. His golden eyes, usually half-lidded and unreadable, were slightly widened. Not much, but enough to catch Severus’s attention, like a ripple breaking across the surface of an otherwise still pond.

Severus stared back, feeling the heat of his earlier embarrassment still radiating off his skin, but the surprise on Mulciber’s face only deepened his growing discomfort. 

Say something, goddamnit, he begged silently. 

But Mulciber didn’t.

The silence dragged on, becoming unbearable. Severus swore, if Mulciber wouldn’t speak in the next three minutes, he would kill himself right in front of him just to bring back some semblance of life back into the dorm. 

Finally—mercifully—Mulciber spoke.

“…You’re talking to me?”

His voice, low and calm as ever, carried a faint tinge of surprise, and it was that slight note of curiosity that sent Severus’s nerves into overdrive.

And of course, because Severus’s mouth seemed to have a mind of its own, it opened before his brain could think better of it.

“No,” Severus said, deadpan. “I’m going through the early signs of schizophrenia.”

And because he’d never learned how to shut the fuck up, his mouth continued, “You know what they say: genius and madness.”

Mulciber raised his brows, the surprise on his face deepening. For a moment, he just stared, his expression shifting ever so slightly. His lips parted, his eyes narrowing faintly in what looked alarmingly like consideration, and Severus realized only after a beat: Mulciber might actually believe him.

“Of course I’m fucking talking to you,” Severus said, his voice cutting through the quiet like a whip. He threw his hands up slightly in exasperation, as if to underline the absurdity of the situation.

Mulciber blinked once, twice, and then leaned back slightly against the headboard of his bed. The surprise faded, replaced by something else entirely—bemusement, maybe?

Severus couldn’t tell.

What he could tell was that this conversation was quickly spiraling into horse shit territory. 

Mulciber paused for a moment, his gaze steady and unreadable.

Then, finally, he opened his mouth and said, simply, “It’s silver.”

“Yes and no,” Severus said, his mind clicking into overdrive. His words rushed out before he could think better of them. “It’s not pure silver. I mean, it can’t be. The way it reflects light, the faint tarnish near the clasp—pure silver doesn’t do that. It’s probably mixed with something else—copper, maybe nickel. Might even be a spell-cast alloy, if whoever sold it to you was using magic to cut costs. Either way, they lied to you. If they told you it was pure silver, they cheated you out of… well, a ridiculous amount of money.”

He stopped abruptly, his brain catching up with his mouth. The book, he remembered. It had said to engage with someone’s interest, not undermine it.

Shit.

“But,” he added, his tone shifting slightly as his brain pivoted, “it can be fixed. Sort of. You could separate out the impurities.” He tried to sound casual, as if this was entirely normal and he wasn’t currently fighting the urge to throw himself into the lake. “If you’ve got access to the right equipment—and if it’s not just plated—you could try electrolytic refining. You’d need something like a Clarifying Charm to strip the alloy down. It would take a precise wand movement—three clockwise spirals, followed by a sharp flick—or you’d destabilize the structure. And even then, the heat generated could cause microfractures in the silver itself, unless you counter it with a cooling charm cast at exactly the same time. Not many wizards can do that without burning a hole in their material, but, it’s possible to—”

For fuck’s sake, stop talking.

Severus clamped his mouth shut.

People didn’t like being told things like that either. He should’ve just stopped after “yes and no.” Now he sounded like an arse—and an insufferable one at that.

The silence that followed was deafening, and Severus could feel the weight of Mulciber’s gaze. It hadn’t wavered once, those golden eyes of his staying fixed on him, unblinking. Mulciber’s book remained balanced on his knee, forgotten in his hands as he leaned back slightly, his head tilting to the side like he was studying a particularly strange creature.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Mulciber spoke.

“Mate,” he said slowly, as though speaking to a creature he didn’t quite trust not to bite, “do we have a problem?”

The words weren’t angry, exactly—more curious. He looked at Severus like he was some oddity that had just wandered into the dormitory—an alien species that needed closer examination. And honestly, Severus thought, that was fair. He was certainly acting like one.

Mulciber had every reason to think he was trying to pick a fight with him, the way this was going.

“I’m not—” Severus began, his voice clipped and defensive before he abruptly stopped himself. He sighed, his shoulders dipping slightly as he brought his thumb to his mouth, biting at the nail in thought. His mind was a hurricane of half-formed ideas, each one spinning uselessly as he scrambled for something—anything—to salvage this interaction. He wasn’t trying to pick a fight with Mulciber, but the awkward tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a wand.

He bit down harder on his nail, his mind racing, and then pulled his hand away. 

“I wanted to apologize,” he finally said, his words deliberate but tentative, like stepping onto unstable ground. He tucked his thumb into his palm, as though hiding the evidence of his habit. “About your shirt.”

Mulciber blinked, his golden eyes narrowing slightly, confusion flickering across his face for just a fraction of a second. It was as if the incident had completely slipped from his memory. Then, like a slow tide, recognition dawned. His features cleared, and the faintest quirk of his brow suggested the memory was coming back to him.

“I could have fixed it,” Severus added, his voice faltering as he looked down at the floor, then bounced back up. “The ink stain.”

The entire situation was so bizarre that Severus almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it. Severus felt like he might implode from secondhand embarrassment—except the embarrassment was entirely his own. Because rather than address the fact that Severus Snape—a boy who rarely apologized to anyone—was standing here attempting to do just that, Mulciber simply asked, “Why are you talking to me?”

And he was right. 

They didn’t talk. 

Six years of sharing the same room, and they might as well have been complete strangers.

“There’s a rule against talking to your roommate, is there?” Severus replied, though the words sounded odd even to him. They came out stiffer than intended, even though he was trying to mask how awkward he felt.

Mulciber gave him an odd look, his brows knitting slightly. He tilted his head, studying Severus as if trying to figure out where this particular oddity had come from. He opened his mouth as if to respond, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a knock at the door. It opened before either of them could say anything.

Wilkes strode in, his perfect blonde hair catching the light from the lanterns, his clear skin and bright blue eyes giving him the appearance of a polished portrait. He was dressed in his practice uniform, the fitted green shirt clinging to his build and the loose trousers hanging effortlessly from his hips. His lips formed its usual shiny smile.

“Mulciber,” Wilkes called, his voice bright but tinged with curiosity, “we’ve got to head to practice.”

But Mulciber didn’t move. He was still sitting on his bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned forward, his golden eyes fixed on Severus. The odd look remained, one part confusion and another part something else, something that Severus couldn’t figure out.

“Mulciber?” Wilkes prompted again, leaning further into the room. Then his gaze drifted fully to Severus, sharp and assessing. Severus met his eyes for a fleeting second, but the unspoken question there—the faint curl of amusement on Wilkes’s lips, as if he was just understanding something—made him look away, back to Mulciber.

Whatever Wilkes was interpreting from the scene, it was clearly nothing good, because he followed up with, “Everything alright in here?”

That seemed to break Mulciber out of whatever spell he was under. He straightened up, his movements deliberate but not hurried, and swung his legs off the side of the bed. Without a word, he reached for his stack of notebooks and parchment, gathering them into a neat pile before depositing them on the corner of his study table. The pencil that had been tucked behind his ear followed, set down at the same pace.

He walked across the room to the wardrobe, pulling the door open and grabbing his practice shirt. The faint lamplight cast shadows across the muscles of his arms as he slid it on in a single motion. The green fabric stretched tightly over his broad shoulders and upper back before settling into place, its fit highlighting the sharp lines of his physique.

Severus couldn’t help but notice the scar running diagonally across Mulciber’s forearm. He’d seen it before but had never asked about it. Knowing Mulciber, it was probably some relic from who-knows-what Slytherin nonsense.

Next, Mulciber picked up his Quidditch bat from where it leaned in the corner of his bed, the polished wood catching the light as he slung it over his shoulder.

“We’re alright,” Mulciber finally said, his voice even but vague, as though the matter didn’t warrant further explanation. His words were aimed at Wilkes, who raised a brow but didn’t press the issue. He gestured for Wilkes to step back into the hallway, and he followed, walking past Severus without so much as a glance, his presence filling the room for just a moment longer.

And then he was gone.

As soon as Mulciber left, the silence in the room hit Severus like a tidal wave. He sat there, his mind spinning with every detail of the exchange. His breath felt unsteady, like his lungs couldn’t decide whether they wanted to exhale fully or hold onto whatever remaining air they had.

What the hell had just happened?

Severus’s gaze lingered on the closed door, his heart thudding an erratic rhythm in his chest. His thumb drifted back to his mouth, the edge of his nail between his teeth before he realized what he was doing and yanked it away. He clenched his hands into fists, pressing them against his thighs as if the action could steady him.

He ran through the entire interaction in his mind, dissecting every word, every pause, every flicker of expression on Mulciber’s face. The apology about the shirt—what had he been thinking? It was so out of nowhere, so unlike him, and yet he’d said it anyway. Then there was Mulciber’s reaction, the way he’d stared at him like Severus had grown an extra head. 

Severus crossed his arms over his chest, his fingers digging into his sleeves. He felt like an idiot. No, worse than an idiot. 

Severus let out a frustrated breath, brushing his hair back with both hands before letting them drop heavily to his sides. He stared at the floor, his dark hair falling forward to obscure his face as he tried to suppress the creeping embarrassment tightening in his chest.

Why had he even tried? 

Why had he said anything?

For a moment, he considered retreating to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, to physically shake himself out of this mess of overthinking. 

Charity.

Charity fucking Burbage.

He was going to bloody strangle her if it was the last thing he did.

This was all her fault.

Three minutes passed, and then the door opened. 

The sound of the door creaking open again made Severus flinch, his shoulders jerking slightly. He hadn’t expected anyone to return so soon—or at all. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he glanced up, and there he was.

Mulciber stood leaning against the doorframe, his broad shoulders slouching just enough to give him a casual air, though there was a certain tension in the way he held himself. His amber eyes, usually sharp and indifferent, seemed less so somehow, almost searching as they flicked over Severus.

He wasn’t smiling, but there was something hesitant about the way he pursed his lips, as if the words he wanted to say were right there but stubbornly refusing to take form. His fingers drummed lightly against the wooden frame, an absentminded rhythm. 

Once. 

Twice. 

Three times.

For a moment, Severus stared, utterly thrown. The room felt suddenly too quiet, too still. His mind raced, but for once, his mouth stayed shut.

“It was just a shirt,” Mulciber finally said, his voice low but even, like he’d rehearsed it and yet hadn’t been sure how it would land. His gaze lingered on Severus, steady but unreadable, as if he was weighing something. Then he added, with a small shrug of his shoulders, “You’re good.”

And just like that, he was gone again.

Chapter Text

SEVERUS HAD NEVER been particularly fond of people. Not in the dramatic, misanthropic way one might imagine—he didn’t stalk around, muttering curses under his breath about the foolishness of humanity. It was quieter than that, subtler. 

The truth was that people just didn’t make sense.

Potions made sense. Equations made sense. Books made sense. They were methodical and consistent, governed by rules that remained steadfast no matter the context. A bezoar would neutralize most poisons because its chemical composition interacted with toxins in a specific, measurable way. A single clockwise stir could catalyze the reaction in a Draught of Peace, while counterclockwise would unravel the balance entirely. It wasn’t guesswork or intuition; it was science layered atop magic, each supporting and enhancing the other. He liked that. No, he needed that—the certainty, the clarity.

The properties of asphodel didn’t shift depending on its mood, and powdered moonstone wouldn’t suddenly refuse to dissolve just because you hadn’t phrased a question to it properly. You followed instructions, calibrated the flame to exactly the right temperature, stirred precisely as required, and the result was dependable. Logical. Comforting.

Severus liked that about potions. He liked that the world inside a cauldron was one where everything could be predicted, quantified, and controlled. It wasn’t just about magic—it was about chemistry and physics, molecular structures and chain reactions. He had read Muggle textbooks on the subject long before he’d received his Hogwarts letter. Science had fascinated him long before magic ever had. His mother’s discarded textbooks, yellowed with age and riddled with notes from a life she had abandoned, had been some of the first books he’d ever read. And every summer, he went to the library on the better side of Cokeworth to read books on every science under the sun—chemistry, physics, biology, astronomy, and even mathematics. He remembered poring over diagrams of atomic bonds, the periodic table, and reaction formulas, savoring the way everything could be broken down into parts. Molecules didn’t play mind games. Catalysts didn’t care about your tone of voice.

People , on the other hand—people were chaos incarnate. 

They were mercurial, unpredictable, and inconsistent. They said one thing but meant another, laughed at jokes that weren’t funny, and got angry over slights you didn’t even know you’d made. Sometimes they just stared at you like they were waiting for something you were supposed to provide—words, expressions, reactions—and Merlin help him, Severus never had the faintest idea what it was.

Sometimes, Severus felt like his mind simply wasn’t built for it. Interactions with others often felt like navigating a landmine, or brewing a potion where the instructions had been scribbled out and replaced with riddles. No one ever told you the precise ingredients or the correct sequence, and half the time it felt like the cauldron might blow up in your face if you got it wrong. It baffled him, how effortlessly people seemed to understand one another, like they all spoke a language he hadn’t been taught.

He hated that—how words were expected of him, how conversations came with a hundred invisible rules they hadn’t bothered to write down, and he was supposed to instinctively translate them. And it wasn’t like he was bad at speaking—of course he could—but he hated how often it felt like he was never capable of saying the right thing. Potions required focus and precision, but the outcome was never a mystery. There was always a point A and point B.

Severus adjusted the knobs of his telescope with more force than precision, his mind wandering far beyond the Astronomy Tower. The lens squeaked faintly under his relentless tweaking, the focus slipping farther and farther out of alignment. He wasn’t paying attention—his hands were on autopilot, twisting dials while his thoughts circled the mess that was Charity’s romantic predicament.

Morality aside, he thought grimly, a love potion would’ve been so much easier than whatever that disaster had been in the dorms.

He twisted the knob again, hard, and leaned forward to peer through the lens. Everything was blurry, indistinct streaks of light smearing across the telescope’s field of view. He frowned but didn’t immediately correct it. 

“Mr. Snape.”

The sharp voice of Professor Woolworth broke through his haze. Severus flinched, jerking upright as his hand dropped from the telescope. His head snapped toward her, his expression instantly schooled into neutrality, though his stomach twisted with unease.

Professor Woolworth stood a few feet away, her arms crossed and her head tilted slightly. Her sharp, hawkish gaze flicked from him to the telescope, her lips pursed in mild exasperation.

“Yes, Professor?” Severus answered slowly. His tone was polite, though the words came out a little stiff.

Her gaze flicked to the misaligned telescope again, now tilted at an absurd angle. She quirked a brow, and there was something both curious and unamused in her expression.

“Exactly what are you aiming to catch sight of with your telescope tuned at…” She leaned in, squinting at the dials. “…approximately 2.5 million light-years away?”

Severus froze, his mind grinding to a halt.

Fuck.

Was that how far he’d adjusted the scope?

“I. . .” He hesitated, glancing at the telescope.

His thoughts scrambled, kicking into overdrive. He barely resisted the urge to curse aloud as he racked his brain for the answer. 2.5 million light-years. What celestial object could that distance correspond to? It wasn’t a planet—not in the solar system, at least. Stars were usually measured in parsecs. Galaxies, though—galaxies.

“The Tidal Tails,” he finally blurted out, moving to straighten his telescope. “In the Andromeda Galaxy.”

The words left his mouth a little too loudly, and he immediately regretted the sharpness in his tone. A faint look that definitely said she didn’t believe him tugged at the corner of Professor Woolworth’s mouth, though she quickly smoothed it out.

“Well,” she said, though she didn’t quite smile. “Does that mean you’ve decided to partner with Miss Sinistra for tonight’s project?”

Severus blinked, blindsided. “Sorry?”

The room, already subdued by the late hour, fell utterly silent. Most of the students had been slouching against pillows and half-heartedly jotting notes, but now their attention snapped to the unfolding interaction.

“You and Miss Sinistra seem to be observing the same sector of the night sky,” Woolworth explained, her tone patient but pointed.

Severus’s instincts betrayed him; his eyes immediately darted across the room. Aurora Sinistra was seated near the back, her telescope angled upward. The moonlight streaming through the enchanted ceiling bathed her dark skin in a silvery glow, highlighting the neat braids that lined her scalp, going down to her back—different from how she’d had it earlier today, in Magical Theory. Her large, almond-shaped eyes widened slightly, flicking from the professor to Severus with evident surprise.

It was clear she was just as surprised.

Severus sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his eyes. 

Goddamnit.

“No—” he started, but another voice cut in.

“Yes, Professor,” Aurora said smoothly, standing and beginning to gather her things.

Severus stared at her, dumbfounded, as she rose to her feet. She lifted her telescope with practiced ease, tucking her notebook under one arm. Her expression was calm, almost cheerful, as though this had been her plan all along.

She navigated the room gracefully, stepping over stray pillows and dodging outstretched legs. A Hufflepuff near the center grumbled as she passed, but Aurora didn’t falter, her movements deliberate and assured. When she finally reached Severus, she lowered herself onto the pillow beside him, setting her telescope down with a soft clink.

“I was just getting my line chart,” she said lightly, her voice warm and steady. Her gaze locked onto Severus’s, her brown eyes bright and unmarred by sleep. Her smile remained firmly in place, a subtle but clear signal for him to follow her lead.

Severus blinked, his mind still reeling. He opened his mouth, but no words came. Aurora’s expression didn’t waver, though her eyebrow arched ever so slightly, as if to say, Well?

“…Yes,” Severus muttered finally, his voice low. “The line chart.”

Aurora’s smile widened just a fraction, and she turned back to Professor Woolworth, who was still watching them with a curious gleam in her eye. 

“We’ll get started right away,” Aurora said brightly.

The professor lagged, taking a rather long moment between them before she nodded once, moving on to another pair of students.

As soon as she was gone, Severus exhaled sharply, slumping slightly against his telescope. 

For god’s sake, what was wrong with him.

Severus couldn’t help but notice the way Aurora moved as she settled beside him, her posture relaxed yet purposeful. She adjusted the pillows beneath her with a casual air, shuffling her telescope and notebook into place. The faint rustle of parchment and the soft clink of metal filled the space between them, oddly grounding. She didn’t seem flustered by the sudden change in plans, unlike him. Instead, she radiated a calm confidence that Severus found both perplexing and slightly disarming.

He stared at his hands for a moment, flexing his fingers against the rough fabric of his robes as if searching for words hidden in the folds. Finally, he forced himself to speak, though the words came out uneven.

“I’m sorry,” Severus muttered, his voice quieter than he intended. He glanced at Aurora—not at her directly, but somewhere in her general vicinity, as if her presence alone was overwhelming. Then his brain caught up with his mouth, and he immediately corrected himself. “I mean… thank you.”

Aurora paused mid-motion, her hand frozen just above her notebook. She turned to him, her brow furrowed in mild confusion. For a brief moment, her dark eyes studied him as though he were a particularly baffling star chart, and then realization dawned.

She laughed softly, the sound light and genuine, like the tinkling of wind chimes. Severus caught the faintest trace of citrus in the air—clean and sharp, though muted after the long day. Her smile widened, revealing pearly white teeth, and something about it felt warmer than the faint glow of the enchanted ceiling above.

“Don’t worry about it,” Aurora said, her voice rich with amusement. Her smile lingered as she leaned in slightly, her braids brushing against her shoulder. She lowered her voice, leaning closer, as though sharing a secret just for him.

“You looked like you needed saving.”

Severus blinked, his mind stuttering over her words. He couldn’t quite place the tone of her voice—was it teasing? Kind? Both? Her proximity set him on edge, and he resisted the urge to shift away. Instead, he simply nodded, unsure of what to say or do with the warmth in her tone.

She pulled back with a satisfied smile, her attention returning to her telescope. Meanwhile, Severus remained frozen, his thoughts a jumbled mess as the faint citrus scent lingered in the air between them.

Aurora paused in her work, her pencil hovering just above the line chart as she turned to Severus, her dark eyes flickering with surprise. Her lips parted slightly, as though his comment had genuinely caught her off guard. It wasn’t a rehearsed sort of shock—it was raw, unfiltered, and so unlike the controlled, composed way she usually carried herself.

“Just out of curiosity,” Aurora said suddenly, her fingers twirling a pencil idly as she smoothed out the line chart in front of her. Her movements were deliberate but casual, the kind of ease that came with the quiet calm of a person who wasn’t constantly riddled with crippling anxiety. “What are you sorry for?”

Severus glanced at her, his gaze flickering briefly from her hands to her face before settling somewhere in the neutral space between them. He let out a faint snort, though it lacked any real humor.

“I doubt you actually wanted to be partnered with me for a project,” Severus said, his tone flat but not sharp.

Aurora stilled, her pencil poised mid-spin as she turned to him, her brows knitting together. Surprise flashed across her face, clear and unguarded, before she set the pencil down entirely and looked at him fully.

“Why not?” she asked, her tone laced with curiosity. It wasn’t defensive, nor was it pitying. She sounded like the idea of not wanting to partner with him was baffling.

Severus hesitated for a fraction of a second before his gaze slid toward her, sharp but guarded. 

“You’re top of the class,” he answered flatly, the words almost grudging.

And it was true. 

Aurora Sinistra had an undeniable brilliance when it came to Astronomy. While Severus excelled across plenty of subjects, from Magical Theory to Defense Against the Dark Arts, where he often vied for the top position, Astronomy was her domain. No matter how meticulously he charted the stars or how many hours he spent recalculating orbital patterns, she was always able to somehow outpace him. It wasn’t a lack of effort—Severus worked hard, often harder than he did in any other subject—but Aurora had a way of reading the night sky like it was her first language. The constellations bent to her will in a way that left Severus in perpetual second place, an unfamiliar and irritating position for someone as competitive as him.

“In Astronomy, maybe,” Aurora said, a laugh bubbling out of her as she set her pencil down. “But by ten points, Severus. There’s barely a difference between us.”

He glanced at her sidelong, his face blank but his mind bristling. That wasn’t true, and they both knew it. Ten points in Astronomy, one of the most unforgiving subjects at Hogwarts, might as well have been a chasm that spanned miles. There was no “barely” about it. Aurora’s scores weren’t just good—they were unassailable.

Aurora, seemingly unaware of his annoyance, smiled at him again, this time softer, like she thought he simply needed encouragement. 

“You’re brilliant,” she said earnestly. “And I know for a fact that you can keep up with me without even trying.”

The compliment hit harder than he expected, his chest tightening as her words settled into the quiet between them. He didn’t respond, though; instead, he stared at the line chart in front of him, his shoulders tightening under the weight of her gaze.

Aurora laughed again, the sound light and unaffected, and it caught him off guard all over again. 

“I didn’t take you for the humble type,” she teased, her grin widening just a fraction.

“I’m realistic,” Severus replied evenly, though his voice lacked any of the sharpness that might have accompanied such a statement under different circumstances. He kept his eyes fixed on the paper in front of him, his posture rigid, like he was bracing himself for something.

Aurora tilted her head slightly, studying him for a moment longer before returning to her line chart. She picked up her pencil and resumed smoothing out the faintly smudged lines, but her smile lingered, as though she’d seen something in Severus he hadn’t quite meant to reveal.

For some reason, it seemed like his response had been the right one. Aurora spoke again, her voice quieter but steady.

“I actually wanted to apologize,” she said, her tone carrying a hint of pause.

Severus blinked, startled enough to actually look at her, really look at her. His gaze darted upward, meeting hers for the briefest of moments before slipping away again, unsure how to hold it. He noted the way she sat, her posture composed and calm. But her fingers betrayed her, still fiddling absently with the pencil between them. Every so often, she glanced up at him and smiled, soft and tentative, and Severus realized with a quiet awareness that it must be a nervous habit.

“To who?” he asked cautiously, his voice measured as his dark eyes studied her.

Aurora’s pencil faltered in its rhythm for just a moment, then resumed its steady twisting. She didn’t answer immediately, though her smile tilted into something almost sheepish. Severus watched her closely now, his mind working to piece it together.

He didn’t know why he’d asked, when the answer was so obvious.

“To me?” he ventured, the question slow and deliberate, as though the idea didn’t quite fit.

Aurora let out a quiet laugh, a sound caught somewhere between amusement and nerves, and finally spoke again. “For that time in the halls,” she said, her voice softer now. She glanced up at him quickly before looking back down at her chart, her fingers still fidgeting with the pencil. “Three weeks ago.”

Severus furrowed his brow, his mind rifling through recent memories.

“When I was returning your book,” Aurora clarified, exhaling a short, nervous laugh. “I was so on edge that I ended up tripping over myself—and you had to catch me so I wouldn’t fall.” She let out another breath, shaking her head as if to dismiss her own words. “Not to mention how I could barely string a proper sentence together. I must’ve looked like a complete fool.”

Severus blinked, his mind stuttering to keep up. He remembered the moment, but it hadn’t seemed noteworthy at the time—just another brief interaction with a fellow student. He watched her now, noting the faint flush that had crept onto her cheeks and the way her words tumbled out in a quick, almost rehearsed rhythm.

“Like I said,” Aurora went on, her voice tinged with humor now, though her pencil-twirling had grown more erratic. “I promise I’m not usually like this, but Merlin…” She trailed off, inhaling deeply as if bracing herself.

Severus still hadn’t spoken. He wasn’t sure he could if he tried. He let her continue, his silence less out of politeness and more out of sheer uncertainty about what he should say—or could say—to make any of this less strange.

“You’re intimidating,” Aurora said at last, her voice cutting through the quiet like a surprising chord.

That made him pause.

“Me?” Severus asked after a beat, his tone so flat that it came out more a statement than a question.

Aurora nodded, her smile faltering slightly but never quite disappearing. Her pencil spun slower now, her fingers still, and for the first time, her gaze held his steadily.

“Yes, you,” she said, her voice soft but sure. “You’re brilliant, Severus. And you’re… quiet. And you get into a lot of fights. And you’re um…prickly? It’s… it’s intimidating sometimes.”

Severus opened his mouth to respond but closed it again almost immediately, at a rare loss for words. 

Aurora tilted her head slightly, studying him as if she could sense his disbelief. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” she added quickly, her voice lighter now, as though she were trying to reassure him. “It’s just… you’re a bit odd—odd in a good way. As in you’re not normal.”

Aurora stopped, her eyes widening as if the words had escaped her mouth faster than her brain could stop them. “Oh Merlin,” she muttered, her hand flying up to her face. “That’s not what I meant.”

Severus stared at her, his expression inscrutable. He didn’t frown, but he also didn’t look amused. His dark eyes bore into her, flat and steady, waiting.

Aurora groaned softly, dropping her hand and fixing him with an apologetic look. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her words rushing together in her haste. “That’s not what I meant. Can I… can I start over?”

She was fiddling with her pencil again, her fingers twisting it nervously as she glanced between him and the chart in front of her. For all her confidence earlier, there was a clear crack in her composure now, and Severus found himself caught somewhere between irritation and amusement at the sight of it.

He tilted his head slightly, his expression still unreadable. “If you insist,” he said flatly, though there was no real malice in his tone.

Aurora let out a relieved laugh, the tension in her shoulders softening just a fraction. “Thank you,” she said, though it came out more like a breath than a word. She paused, gathering herself, and then met his gaze—albeit briefly.

“What I meant,” she began again, slower this time, “is that you’re not like everyone else. You’re… different. In a good way. You’re smart, and you’re focused, and you don’t waste your time trying to impress people. It’s…” She hesitated, her fingers halting their restless movements for a moment. “It’s intimidating because it’s admirable.”

Severus blinked, the unexpected compliment throwing him off balance. He hadn’t been prepared for this—for any of it, really—but especially not for her to speak about him like that. Admirable. It was a word he’d rarely heard directed at him, and certainly never by someone like Aurora Sinistra.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Aurora looked back at him, her gaze calm now, though the faintest hint of a nervous smile—grimace really—still tugged at her lips.

“Well,” Severus said finally, his voice quiet, “you can rest assured that I don’t think you’re normal, either.”

The words left his mouth before he could stop them, and as soon as they did, regret followed like a tidal wave.

Fuck.

There it was again—his mouth moving faster than his mind. It hadn’t even occurred to him to pause, to consider how the words might sound. Rude. Mean. Cutting. He shouldn’t have said that. He was an arsehole. A stupid arsehole.

His stomach sank, his shoulders tensing as he opened his mouth to apologize, to say something, anything to soften the blow, to try to salvage what was left of this awkward disaster, but Aurora beat him to it.

She laughed.

It wasn’t a polite laugh, either—not the forced kind people used to fill silences. It was pure and full, spilling out of her like she couldn’t help it. The sound startled him, and he stared, his apology forgotten mid-breath.

Aurora lifted a hand to cover her mouth, muffling her laughter so it wouldn’t carry across the room. Her other hand pressed lightly against the floor as she turned, checking over her shoulder to ensure Professor Woolworth hadn’t noticed.

When she turned back, her gaze caught his.

Severus paused.

Her dark eyes were alive with laughter, crinkling at the corners and curving into crescents that softened her sharp features. They were terribly expressive—too expressive. He could see her amusement written so clearly in them, a brightness that made her seem even more vivid under the dim light of the enchanted ceiling. Her lips were still pressed together, trying to keep herself quiet, but the corners of her mouth curved upward, fighting against her effort to stay composed.

She didn’t look offended. 

Not in the slightest.

“You’re funny,” Aurora whispered, her voice still tinged with laughter as she leaned in conspiratorially.

He blinked. 

Funny?

Funny was not a word he would have ever used to describe himself, nor a reaction he’d ever expected from her. From anyone. And yet here she was, smiling at him like he’d just said something clever instead of something rude. She was still grinning at him, like he hadn’t just insulted her—or tried to, even accidentally. 

Her laughter was… nice. Not irritating or derisive, but warm and oddly disarming.

Severus turned his attention back to the line chart in front of him, his hands curling slightly on the edges of the parchment.

He didn’t know how to respond, so he said nothing.

There was a few beats of silence before Aurora spoke again.

“It didn’t help that you were with Charity Burbage of all people,” Aurora said, her voice light but tinged with a trace of something curious.

Severus felt a sharp spike of frustration. He almost groaned aloud. His temper flared before he could even consider his response. 

“We’re not dating,” Severus said immediately, the words tumbling out in a rush, more forceful than he intended. His voice carried a note of impatience that surprised even him. For god’s sake. It was like that stupid blonde would haunt him no matter where he went. Why did people keep thinking that?

Aurora blinked at him, clearly surprised by the force of his response. She tilted her head slightly, eyes widening in a way that made Severus realize just how little he understood her expressions. She had that effect on him—everything about her was harder to read than he liked, mainly because everything was open for him to read, and so there was too much.

She was like Mulciber in that light, only on different ends on the spectrum.

He wasn’t sure which one he preferred.

“You’re not?” she asked, her brow furrowing in mild confusion. Severus could hear the softness in her voice, the genuine surprise at the idea that he might not be romantically involved with Charity.

He felt his chest burn, an unfamiliar sense of skittishness creeping up on him. He wasn’t used to having to explain himself, especially when people had always been more inclined to make their own assumptions, and Severus had always found it a bit pointless to try and defend himself against it.

So Severus simply gave her a flat, pointed look, and Aurora’s expression shifted.  Her shoulders relaxed, and something about the way her posture shifted made her seem less guarded, almost like a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding was finally let out. She smiled, the expression softening into something more natural, almost relieved.

“Oh,” she said, the realization finally settling in her voice.

Severus furrowed his brows but didn’t comment, glancing back down at his chart, pretending to focus on the smudged lines and numbers. His fingers moved along the edges without really registering it. He tried to block out the strange feeling creeping up his spine, like there was some unseen thread connecting him to Aurora’s laughter, her surprise, her easygoing nature that seemed so out of place in comparison to his constant wariness.

“Well, still,” Aurora continued, her tone shifting again. “You two are an odd combination.”

She said it with a laugh, almost teasing, but there was something genuine in it too, something light that made Severus bristle even as he wanted to laugh along with her. Odd combination, indeed.

“You’re both really intimidating,” she said, a grin tugging at the corners of her lips.

Severus blinked, staring at her for a moment before he processed what she had said. He had heard countless versions of the word intimidating for himself, sure, but Charity? That irritating ball of overpriced sequins and silk? Sure, she might have a reputation of being rather cutting with her words, but pretty people tended to be given more leeway in those criterias, and she was popular for a reason, wasn’t she? He definitely wasn’t afraid of Charity—well, at least not in the way she seemed to think he was. But the idea that both of them together were intimidating? It took him off guard.

“And well,” Aurora continued, her voice lowering just slightly, as though she were about to share some deep secret, “you’ve been the talk of the school for quite a bit, so—”

“Please don’t tell me,” Severus interrupted, his voice a quiet plea. His hand went to his forehead in a gesture of exasperation, though he didn’t want to make too much noise. The idea of it—of that rumor spreading even further—made him want to sink through the floor and disappear. Or just jump off the Astronomy tower alltogether. It felt tempting enough. “I might end up doing something drastic.”

Aurora laughed again, soft and quiet, but the sound was undeniably genuine. She leaned slightly back against the pillow, her braids catching the glow of the enchanted ceiling.

“All right,” she said, holding up one slender hand in mock surrender. “I won’t.”

Severus exhaled, the faintest trace of relief washing over him.

The silence between them stretched on, long enough that Severus could feel the weight of it pressing in around them. They should really get to work, he thought, but for some reason, the words wouldn’t come. There was something in the air, an unspoken pause, a sort of suspended moment where neither of them seemed eager to break it. The quiet seemed to suit them, in a way. He was unsure of how to steer them back toward the task at hand, but the longer it lingered, the less inclined he felt to do so. It was almost like the silence itself was a shield, something comfortable, even if it felt a little awkward.

Then Aurora broke it.

“I have this problem,” she said suddenly, her voice pulling Severus from his thoughts. Her words caught his attention immediately, and his gaze snapped up to her, his focus settling entirely on her. She had his full attention.“Where I end up getting so stuck inside my head and I end up saying the wrong thing,” she added with a small, self-deprecating shrug.

Severus paused. The words hung in the air, settling somewhere between them. For a moment, he couldn’t respond. It felt like a soft echo of something he had experienced a thousand times over, like she had just described every situation he had ever been in. The wrong words, the missteps, the perpetual feeling of tripping over every possible human interaction.

His mind buzzed with the thought, and he felt a shift, like an invisible barrier had slipped just a little. 

“And it’s just—well,” she continued, her hands moving expressively as if trying to illustrate her point, “I end up coming up with all of these ways in my head of how things could go wrong that I end up doing something like—”

She laughed, a light, almost embarrassed sound, and Severus couldn’t help but feel a little lighter in response, even though his expression didn’t shift or change.

“Falling over myself,” she finished with a shrug, as if it were no big deal.

Severus stared at her, his thoughts momentarily scattered by the distracting sound of her laughter. He could see the way her body moved, the way she fidgeted with her braids, tugging at one by the back of her neck. There was something vulnerable in the motion, a subtle sign of the tension she was trying to hide. 

“And,” she went on, her voice softening, “all it really takes is me getting out of my own way to realize that this—” She gestured vaguely in his direction, the motion quick but purposeful, “wasn’t actually as scary as I thought.”

Severus continued to stare as he tried to process her words. He could hear them clearly, feel them filtering through his thoughts, settling in his mind, and yet there was something odd about them. 

Something familiar. 

It was like his mind was trying to file her words away, only to find a file almost identical that he already possessed. The only difference were that they were his own thoughts. 

It was strange, hearing it from someone else. It made his skin prickle.

He realized, with a sudden clarity that was almost jarring, that this was the first time he had ever heard someone else put words to his own feelings. Granted, he didn’t talk to many people, but suddenly, it was like he was yanked out of his own bubble  and was reminded that a world existed outside of his own mind. Aurora seemed much more like a real person now than she had the entirety of the time she’d spent talking to him. 

She wasn’t just Aurora Sinistra, the Ravenclaw girl who was better at Astronomy than he was, the girl with the faint citrus scent and the wayward laugh. She was a person, whole and complete, full of thoughts and fears and quiet insecurities that were somewhat similar to his own.

It was an unnerving realization—unnerving because, to him, the way he saw people was… not hollow, exactly, but flat. Shadows moving past him in the halls, voices rising and falling without meaning. He had never paused to consider the intricate worlds they also had, or if they shared any similarity to his own.

But now, watching Aurora twist a braid between her fingers, a nervous tic she probably didn’t even realize she had, Severus felt a bit jarred at the sudden awareness of another human being.

He let his eyes drop back to the chart in front of him, but the image of Aurora—fidgeting, laughing, gesturing, explaining—stayed imprinted in his mind. She spent a lot of time in her own head, just like he did. Trapped in a loop of consciousness, overanalysis—a spiral of overthinking.

It was dizzying, this newfound sense of awareness. It left him both disoriented and oddly grounded. 

“What I’m trying to say is, I’m sorry,” Aurora said, her voice softening as her fingers resumed their nervous dance along the edge of her parchment. Then she paused, her expression shifting to something almost sheepish. “Again. For the third time.”

Severus didn’t respond, though he could tell she wasn’t finished yet.

“I didn’t mean to call you odd,” Aurora continued, her words tumbling out hurriedly now. “Or prickly, or intimidating, or scary, or not normal, or—”

“Stop,” Severus interrupted, his tone firm but low enough to not draw attention from the professor at the front of the tower. He could feel the heat creeping into his own face, creeping up from his neck and up to his ears, and from the way Aurora clamped her mouth shut, her dark skin warming so noticeably he could almost feel the waves of heat falling off her, she was clearly mortified.

He was saving her—both of them, really, from the disaster that would have been this line of conversation.

The cold air of the astronomy tower did little to cool the awkward energy settling between them. Aurora fidgeted with her braid, as if she could work through her embarrassment with motion alone.

“I should probably have just stopped at, ‘I’m sorry,’” she said finally, her tone tinged with self-deprecating humor.

Severus glanced at her out of the corner of his eye but didn’t reply. Instead, he looked down at the charts spread across the table between them. They really did need to focus. This wasn’t the time for fumbling conversations or distractions, and yet here they were, still tangled in one.

“We should get to work,” Severus said after a long pause, his voice cutting cleanly through the lingering tension.

“Yes,” Aurora agreed, her words quick and almost breathless, like she’d been waiting for him to say it. She straightened in her seat, shuffling her materials into order with an urgency that didn’t quite disguise her lingering embarrassment. “Right now would be nice.”

Severus didn’t respond to that, choosing instead to pick up his quill and start marking his chart. The tip of the quill traced over the parchment, and then he spoke again.

“You’re working on the tidal tails?” Severus asked finally, looking up from his chart. He kept his voice even and professional, hoping to sweep the lingering awkwardness away with something more productive.

Aurora cleared her throat, nodding as she adjusted her own chart. “Yes. I’m measuring their effects on magical flux in celestial bodies—like how the gravitational interaction between galaxies could amplify magical interference in starlight, and in turn affect cores. It’s subtle, but there are patterns that suggest a correlation.”

Severus blinked, his brain scrambling to keep up with the technicality of her explanation. 

“That makes no sense,” he said immediately, his tone flat but sharp, as if it didn’t occur to him he was challenging the top student in the subject.

Aurora’s earlier nervousness seemed to evaporate at the rebuttal. Her posture straightened, and her expression shifted into something laser-focused, the kind of intensity that only came from being wholly absorbed in defending her work.

“How can tidal tails—gravitational remnants of merging galaxies—have any effect on starlight from systems light-years away?” Severus continued, leaning slightly forward. “Gravitational waves dissipate. By the time they reach any observable point, they’re weak enough to be negligible.”

Aurora’s lips curved into a faint, confident smile, one that made it clear she was ready for the challenge. 

“Gravitational waves, yes,” she said, her tone gaining a crisp, scholarly edge. “But not the residual dark matter fields. When galaxies interact, the dark matter halo distorts, creating ripples in magical energy. It’s not the tidal tails themselves, but their presence amplifies those distortions. The starlight passing through such regions shows faint but measurable interference patterns that can only be explained by magical flux.”

Severus narrowed his eyes slightly, his mind racing. He could almost see the logic of her explanation, but something still didn’t sit right. 

“Even if that were the case,” he countered, “the interference would vary depending on the composition of the stars in question. Have you accounted for elemental differences in the spectra of the starlight? The energy of a magically attuned star would skew your results.”

Aurora’s eyes lit up with excitement as if she’d been waiting for that question. “Of course. That’s why I’ve cross-referenced stars of similar compositions across different regions of the tidal tails. It’s not a single instance—it’s a consistent pattern across dozens of stars. The variance is small, but it’s there.”

Severus sat back slightly, considering her words. He didn’t respond right away, and Aurora, for her part, looked pleased with herself. She tapped her pencil against the edge of the table, her earlier fumbling completely gone, replaced by a sharp confidence that Severus couldn’t help but respect.

“Well,” he said after a moment, “I suppose I’ll have to see your data.”

Aurora’s grin widened. “Gladly,” she said, sliding her notes toward him.

Severus pursed his lips.

“What were you working on?” Aurora asked, sliding her notes closer to him with a curious tilt of her head.

Severus hesitated, glancing down at her meticulous charts. He could feel her gaze on him, waiting expectantly, and sighed. “I was lying through my teeth,” he admitted, his voice low but steady. “I hadn’t gotten past the general framework.”

Aurora blinked in surprise. “Oh.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Severus added quickly, as if dismissing his own admission. “We can focus on your topic. I’ll handle the observations on the telescope and do the calculations. If you’ll arrange the charts and collate the data, we’ll get through this faster.”

Aurora frowned, leaning back slightly. “But that means you’ll be doing most of the work.”

Severus looked at her, his expression unreadable but his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m good at math. You’re good at synthesis. And you’ve already done most of the heavy lifting with your thesis. It makes sense to split it that way.”

Aurora didn’t look convinced. She crossed her arms loosely, her pencil still caught between her fingers as she considered him. “Still… it doesn’t feel fair.”

“Is anything ever?” Severus replied dryly, though there was no real edge to his voice. Severus adjusted the telescope carefully, his fingers deftly turning the knobs as he tried to perfect the focus. He leaned down to peer into the lens, but as he did, his hair fell forward, obscuring his view. He huffed in annoyance and brushed it back with a sharp motion, only for it to fall into his face again the moment he resumed his work.

This went on for a few moments—adjust, lean, swipe his hair back, repeat. It was maddeningly inefficient.

“Here,” Aurora said suddenly, her voice calm and matter-of-fact.

Severus glanced over at her, his brow furrowed. She had slid a small black hair tie from her wrist and was holding it out to him.

He froze for a moment, unsure how to respond. Saying no was impractical—his hair was clearly a hindrance—but saying yes felt oddly personal. Still, the solution was right there in front of him.

Finally, he reached out and took the hair tie from her hand. “Thank you,” he said quietly, his voice a little stiff but sincere.

Aurora’s smile was warm and easy. “You’re welcome,” she said simply, returning her attention to her notes.

Severus hesitated briefly, then began tying his hair back. His fingers worked clumsily at first, unused to the task, but soon enough, he managed to gather the dark strands into a low, messy tail at the nape of his neck.

When he leaned down to the eyepiece again, everything was suddenly much clearer.

The Astronomy Tower emptied slowly as students shuffled out, their movements sluggish and heavy with exhaustion. The late hour hung on their shoulders like an extra weight, dragging their steps as they descended the spiraling staircase. Some muffled yawns, others rubbed their bleary eyes, their thoughts undoubtedly already drifting to their warm beds. Cloaks rustled softly in the cool night breeze, and murmured goodnights floated through the air.

It was only a small mercy that Astronomy classes fell on Fridays. Without the promise of a free Saturday, Severus was pretty sure most of the Astronomy NEWTs students would have collapsed halfway down the staircase.

Surprisingly, Severus and Aurora were still deep in conversation, trailing slightly behind the others. Their pace was unhurried, and the familiar awkwardness Severus expected in moments like these was conspicuously absent. The air between them was quieter now, companionable in its calm. Severus couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked this much with anyone. Maybe he never had.

“But how did you even manage to come up with a topic like that?” Severus asked as they exited the tower. His tone was curious, though still tinged with the carefulness he used when speaking to people he didn’t fully understand and was actively trying not to offend.

Aurora tucked her hands into her cloak pockets, a small, self-assured smile gracing her lips. 

“It wasn’t really just one thing,” she said thoughtfully. “You know how, sometimes, you start looking into something, and then one question leads to another, and suddenly you’re knee-deep in theories?”

Severus tilted his head, frowning slightly in thought. “Right,” he answered. He’d had more than his fair share of those moments.

“Well,” Aurora continued, her voice taking on an animated edge, “it started last summer. I’d been thinking a lot about how celestial objects interact—how their gravitational pulls affect each other. I mean, we study orbits all the time, but I wanted to understand the chaos of it. You know, how stars can rip each other apart or create entirely new patterns.” She gestured slightly with her hands, her excitement clear.

Severus narrowed his eyes, more intrigued than he wanted to admit. “That’s not exactly light reading.”

Aurora laughed softly. 

“I’m a Ravenclaw,” she said simply, as though that explained everything. “I even talked to Professor Woolworth about it last term. He mentioned tidal tails in passing, and I couldn’t stop thinking about them. The way stellar debris forms these delicate, trailing patterns after galaxies collide—it’s almost poetic. Destruction and creation in one process.”

Severus glanced at her sidelong, both impressed and quietly annoyed by how effortlessly she seemed to grasp the subject. 

“I suppose poetry is one way to look at it,” he muttered.

Aurora smiled again, a spark of amusement lighting her eyes. “Well, it’s not all poetry. There’s the arithmancy, of course. You have to account for angular momentum, energy dissipation, mass distribution…” She rattled off the concepts with ease, her voice smooth and confident, as though the complexities of galactic interactions were as natural to her as breathing. “It’s like putting together a puzzle on a cosmic scale.”

Severus turned his head to look at her fully, his dark eyes sharp. “And you think you’ve solved it?”

She smirked, her confidence as clear as ever. “Not entirely,” she admitted. “But I think I’m close.”

“Of course you are,” Severus said flatly, though there was no venom in his voice. If anyone could make sense of such a complicated topic, it would be Aurora Sinistra. 

“You’re not so bad yourself, you know,” Aurora said suddenly, as though reading his thoughts. “You’re the only one who’s ever come close to catching up to me in Astronomy.”

“Close,” Severus echoed dryly.

Aurora laughed. “Come on, second place is practically a victory. Astronomy isn’t exactly easy.”

Severus subtly rolled his eyes but didn’t disagree. It was true—no matter how much effort he poured into the subject, Aurora always seemed one step ahead. But he could keep up, and that was something.

“Still,” she continued, her voice softening slightly, “it’s nice having someone who can keep pace. I can actually talk to you about this stuff without having to explain every other word.”

The corner of Severus’s mouth twitched, though he said nothing. Somehow, he didn’t mind that she was the only one he couldn’t beat.

“And aren’t you top of the class in Potions and Magical Theory?,” Aurora said suddenly, as though reading his thoughts. “And top three in nearly every other subject? Don’t be greedy, Severus.”

Severus gave a faint snort, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

The Astronomy Tower doors creaked closed behind them, and the sound of shuffling students in the halls faded into a soft hum as the night stretched out. The students dispersed in their respective directions, Ravenclaws drifting toward their tower, Gryffindors headed for theirs, Hufflepuffs to their burrow, Slytherins to their dungeons. But Severus and Aurora lingered, like neither quite knew how to end their conversation.

Severus shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the chill of the stone floor seeping into his shoes despite the warming charm he’d cast on himself. His uniform, thin and hardly adequate against the cold, didn’t provide much protection from the evening’s bite, but the magic kept his limbs warm enough. He glanced down at the dark floor, the muted sound of his footsteps mingling with the low murmur of students fading into the distance.

Aurora was standing beside him, not moving, as if she, too, was reluctant to break the silence. They exchanged a brief look, eyes meeting for a split second before they both averted their gazes immediately, as if the air between them was suddenly too thick. A small laugh escaped Aurora’s lips—light, almost nervous—and it broke the quiet like a crack in a frozen lake.

“So—” Aurora began, her voice trailing off in a tentative gesture to say something.

Before Severus could reply, a voice called out from further down the corridor.

“Aurora!” It was a trio of Ravenclaws, all of them dressed in their house colors, leaning against the stone walls and waving toward her. “Come on!”

Aurora turned toward them, glancing back at Severus with a faint apologetic expression. “Oh,” she said, her gaze flickering between him and the others. She hesitated for a moment, then sighed softly. “I’m sorry, I—”

“It’s fine,” Severus interjected quickly, cutting her off before she could finish. His tone was neutral, but there was no edge to it.

Aurora smiled sheepishly. “I have a track record,” she added, as though trying to explain herself. At Severus’s raised eyebrows, she grinned. “I’m the 20th Ravenclaw to ever get all the Raven’s Riddles right on the first try,” she said, her voice lowering as if it were some kind of secret.

Aurora leaned in slightly, the playful gleam in her eyes sparkling even in the dim hallway. “Since first year,” she said, voice quiet but proud. 

Severus’s brows rose slightly, impressed despite himself.

For a moment, they stood in the quiet space between them, neither knowing what else to say, as if the conversation had reached a natural pause. 

“Well,” Aurora said finally, after a beat of silence, “Same time next week?”

She said it as if it was something they specifically planned, and not the fact that it was a class that they simply took together. It took a moment for Severus’s mind to process the joke. The only problem was he didn’t quite know how to play off it.

So Severus nodded once, still feeling that lingering oddness of the evening. “Goodnight, then.”

Aurora offered him a warm, genuine smile, and he found that he couldn’t look away. 

“Goodnight,” she said, waving just a bit before turning to join her friends.

Charity was laughing. Or, more specifically, Charity was laughing at him.

Her laughter rang through the cavernous expanse of the Hogwarts Archives, bright and unchecked, bouncing off the towering shelves and the cold, stone walls. It had started as a bubbling giggle before escalating into full-blown mirth, her shoulders shaking as she threw her head back, her golden hair spilling like liquid down her back. She clutched her sides, completely overcome, her laughter bordering on breathless.

Severus, standing stiff and bristling, felt his irritation simmering dangerously close to a boil. His fingers twitched, itching to summon silence with a sharp spell, but he didn’t. Instead, his black eyes narrowed, fixating on her—on the way she seemed to be unable to stop laughing, so thoroughly amused, like the mess of books and scrolls and trophies and awards they’d yet to organize wasn’t looming around them. Her laughter grated against him, loud and piercing, every note scraping against the raw edges of his nerves.

She gasped for air, finally meeting his glare—but one look at his dark, thunderous expression sent her spiraling into another peal of hysterical laughter. She tried to stifle it, biting her lip and pressing her hand to her mouth, but the effort was futile. Her breath hitched, her chest rising and falling as she laughed uncontrollably, until a snort slipped out, sending her doubling over again.

“Are you done?” Severus asked, his voice cutting through her laughter like a whip, low and venomous as he ground the words out through clenched teeth.

But the sight of his tightly pressed lips and the way his arms were crossed stiffly only seemed to fuel her amusement further.

Severus stared at her, unblinking, his expression darkening with every passing second. His jaw was tight, his posture stiff, and his pale fingers curled against the fabric of his folded arms in a bid to keep his composure. The laughter echoing off the walls was relentless, filling every corner of the vast archive space. Charity, still gasping for breath, looked as though she might keel over from the sheer force of it.

“Okay,” she managed finally, lifting a hand as if to signal a truce. She dragged in a deep breath, her cheeks flushed and her eyes glistening. “Okay, okay, I’m done.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, his expression the very picture of exasperation. He said nothing, only fixing her with the same cold, deadpan stare that had failed to put a stop to her amusement from the start.

And then Charity made the mistake of looking at his face again—his lips pressed into a flat, unimpressed line, his dark eyes burning with unspoken curses (spells and insults alike)—and it set her off all over again. She clamped her hand over her mouth, trying desperately to stifle the laugh that bubbled up, but it burst out anyway, louder and freer than before.

“For fuck’s sake,” Severus muttered, his voice low and sharp, his head tilting back as if appealing to some unseen force for patience. He rolled his eyes dramatically, but her laughter only grew louder in response.

“You,” she gasped between wheezes, pointing at him with a trembling finger, “are—” A fresh wave of laughter overtook her, cutting her off. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she was practically doubled over now, clutching her sides as though she might physically hold herself together. “So weird!” she finally choked out.

Severus’s eyes narrowed, his irritation reaching a slow, simmering boil. But Charity, watery-eyed and breathless, wasn’t even aware of just how pissed off Severus was. She wiped at her cheeks with one hand, the other still holding her side, her entire body shaking with the force of her laughter. To Severus, she looked utterly ridiculous—her hair a little mussed, her face flushed, and yet she was laughing as if this was the funniest moment of her life. It grated on him to no end.

“Fuck you,” Severus spat, glaring at her with a venom that only made Charity laugh harder. Her shoulders shook, and she practically doubled over, clutching her sides like she might split apart.

“You ungrateful little—” Severus continued, his voice rising as his irritation spilled over. “I hope your hair falls out. No—better, I hope it grows back patchy, so you look like a molting bird for the rest of your life. I hope you trip on those ridiculously shiny shoes and fall face-first into a puddle of Hippogriff dung. I hope all of your ridiculously priced makeup gets flushed down a fucking toilet, and you know what? I hope—”

“Oh, come on!” Charity interrupted, wiping a tear from her eye as she tried to compose herself. “You try to start a conversation with Mulciber, and the first thing you do is call his necklace cheap? And you expect me not to laugh?”

“I didn’t call it cheap,” Severus snapped, voice sharp as a blade. “I said—”

But Charity was laughing again, full and unrestrained, as though his correction was the funniest thing she’d heard all night. Her laughter echoed through the cavernous archive, and Severus felt the remaining threads of his patience fray.

“Whatever,” he muttered, tossing the duster he’d been holding onto the nearest table with an irritated flick of his wrist. He turned sharply, his robes swishing around his ankles as he began gathering his things—his bag, his books, his robes. “I’m leaving.”

“Oh, come on, Sevy—”

“Don’t call me that.” Severus’s tone was cold and deadly, his glare enough to make most people shrink away. Charity, of course, was not most people.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” she said, though her lips quivered like she was seconds away from dissolving into laughter again. But when Severus’s thunderous expression didn’t falter, she bit down on her lip to stop herself. “Calm down, would you? I promise this isn’t the end of the world.”

Severus stared at her, his face blank. “I’ll let you know when I need a lecture on perspective, Burbage.”

“You seem like you’ll always need a lecture on perspective,” Charity quipped, her grin breaking through despite her best efforts.

Severus dropped his things back onto the table in a careless heap, the books and parchment landing with an uneven thud. He shook his head, his fingers tightening around the duster as though it might keep him from saying something he’d regret.

“I told you,” he said, his voice sharp with exasperation, “that I can’t help you with Mulciber. And yet you still hounded me for weeks about it. Well”—he lifted the duster in emphasis—“here are your results.”

Charity laughed, her tone breezy and unrepentant. “You’re so prickly, Sevy.”

“I tried,” Severus snapped, jabbing the duster toward her like a wand. “And you’ve heard firsthand what a disaster it was. You brought this upon yourself.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Charity said with a snort, wiping at her eyes before smoothing back her hair. Her golden locks fell into place as if she hadn’t just been shaking with laughter moments ago. “So what if you’re a little socially inept?”

Severus froze, the word hanging in the air like a slap. His posture stiffened, his grip on the duster tightening. He felt heat rise in his chest, the familiar prickle of irritation sparking into something sharper.

“I am not—” he began, his voice rising defensively, but Charity cut him off, waving a hand dismissively.

“Well, you don’t have any friends,” she snorted, clearly amused.

Severus’s lips parted, his brows knitting together in momentary shock. For a moment, he just stared at her, too stunned and offended to speak. Did she actually think that was an appropriate thing to say?

Charity, as always, didn’t seem to notice—or care. She was too busy smoothing down her hair like she hadn’t just launched an entirely unprovoked verbal assault on his social life.

“Other than me, of course,” Charity said with a little grin, her tone infuriatingly lighthearted when she caught his gaze.

Severus recoiled, face pulling as if he’d just smelled something foul.  

“We are not friends,” he said, the words escaping his mouth before he could temper them. His voice was sharp, clipped, and resolute, as if saying it firmly enough might make it truer.

Charity’s grin only widened, unfazed. 

“Sure we are,” she said, her tone utterly maddening. She rested her chin in her hand, batting her lashes at him playfully. “I mean, who else do you talk to this much?”

Severus opened his mouth to protest, but the words stuck, his mind racing to produce a name. A moment passed, and his silence only seemed to amuse her further.

“I rest my case,” Charity said smugly, leaning back in her chair like she’d just won a particularly satisfying argument.

Severus narrowed his eyes, his scowl deepening. “If you think your persistent badgering constitutes friendship,” he snapped, “then you’re even more delusional than I thought.”

“Oh, stop,” Charity said, waving him off with a laugh. “You’d miss me if I stopped badgering you.”

Severus scoffed loudly, shaking his head with an incredulous bark of humorless laughter.

“This is actually my fault,” Charity said, a little smile twisting on her face, her tone half amused and half exasperated. “I let the whole genius front reassure me that you actually knew what you were doing.”

Severus froze, his grip tightening on the duster he still held. He slowly turned to face her, his expression dark and incredulous. “Excuse me?”

Charity’s smile grew, and she raised a hand defensively. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. You’ve got the whole brooding, mysterious, top-of-the-class thing going on. It’s very convincing. But clearly…” She gestured vaguely at the chaotic mess of the Archives they’d been tasked with sorting. “…you’re just as clueless as the rest of the world when it comes to actual social skills.”

Severus’s lips pressed into a thin line, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “I don’t recall volunteering to become the subject of your amateur psychoanalysis, Burbage.”

“Oh, lighten up, Severus,” she said, her smile now a full grin. “I’m just saying, for someone so smart, you’re absolutely hopeless at being a normal human being.”

“That’s rich,” Severus bit back, his tone icy. “Coming from the person who came to me for the sole purpose of setting her up with Bruce Mulciber.”

Charity’s laughter erupted immediately, unrestrained and bright, her head tipping back as her shoulders shook. She leaned against the edge of the table for support, her hair cascading over her face like a golden curtain.

“My reasoning is completely different!” Charity said between bursts of laughter, waving a hand as if to dismiss his accusation. “I mean, have you seen Mulciber?”

“I live with him,” Severus deadpanned, his voice flat as ever.

“Right, but,” she countered, straightening up as her laughter softened into an amused grin, “Mulciber is different from us. He’s popular like me, sure, but he isn’t part of a crowd I can work into.”

“Yes, he is,” Severus said without missing a beat.

“No, he isn’t,” Charity shot back, her brows furrowing slightly as she leaned forward, challenging him.

“He’s friends with Avery,” Severus pointed out dryly. “Why don’t you ask him for help instead?”

“That cunt?” Charity replied, her voice dripping with disdain, her nose wrinkling as though Severus had suggested something revolting. “You’re acting as if he wouldn’t call me a genetic defect the minute I got within three feet of him.”

Which… okay, fair. She wasn’t wrong about that. Avery’s barbed tongue was infamous. He was an arsehole. Severus was an arsehole too, but only when provoked. He was at least decent enough to be cordial when left alone. Avery had no such decency.

Severus still shook his head, trying to work through the tangle of connections. “There’s Wilkes,” he offered after a moment of thought, the name surfacing like a reluctant bubble. “They’re Beaters together.”

Charity let out a loud, theatrical sigh, throwing her head back dramatically. “He’s my ex-boyfriend.”

“…What?” Severus said, his voice betraying his genuine shock. He stared at her, the thought bouncing around his head like a stray bludger. Sure, he didn’t pay attention to the swirling undercurrent of Hogwarts drama, but this was… unexpected. Wilkes? Really?

Charity must have misread the look on his face because she immediately launched into an explanation.

“Oh no, he was an absolute sweetheart,” Charity said breezily, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “You know his whole nickname—Mr. Perfect Prefect.” She shrugged, as if the nickname itself explained everything. “I just got bored.”

Severus blinked. “You got bored?”

Charity nodded solemnly, her lips quirking up in a teasing smile. “What can I say? He was too perfect. No edge. I need spice in my life, Severus.” She threw him a mischievous look. “Like Mulciber.”

Severus stared at her. 

They must have been talking about different Wilkeses. Severus frowned, his mind turning over the image of the Wilkes he knew. Sure, Wilkes was perfect—in the way a finely honed blade was perfect. He had this charismatic air about him, the sort that could make people follow him without question, and an uncanny ability to make you feel like you were the center of the universe—until you weren’t. He was all charm and poise on the surface, but there was something simmering beneath, something Severus couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

Perfect? Maybe. But not in the sweet, unassuming way Charity described. 

“Wilkes,” Severus repeated slowly, his voice measured. “Are we talking about the same person?”

Charity raised a brow. “Of course, we are. Pretty blonde hair—lighter than mine, handsome, impeccable uniform, dimples…” She tilted her head with a wistful smile. “You know. Perfect.”

Severus stared at her, his expression blank. Charity had a knack for surprising him, but this? This was incomprehensible. She saw that Wilkes as sweet?

“I don’t think you’re seeing the full picture,” Severus said carefully.

Charity laughed, waving him off. “Oh, please. You just don’t get him. You’re too cynical, Sevy.”

“I’m really not,” Severus said flatly, his mind still grappling with the idea of someone—anyone—finding Wilkes boring, let alone harmless.

Charity’s expression turned indulgent, as if she were recounting a fairy tale. “He always bought me flowers,” she said, her voice lilting with nostalgia. “Not just on special occasions—randomly. Like he’d see some peonies or roses in Hogsmeade and think of me.” She sighed, dramatically dreamy. “It was so thoughtful.”

Severus remained quiet, his skepticism firmly in place, but Charity didn’t notice—or more likely, she ignored it.

“And the dates,” she continued, her eyes lighting up. “Oh, Severus, he always took me on the best dates. Perfect little picnics by the lake, enchanted tea shops, strolls in the moonlight… I didn’t even have to drop hints; he just knew.”

She shifted her stance then, drawing his attention to her feet with little kicks. “And look at these,” she said, tilting them slightly to show off her polished maroon kitten heeled shoes. “A gift from him.”

Severus blinked. They were, admittedly, perfectly stylish—simple, elegant, and undoubtedly expensive.

“He always knew my taste,” Charity added, her smile soft with fondness as she admired them. “He said he saw these in Diagon Alley and thought, ‘Those are Charity’s.’ Can you believe that?”

Severus stared at her shoes, then back up at her. He had no words. He shook his head, utterly baffled. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Wilkes?”

Charity rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. Just because he was a little…” she waved her fingers, seemingly unable to find the right word, so she just continued on, “doesn’t mean he wasn’t an amazing boyfriend.” She gave a small, dramatic sigh. “Like I said, I just got bored. But that’s on me, not him. He was the best boyfriend I ever had. A solid 9 out of 10.”

Severus stared.

Severus continued to stare, his brows drawn tightly together, his mind wrestling with the sheer absurdity of Charity’s recounting. He was sure of it now: Charity Burbage had the absolute worst taste in men.

“Burbage—” he began, his tone heavy with exasperation, but she cut him off before he could finish.

“Anyways,” Charity said breezily, waving a hand like his opinion was irrelevant, “I can’t ask him. Imagine having to ask your ex-boyfriend to set you up with one of his teammates. I mean, call me cruel but I’m not the devil.”

Severus dragged a hand through his hair, his long fingers raking against his scalp as he fought back the headache he could feel pulsing right underneath his scalp. 

“No,” he agreed flatly, his tone edged with sarcasm, “you’re only a nightmare.”

Charity gave a small grin, clearly unbothered by his jab. 

“What we should be focusing on is you,” Charity said, twirling her finger in the air as if she were conducting an orchestra. “And how to get rid of your chronic social…you know.”

Severus stared at her, barely containing the sneer that threatened to form. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about being lectured by her of all people.

“Look,” Charity said, clearly not noticing his irritation, “you’ve got to start putting yourself out there more, Severus. Smile more, show them that you’re… well, approachable.”

Severus raised an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “Why don’t you try applying that ‘approachable’ technique on Mulciber, then?” He gestured vaguely, his expression deadpan. “You’re the one who needs help.”

Charity rolled her eyes but didn’t back down. “I could ask Mulciber out, but that needs me to get his attention first, or I’ll just end up getting flat out rejected. The difference between you and me, is that you’re already stuck with him, so why not get a little creative with it?”

“Creative?” Severus scoffed, unconvinced. “I don’t need a crash course in how to turn myself into a ‘people person.’”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic,” Charity said, grinning. “Honestly, you’re not as hopeless as you think. You just need to work on your presence. You know, like me.” She paused, flipping her hair.

She paused, casting him a look as if she was already picturing her masterpiece. “What I really need from you, Severus, is to give me that in. If you become friends with Mulciber, then you can naturally introduce us to each other. Easy.”

Severus’s mouth tightened. 

“Friends do that kind of thing all the time,” Charity added casually. “You had none, so you wouldn’t know.”

Severus glared at her. 

Charity grinned. “All you have to do is find something you have in common with him. That’s the first step.”

Severus rolled his eyes, clearly not impressed. “And what exactly do you think I have in common with someone like Bruce Mulciber?”

Charity raised an eyebrow, shrugging her shoulders. “God, I don’t know. You’re both boys?”

Severus gave her a deadpan look. “Oh, of course. That’s the perfect grounds for us to form a marvelous friendship.”

“Well,” Charity shrugged, “it’s not like there’s much else interesting about you lot.” She gave him a once-over, the comment casual but cutting, as if it were a mere observation. “What do boys have in common?”

Severus shot her an incredulous look. “Do you always just say whatever comes to mind, or is this part of your daily routine?”

“Oh calm down, Severus. You have thicker skin than that,” Charity tilted her head, amusement dancing in her eyes. “I’m just trying to make your life easier. You know, for once. Brutal honesty is key.”

Severus gritted his teeth. “Thanks, but I’ll pass on your ‘help.’”

Merlin, she was an arsehole. The worst part? She probably thought she was the kindest person on earth, like some sort of self-appointed saint bestowing her generosity on the less fortunate. Charity Burbage, savior of lost souls and friendless Slytherins.

What a gracious Hufflepuff.

Severus shook his head, tugging at his hair as he turned back around.

“Let’s just get back to work,” he said with a sigh, his voice heavy with resignation. 

Charity hadn’t made any real progress yesterday while he’d been at Astronomy. Aside from the small section they’d managed to clear the first day of her suspension, the rest of the archives remained untouched—dusty, cluttered, and utterly unarranged.

“Ugh,” Charity groaned, clearly about to launch into a complaint. But before she could, a soft chime interrupted her.

Severus froze, his heart skipping a beat. 

His spell. 

It was the one he’d crafted in fourth year, back when getting cornered and ambushed had been more of a routine. It alerted him whenever someone came within fifteen feet—gave him enough time to hide. He barley used it anymore, but it was necessary for this situation. After all, he absolutely wasn’t supposed to be here. Not when Charity was serving away her suspension. And especially not helping her.

Charity blinked, confused. “What was that?”

“Filch,” Severus said curtly, already moving. He tossed the duster at her without looking. Charity yelped but reached out a hand, catching it. “Or McGonagall. Whoever’s supposed to check in and make sure you’re actually serving your suspension.”

“Oh no,” Charity muttered, eyes wide as the sound of shuffling footsteps and jangling keys began to echo closer.

“I’m going to hide,” Severus said.

“Go,” Charity urged, her voice a harsh whisper. “Go, go, go!”

“I know!” Severus snapped, scrambling to gather his belongings.

“Hurry!”

“I know!” His tone was sharp, frustration seeping into his words as he fumbled with his outer robes. They slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground in a crumpled heap.

Charity snatched them up, her movements quick and decisive. “Just go! I’ll hide this,” she said firmly, gripping the robes.

Severus hesitated for the briefest moment, their eyes meeting. He wanted to argue, but there was no time. The echo of Filch’s heavy steps grew louder by the second.

With a sharp look, he turned and bolted, his footsteps light as he darted toward a hidden corner of the archives. He slipped behind a tall stack of boxes, crouching low and clutching his bag tightly. His ears strained to listen, quieting his breathing to hear as the sound of Filch’s keys drew nearer.

The heavy clunk of the door creaking open made Severus tense behind his hiding spot, his grip on his wand tightening.

“Well, well,” Filch’s gravelly voice carried into the room. “What’s this, then?”

“Oh! Mr. Filch!” Charity’s voice rang out, saccharine sweet. “Good to see you here.”

Severus could practically feel her exaggerated grin, the kind she used when trying to charm someone.

Filch sniffed loudly, unimpressed. “Slacking again, are we? You’ve barely made a dent in this mess.”

“Oh, come on, Mr. Filch,” Charity said, her tone dripping with faux innocence. “All this dust—think of my poor hair.”

“Then you shouldn’t have gotten yourself into a load of mess in the first place,” Filch retorted, showing not even an ounce of sympathy. “Blowing up a classroom! Imagine!”

“I already told you all it was an accident,” Charity said, her tone edging into exasperation. Severus could imagine her rolling her eyes dramatically, the way she always did when she didn’t get her way.

There was a beat of silence, punctuated only by Filch sniffing again. Then, “Get in here, boy.”

“Don’t call me ‘boy,’” another voice grumbled, low and rough with irritation.

Severus froze.

He knew that voice anywhere. The hairs on the back of his neck prickled as his heart gave an uneasy jolt.

From the little squeak that Charity let out, Severus’s suspicion was confirmed.

“Mulciber!” she squeaked, her voice shooting so many octaves higher that Severus was surprised the glass jars around them didn’t shatter.

“The two of you’ll be working together tonight,” Filch announced, sounding almost gleeful at the prospect. “That brawl with the Gryffindor Quidditch team—disgraceful. Now, because you and your lot decided to make a ruckus, you’re all being separated for detentions. Thought I’d keep it nice and quiet down here.”

Charity gasped. “Really?”

Filch probably mistook Charity’s question for shock or disgust, based on his response.

“No mistake,” Filch snapped. “You both better get to work cleaning up the archive. And if I find out you’ve been slacking off—” His voice darkened, leaving the threat hanging ominously in the air.

“Yes, yes, we’ve heard it all before, Mr. Filch,” Charity said breezily, clearly wanting the man to leave so she could finally sink her claws into Mulciber.

“Careful, missy,” Filch growled. “I can always extend your detention.”

Charity muttered something Severus couldn’t quite make out.

“You better clean,” Filch grumbled, taking a pause before finally turning and shuffling out of the room, the door creaking closed behind him.

And then, there was silence.

Severus didn’t move. He kept his breathing even, silently thanking the shadows for concealing him as he pressed his back against the cold stone wall. He crossed his arms over his chest, his dark eyes narrowing as he tried to keep his composure. Seconds stretched into what felt like minutes, and yet the room remained eerily silent, only the distant echo of Filch’s footsteps fading away.

It was in the stillness that Severus finally decided to take a quick glance through the cracks between the boxes. He cautiously peered out, keeping his movements slow and deliberate. 

Mulciber and Charity stood in the middle of the room, an awkward tension hanging between them. Mulciber’s broad back faced Severus, his posture rigid and unbothered, while his frame blocked Charity from view, hiding her behind his silhouette.

“Um,” Charity’s voice floated through the space, and Severus froze. He’d never heard her voice sound quite like that before—soft and uncertain, almost shy. Was this what schoolgirl crushes sounded like? He’d never been interested in anyone, not in that way, so he couldn’t say for sure, but Charity’s tone was something else. “Hi,” she added, as though she was testing the waters.

Mulciber didn’t respond. Silence stretched again, and Severus could almost hear the weight of Charity’s smile falter, the brief moment of awkwardness playing out like an unspoken tension. It was an odd, uncomfortable dynamic that Severus couldn’t quite understand.

Then Mulciber turned around, his eyes scanning the room without so much as acknowledging Charity’s awkward greeting. His tone was blunt, almost disinterested. 

“Where are the cleaning supplies?” he asked.

“Oh,” Charity said, her voice dropping into something a little more subdued, a slight trace of disappointment lining her words, “Um. They’re over there.” 

Severus watched as Mulciber turned away from her without another word, heading toward the supplies. He pulled out a mop and a bucket and put them aside, grabbing a broom. He seemed completely unfazed by the situation, as if he’d done detention many times before, which was probably true.

“I’ll sweep if you mop,” Mulciber said, his tone barely shifting an octave, as if he had no interest in anything else but getting the job done—serving his detention and then leaving.

“…Oh,” Charity said, her voice cracking slightly, but then she quickly recovered. “Okay,” she said, playing along with the simple command as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Severus blinked, confusion swirling in his mind. 

Why on earth did Charity even have a crush on Mulciber? The same boy who could barely hold a conversation and barely seemed to notice her at all? Charity, who prided herself on being able to make anyone notice her, was here, caught in a strange, one-sided dance with someone who barely seemed to acknowledge her presence. The whole thing left Severus feeling… well, baffled.

Severus remained still, his frown deepening as he observed the exchange between Charity and Mulciber. His body instinctively adjusted to the wall behind him, arms crossed tightly as if to ward off the sense of discomfort that had begun to settle in his stomach. He couldn’t help but watch the way Charity fidgeted, her fingers brushing through her blonde hair, patting her cheeks with a delicate touch as if trying to refresh herself. She straightened her clothes with a smooth, practiced motion—her movements almost theatrical, as though she was preparing for a performance.

Mulciber, however, was absorbed in his task, sweeping with slow, deliberate strokes, seemingly unaware of the tension building behind him. He didn’t look up, but from the way he moved, Severus could tell the other boy was focused on the chore at hand. The broom swished back and forth on the dusty floor, the sound echoing through the otherwise quiet room.

Charity didn’t seem to mind. She had no intention of actually using the mop, Severus noticed. She held it in her hands, but her gaze was trained entirely on Mulciber as she approached him, taking slow, measured steps.

“So,” she said, her voice casual but with an underlying hint of curiosity. “A fight with the Gryffindors?”

Mulciber’s response came slowly, but he didn’t seem irritated by her question. 

“The usual nonsense,” he muttered, pushing the broom ahead of him. 

Severus watched closely, his eyes narrowing slightly as Charity approached Mulciber, her every movement calculated to draw attention. She twirled the mop in her hands absently, but her focus was entirely on the other boy. Her body leaned slightly toward him, and her expression was one of soft interest, a playful glint in her eyes.

“Who won?” she asked. 

“Hard to say,” Mulciber answered vaguely, barely glancing at her as he kept sweeping, his movements deliberate.

Charity didn’t let the silence hang for long. “Don’t be coy,” she said, her tone light but teasing. “The whole school has seen you brawl.”

“Mm,” Mulciber replied, still sweeping, his face unreadable.

Charity persisted, her smile unbroken. “What was it about this time? Something to do with the Quaffle, or did you just start throwing punches out of nowhere?”

“Nothing interesting,” Mulciber muttered, clearly not in the mood to indulge her.

“Really?” Charity raised an eyebrow. “Are you telling me the infamous Mulciber doesn’t like to talk about his little brawls?” She cocked her head, trying to keep the conversation going.

Mulciber only shrugged, his disinterest palpable. His eyes remained focused on the floor, and his broom flicked dust into the air with each movement.

Charity, sensing that Mulciber wasn’t going to open up easily, leaned in slightly. “You don’t talk much, do you?”

Mulciber paused, his golden eyes shifting from the broom to Charity. “Tell me what you want me to say.”

Charity laughed then, a little too brightly, her voice forced and high-pitched, like when a girl laughs at her boyfriend’s idiotic jokes to keep the peace. The sound felt unnatural to Severus, something fake and hollow that she probably didn’t even notice herself.

“A pleaser,” Charity noted with a grin, clearly enjoying herself. “How fun.”

Mulciber stopped sweeping and turned to her, his posture relaxed but deliberate. Charity also paused, her mop hanging loosely in her hands. Severus watched, his frown deepening.

Mulciber and Charity were facing each other now, their profiles side by side. Mulciber, his golden eyes framed by long lashes, his sepia-toned skin glowing in the dim light. Charity, with her blonde hair and bright, sparkling smile, her dimples accentuating the curve of her cheeks. There was something magnetic about the way they looked together—so different, yet almost complementary in a strange way.

They… they weren’t a bad picture, Severus thought. 

There was something about the way they stood together that almost made sense. And, watching them, Severus felt the oddest sense of discomfort.

Severus could see Mulciber looking down at her, his amber gaze heavy-lidded and unreadable, while Charity’s blue eyes met his. Despite her calm demeanor, Severus could see the excitement flickering in her expression. The way she was looking at Mulciber now—like she was savoring every second of their interaction—made Severus actually almost believe that she was as infatuated with him as she claimed (he was still trying to figure out why).

“Look…” Mulciber said, his voice low. It seemed like he was trying to remember her name, and there was a brief moment where his hesitation made Severus feel something almost close to amusement.

“Charity,” she supplied, her voice smooth, as if she had been expecting the question.

“Charity,” Mulciber repeated, then tilted his head slightly, still holding the broom in his hand. “I’m just trying to clean.”

Charity gave a small, teasing grin. 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s not that hard,” she said, her tone almost too sweet. “All you have to do is keep sweeping just like you were. Walk in the park, really. You’re doing a great job.”

That wasn’t what he’d meant. She knew that wasn’t what he’d meant, and Mulciber seemed to know that she knew that wasn’t what he’d meant.

Mulciber’s lips twitched, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly in amusement. He didn’t respond immediately, just glanced over at her with a slight furrow of his brows, as if the comment was an unexpected one. The faint, bemused smile lingered on his lips for a moment before he turned his gaze back to his broom, the moment quickly slipping back into the same dull routine.

Charity practically blossomed under that one small, barely present smile. She beamed, her grin widening as Mulciber looked down at the floor, his amusement fading into neutrality. She probably noticed it too—Mulciber enjoyed sarcasm. That one smile had been enough to encourage her further.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but Mulciber’s gaze shifted, his brows furrowing as something caught his attention. Without a word, he moved past her, crouching down in a dusty corner near the wall. Severus leaned forward slightly from his hiding spot, his heart thudding in his chest as he watched Mulciber reach out and pick something up.

When Mulciber straightened, he was holding a large black cloak.

Severus’s breath caught in his throat.

Shit.

“What’s this?” Mulciber asked, his tone curious as he turned the fabric over in his hands, inspecting it.

“Oh,” Charity said quickly, her voice high-pitched. Severus could see the brief flash of panic in her eyes as she glanced toward his hiding spot, then back to Mulciber. She smoothed her expression almost instantly, her lips curving into a nervous smile. “It’s mine!”

Mulciber’s silence stretched uncomfortably as he stared at her.

“These are Slytherin robes,” Mulciber said, lifting the cloak slightly, the green lining catching the faint light of the room.

“What can I say?” Charity laughed, her tone skittish but trying for humor. “I loved those little cut triangles so much I bought one in every color.”

Her grin was too big, too forced. She was clearly trying to play it off, but her nervous energy was palpable.

Mulciber tilted his head, the faintest trace of suspicion crossing his features as he looked at her. Then his gaze returned to the cloak, his fingers brushing over the fabric for a moment before he said, with quiet certainty:

“It’s Snape’s.”

Severus froze, Charity hesitated for a moment too long, and Mulciber tilted his head, his piercing gaze fixed on her.

How did he even know that?

“No, it’s not,” Charity blurted out, her voice too quick, too defensive. 

Mulciber didn’t look convinced. He didn’t argue, though; instead, he simply asked, “Why do you have it?”

Charity shrugged, playing it off like it was no big deal. 

“Oh, you know.”

“I don’t,” Mulciber replied, his voice flat.

Charity’s smile twitched, but she held onto it, determined. “Severus left it here, and I thought I’d, um, hold onto it for him. You know, in case he came back looking for it.”

Mulciber raised an eyebrow, his skepticism evident. “What?”

“Oh, come on,” Charity said, waving him off with an exaggerated laugh. “It’s just classic Severus. He’s always forgetting things. I’m just… being nice. We’re friends, me and him.”

Mulciber’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer, and then he glanced at the cloak again, his fingers brushing over the green-and-silver trim. 

“Friends,” he murmured, his tone unreadable.

The silence that followed felt heavy, and Severus, from his hiding place, cursed himself for not taking his robes with him earlier. Charity’s excuses weren’t foolproof, and Mulciber wasn’t stupid.

Mulciber’s eyes lingered on the robes for a moment longer before he finally spoke. 

“I’ll give it to him,” he said, his tone casual. “He’ll get it sooner that way.”

Charity’s smile faltered for half a second before she forced it back into place. 

“Oh, you don’t have to—” she started, a nervous edge creeping into her voice.

Mulciber waved her off. “It’s fine,” he said, folding the cloak over his arm as if the matter were already settled. “I’ll take care of it.”

Charity’s lips parted, and for a fleeting moment, she looked like she might argue, but then she caught herself. “Right. Of course,” she said quickly, smoothing her expression. “That’s so thoughtful of you.”

Mulciber didn’t respond, already turning back toward his broom, his expression unreadable.

From his hiding place, Severus felt a sharp pang of unease settle in his stomach. 

Well, that was a disaster.

And she had the guts to call him socially inept.

Chapter Text

OCTOBER WAS BLEEDING into November, and so was the chill.

The morning air was sharp, crisp with the lingering dampness of last night’s rain, and even though the sun made a feeble attempt to break through the thick gray clouds, it was fighting a losing battle. The Hogwarts grounds, now settled deep into autumn, were a patchwork of fading greens and brittle browns. Leaves, damp and trodden underfoot, clung stubbornly to the stone pathways, and a cold wind curled through the air, whispering through the bare branches of the trees lining the castle grounds.

Severus walked with his hands shoved into his pockets, his long skirt flaring slightly with each step. Charity, beside him, was practically floating—people instinctively parted for her without her needing to dodge or sidestep. She looked like she belonged in an old money oil portrait, effortlessly put-together in her Hufflepuff uniform, her tie knotted in a neat little barrette rather than properly fastened like most of the student body. Her blonde hair was parted cleanly and woven into two braids, the sharp symmetry of them emphasizing her high cheekbones and the striking features, and her lips were still somehow glossy even with the biting weather. Severus could feel his own already chapped and numbing from the cold.

“He’s so beautiful, Sev,” Charity sighed dreamily, linking her hands behind her back as she strolled beside him.

Severus ignored her. It was easier than actually engaging, especially since she had been on this topic since breakfast—latching onto him the moment she spotted him leaving his table.

“I mean, have you seen him?” she continued, undeterred, as if Severus was just being introduced to Mulciber, rather than being the person that had been his roommate since first year. “That skin? It’s like polished mahogany, so smooth, and then there’s his hair—oh my God, Sev, his hair. It’s perfect, all tight curls, like the kind of thing you just want to sink your fingers into. I bet it’s like a cloud, just as soft as it looks. And his eyes— that gold, like honey, but darker, richer. And they were looking at me. Did you see that Sevy? Oh, tell me you it.” Before Severus could even answer, she continued, “And his mouth—ugh—his lips are so full, it’s actually distracting. Have you seen his arms? You could probably chisel stone with them. And he’s so tall. I mean, so tall, Sev—”

“I think you’ve somehow officially managed to violate the poor bloke with words alone,” Severus cut in dryly.

Charity huffed. “I have not.”

Severus arched a brow, unimpressed. “Would you say any of that to his face?”

“Of course,” Charity scoffed, rolling her eyes.

They dodged another group of students—well, Severus dodged. Charity didn’t need to; they simply moved for her like she had some sort of natural command over space and people’s attention.

“And yet you can’t even talk to him,” Severus muttered.

“I can,” Charity argued, “it’s just that he doesn’t talk to anybody.” She lifted her chin defiantly. “I practically carried that conversation in detention.”

“If you could even call it that,” Severus said flatly.

He had always known that Mulciber wasn’t the talkative type—everyone knew that. He had experienced it firsthand, too. But with how persistent Chatty was, he had expected the guy to at least budge a little. But no. During that entire detention, he had somehow managed to turn even the most elaborate questions Charity had thrown at him into a simple yes or no response. And he had cleaned the floors of the archives in record time—under forty minutes—so efficiently that even Filch had looked surprised before waving him off early.

Severus, meanwhile, had been stuck with Charity and a mop for the remainder of the evening.

“Thanks to you, I don’t have my robes anymore," Severus muttered, “For the second time,” He shot her a look. “This month.”

“Oh, don’t act as if I haven’t offered to buy you an entire closet. Think about everything you’ve gained!” Charity insisted, her voice lilting with the kind of relentless optimism that made Severus want to walk straight into the nearest wall.

He let out a slow breath, schooling his expression into something blank and unimpressed. Then, with the driest tone he could manage, he began, “Let’s see… a harrowed mental state. A ruined bag. Psychosis. Paranoia. Trauma. And of course, a blonde girl who refuses to leave me alone—”

“Oh, honestly,” Charity cut him off with an exasperated huff, nudging his shoulder as if she could physically jostle the negativity out of him. “You’re such a pessimist, Sev. You act like I’m some burden, when in reality, I’m enriching your life.”

Severus rolled his eyes, already halfway tuning her out as he reached for the door handle to the Charms classroom.

The heavy oak door stood in front of him, its surface smooth and worn from years of students pushing it open. The brass handle, polished from countless hands, was cool beneath his fingers as he wrapped them around it. It was a thick, solid door—one that required a firm push to open, though not so heavy that it resisted. Severus braced himself, pressing his palm against the wood and leaning in just enough to shift it. The hinges gave a soft creak, the door swinging inward easily, revealing the empty classroom beyond.

Professor Flitwick still hadn’t arrived. The desks were neatly arranged in their usual formation, bathed in the pale, muted light filtering in from the high windows. The air inside was still and a little warmer than the corridor, carrying the faint scent of parchment, dust, and old wood.

“You know,” Charity mused from beside him, her tone light with amusement, “for someone so prickly, you actually have excellent manners.”

“Get out of my face,” Severus muttered, making a point of holding the door open just enough for her to take the hint and walk through . He wasn’t trying to be polite—he was trying to make her leave faster.

Charity, predictably, didn’t budge. Instead, she gave him an unimpressed look, as if she were debating whether or not to be offended.

Before he could snap at her again, a sudden gust of wind tore through the corridor, howling down the stone hallway with a sharp bite. It was the kind of cold that sank in immediately, needling into every exposed inch of skin. Severus clenched his jaw as it hit him full force, instinctively hunching his shoulders. His grip on the door tightened, the chill of the brass handle seeping into his fingers, and he shoved his free hand even deeper into the pocket of his skirt, trying to preserve what little warmth he had left.

His teeth ground together as another shiver ran through him, the icy air cutting through his thin sweater and cloak as if they were nothing. The wind pressed against him, relentless, and he exhaled sharply, bracing himself against it as he fought the urge to snap at Charity again—this time for simply existing in his general vicinity while he suffered.

Severus felt the sneeze creeping up on him, sharp and inevitable. He turned his head to the side at the last moment, his shoulders tensing as he stifled it against his sleeve. The force of it left a faint prickle in his nose, and he gave a quick shake of his head, blinking away the sensation.

He’d forgotten to cast a Warming Charm on himself. But in his defense, he was used to simply enduring the cold, pushing through it instead of trying to find a way to comfort himself. Comfort had never been a priority growing up; it had never even been an option. When it came to his own well-being, he sometimes forgot that magic even existed, that he wasn’t in Spinner’s End anymore, that he wasn’t bound by the same limitations he had been for most of his life.

Before he could reach for his wand, however, Charity beat him to it.

“Caldus,” she murmured, flicking her wand with practiced ease.

Severus tensed immediately, instincts kicking in before rational thought could catch up. His fingers shot out, gripping her wrist and catching onto the handle of her wand—but the spell had already been cast.

A wave of warmth spread over him, seeping into his skin like stepping into a sunbeam after standing in the shade too long. It was immediate—the biting chill at his extremities dulled, the tension in his shoulders eased, and the stiffness in his fingers from the cold began to fade. The contrast was so stark that it left him momentarily dazed, blinking at Charity as if she had just performed something unnatural.

She only raised a brow, unbothered by his reaction. 

“Jesus, Sev. Why do you always act like someone’s about to fight you every time they raise a hand in your general direction?” she asked, clearly unimpressed. “Talk about an overreaction.”

Severus scowled and let go of her wand, shoving his hands back into the pockets of his skirt as she huffed and reached for her scarf.

It was a Hufflepuff scarf, but somehow, it wasn’t. The coloring was the same—yellow and black, neatly striped—but the material had a richness to it that the standard issue scarves lacked. It was softer, the kind of softness that bespoke expense, something woven from a wool he’d probably never even heard of. Vicuna, maybe, or Guanaco wool—ridiculously rare and obnoxiously expensive, the sort of thing that cost more than the entirety of Spinner’s End combined. It draped differently than the other scarves students wore, its texture visibly plush in a way that set it apart, a quiet testament to wealth.

“Are you cold?” Charity asked.

“Mind your own business,” Severus muttered, pressing further into himself.

As if on cue, another sharp gust of wind barreled through the corridor, harsher than the last. Severus clenched his jaw as the cold nipped at his ears and snuck beneath his clothes, undoing the brief relief the Warming Charm had offered.

Before he could protest, Charity sighed in exaggerated exasperation and unwound her scarf. With swift, effortless movements, she stepped closer and wrapped it around his neck, adjusting it with an ease that suggested she had done this for others countless times before.

The fabric was obscenely soft, like something out of a life he had never belonged to. It was thick, heavy in a way that provided instant insulation, its warmth sinking into his skin like second nature. The scent of her perfume lingered faintly in the wool—a subtle mix of vanilla and tonka, delicate without being overpowering. She tugged at the ends, smoothing it down, completely unbothered by the way Severus had gone rigid beneath her touch.

A few students walked by, their voices lowering as they passed. The whispers weren’t subtle—curious murmurs exchanged behind cupped hands, stolen glances cast in their direction. It wasn’t difficult to guess what they were saying. It was odd, after all, seeing Charity Burbage—one of the most popular girls in school—fussing over Severus Snape of all people.

“Burbage,” Severus muttered, voice edged with warning.

“Stop being a whiny baby,” she said breezily, looping the scarf one last time before stepping back to assess her work.

Severus frowned but stayed still, fingers twitching in his pockets as he endured the last of her adjustments.

“There,” Charity said finally, satisfied.

The moment she let go, Severus stepped back immediately, putting distance between them. The warmth lingered stubbornly around his neck, an unfamiliar and almost intrusive sensation, but he didn’t move to take it off. It was the least she could do, after all. 

“You’re welcome,” Charity said with a dramatic roll of her eyes, as if she had just done him the greatest favor in the world.

Severus leveled her with a dry look. He almost found it laughable how she could ever expect him to be grateful for anything that came from her. “Remind me who lost my cloak again?”

Charity pursed her lips, not even pretending to feel guilty. “Mulciber is your roommate. Why didn’t you just ask for it back?”

“He wasn’t at the dorms when I got back,” Severus said with a sigh, already exhausted by the direction this conversation was taking.

“Well, there you go,” Charity chirped, clasping her hands together. “Now you have an excuse to talk to him!” Her grin was entirely too pleased, her brown eyes practically twinkling with excitement.

Of course.

Every single thing had to lead back to this—to him having to set her up with Mulciber, as if it were some divine mission she had bestowed upon him. Severus rolled his eyes, shaking his head as he reached for the door handle again. “Get to class, Burbage.”

For once, she actually listened.

“Bye-bye, Sev!” she sang as she turned on her heel, blonde braids swaying as she walked away.

“Don’t call me that,” he called after her, but she was already halfway into the room, the clack of her heels echoing off the stone walls.

Another student approached from the opposite direction, heading toward the Charms classroom. They moved to step through the door, likely expecting him to hold it open—but instead, Severus let it shut with a soft snap, not sparing them so much as a glance as he turned on his heel and strode away.

From behind him, he heard the immediate chorus of whispers.

“Merlin, what an arse.”

“He’s always like that.”

“I don’t know why Charity bothers.”

Severus shoved his hands deeper into his pockets and kept walking, making his way down the winding corridors, eventually stepping out onto the stone staircase leading to the grounds. Ahead, a cluster of students had already gathered near the fenced-off paddock where Care of Magical Creatures lessons were typically held. Professor Kettleburn was there, his wild mane of graying hair even more untamed than usual, his thick, dragon-hide coat draped over his shoulders. His missing limb—one of several, at this point—was barely an afterthought, as he animatedly gestured with his remaining arm while explaining something to a group of Gryffindors.

The ground was damp from the morning dew, the grass brittle beneath Severus’ boots as he approached. The scent of the forest lingered in the air—earthy and sharp, mixed with the unmistakable musk of whatever creature Kettleburn had brought for today’s lesson.

Severus exhaled slowly, already dreading whatever disaster was about to unfold.

As Severus approached the gathering students, he heard Professor Kettleburn’s booming voice carrying across the paddock.

”—fascinating creatures, really! Quite misunderstood! Now, as we move into the colder months, we must turn our attention to the hibernation habits of the Bristlewing Tunneler.”

Severus arched a brow as he closed the distance.

Professor Kettleburn stood near a large, reinforced wooden crate, covered with layers of warming charms. A faint thrum of magic hummed around it, a sure sign of enchantments meant to regulate temperature. Inside, something rustled faintly, barely audible over the sound of scratching quills as students hastily took notes.

“The Bristlewing Tunneler,” Kettleburn continued, his voice rich with enthusiasm, “is a burrowing magical creature found in temperate forests and moorlands. Most notably, it possesses an iridescent chitinous hide and retractable, bristle-like appendages that help it tunnel through soil and dense undergrowth. But what’s particularly crucial for us to study today is its hibernation process—because, unfortunately, it comes with a rather fatal flaw for its young.”

The students leaned in, the scratching of quills growing even more frantic.

“When adult Tunnelers prepare for hibernation, they secrete a thick, mucus-like substance known as slimic resin from their abdominal glands. This resin coats their bodies, hardening into a protective shell that insulates them against the cold. However, the juveniles—who lack fully developed secretion glands—are unable to produce enough of their own. Instead, they often ingest residual resin from their burrows, which accumulates in their stomachs.”

Kettleburn rapped his knuckles against the side of the crate. A deep, clicking sound came from within.

“Now, under normal circumstances, this wouldn’t be a problem,” he continued. “But as the temperature drops, the resin solidifies inside their digestive tract, forming a blockage that prevents them from absorbing nutrients. This is known as resin compaction, and without intervention, most afflicted juveniles die before winter ends.”

A few students murmured at that, while others doubled down on their notes.

“Our task today,” Kettleburn went on, “is to carefully extract this resin before it fully hardens. The process requires precision—too forceful, and you risk damaging the digestive lining; too slow, and the resin may shatter, making it nearly impossible to remove safely. Fortunately, we have magic on our side.”

He raised his wand, twirling it between his fingers before demonstrating a slow, deliberate movement.

“The Resorptio charm allows us to soften the resin gradually, breaking it down into a semi-liquid state that can be safely siphoned out with a simple Evanesco. However, some cases are more stubborn, requiring the use of a controlled heating charm—though we must be very careful not to overheat, as excess warmth can cause the resin to expand rather than dissolve.”

At this, a few students nodded eagerly, already scribbling down the spell incantations.

“If we do this properly,” Kettleburn said, “we can ensure these little ones survive the winter with their colonies. In turn, we help maintain the balance of their ecosystems—Tunnelers are exceptional soil aerators, and their burrowing keeps magical fungi populations in check. Without them, certain species of parasitic spores—such as the Festerroot Mycelium— would run rampant, choking out native plant life. So, while this may seem like a small effort, it has far-reaching consequences for magical biodiversity!”

Severus crossed his arms, exhaling sharply.

Hearing Kettleburn talk, it was easy to forget that this lesson involved touching actual creatures. He could appreciate the theory of it all—the alchemical properties of slimic resin were certainly interesting—but the practical aspect of reaching into a burrowing creature’s stomach was less appealing.

Around him, students were already preparing their notes, parchment floating midair as quills darted across the pages in frantic strokes.

Severus sighed.

This was going to be an unpleasant afternoon.

Professor Kettleburn clapped his hands together, his enthusiasm undeterred by the grim reality of resin compaction.

“Now, once we’ve successfully broken down the resin using the Resorptio charm, we move on to the next critical step—removing it. And for that, we must treat these juveniles as one would a child!”

Several students exchanged bewildered looks.

“Yes, yes, I mean it!” Kettleburn went on, grinning as if this were the most obvious thing in the world. “You see, once the resin is softened, it still sits in their digestive tract. If left there, it can re-solidify. So, to get it out, we must use very gentle pressure to encourage regurgitation—without causing undue stress to the little beast, of course!”

He gestured to the crate and flicked his wand. With a whisper of magic, the warming charms flickered, and the reinforced panels creaked as the container unlocked. The moment the lid lifted, a wave of earthy, musky warmth seeped into the cold air, carrying the scent of damp soil and something faintly resinous.

Inside, nestled among soft layers of magically warmed peat, were the juveniles—small, bristle-covered creatures with iridescent shells that shimmered between shades of deep bronze and dusky violet.

“Once the resin has been liquefied,” Kettleburn continued, crouching beside the crate, “you will carefully hold the Tunneler with its underside facing outward—much like you would cradle an infant. Using your fingers, you’ll apply light, rhythmic pressure along the lower abdomen. The goal is to coax the liquefied resin up and out without startling the creature into tensing up again.”

As if on cue, one of the Tunnelers let out a faint clicking noise, shifting slightly in its bedding.

“If done correctly,” Kettleburn said, “the resin will be expelled in a slow, steady trickle. If done incorrectly, well… let’s just say you’ll know by the rather unpleasant splatter effect.”

A ripple of nervous laughter ran through the students.

Professor Kettleburn smiled, then straightened, his usual jovial expression giving way to something more serious as he surveyed the gathered students.

“Now, before we begin, I want you all to remember something very important,” he said, his voice carrying over the chatter of parchment and quills scratching notes. “This is a life you’re handling—a child. These juveniles are vulnerable, and our job is to help them survive, not to cause them any undue stress or harm.”

He let that sink in for a moment, his sharp eyes scanning the crowd.

“I will not tolerate anything other than the utmost care. If I see anyone being rough, careless, or—Merlin forbid—treating this as some sort of joke, you will be removed from this lesson immediately and receive a failing mark on today’s practical.”

A hush fell over the students. Even the more indifferent ones, who had previously looked half-asleep in the cold morning air, now sat up a little straighter.

Satisfied, Kettleburn’s expression softened, and he gestured toward the crate of Tunnelers once more.

“Now, wands at the ready—let’s get to work!”

Behind Severus, a voice spoke up, cutting through the crisp morning air.

“How exactly did those little things survive the winter if they need people to help them now?”

Severus turned his head, trying to see who had spoken.

Mulciber.

He stood a few feet away, arms crossed, golden eyes narrowed slightly as he observed the creatures in the crate. His voice hadn’t been mocking or cruel—just curious. His dark skin caught the weak morning light, his usual unreadable expression in place, though there was the faintest crease in his brow.

Severus blinked, confused.

Since when did Mulciber take Care for Magical Creatures? Even more, since when did Mulciber ask questions in class?

Severus stared for a moment before looking back at Kettleburn, half-expecting the professor to snap at Mulciber for questioning the lesson. But instead, Kettleburn only chuckled, seeming pleased by the inquiry.

“Excellent question, lad!” he said, turning to the class at large. “That, my dear students, is the perfect example of magical evolution struggling to keep pace with environmental changes!”

He stepped closer to the crate, gesturing toward the small, shimmering creatures.

“Tunnelers used to hibernate deeper underground, where temperatures remained stable and the natural warmth of the earth prevented resin compaction. However, due to expanding human settlements, deforestation, and general magical interference, their habitats have changed. Now, they don’t burrow as deeply, meaning colder temperatures cause the resin they ingest to harden inside them much earlier in the season—before their bodies can naturally break it down.”

Several students murmured in realization, scribbling notes furiously.

“In the wild, only a fraction of juveniles survive without intervention,” Kettleburn continued, “which is why conservation efforts—such as the work done by magizoologists and, today, you lot—are vital in preventing further population decline!”

He clapped his hands together.

“Now! Who’s ready to save some Tunnelers?”

Students began forming a line in front of the crates, the crunch of frostbitten grass beneath their shoes mingling with the rustling of cloaks and the low murmur of conversation. Gryffindors, eager as always, moved forward first, some practically bouncing on their heels. The Hufflepuffs followed, approaching the creatures with obvious excitement, a few of them whispering about how precious they looked. Ravenclaws, quills still in hand, took quick notes as they observed their assigned Tunnelers before stepping aside. A few Slytherins moved toward the crates, more reserved in their approach, some exchanging skeptical glances, clearly unimpressed with the idea of getting their hands dirty.

Severus remained where he was. He wasn’t about to elbow his way to the front like some overeager fool. Instead, he watched as the line slowly shrank, students collecting their Tunnelers one by one, some handling them with cautious reverence, others hesitantly poking at the creatures with their wands as if expecting them to bite.

A few minutes passed, and soon, the last student in line stepped up, reaching into the crate. With that, Severus finally moved forward, adjusting his grip on his wand as he approached.

The crate was almost empty now. Peering inside, he spotted the lone remaining Tunneler nestled in the magically warmed peat. It was smaller than he expected, its iridescent shell reflecting shades of deep bronze and dull lavender beneath the weak morning light. Its bristled limbs twitched slightly, shifting against the soil, and its tiny, beady black eyes blinked up at him.

It might have been cute—if not for the looming threat that, by the end of this lesson, he was probably going to be covered in regurgitated mucus.

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, bracing himself. He reached into the crate.

The moment Severus’ fingers brushed against the Tunneler’s shell, he was surprised by how soft it was. He had expected something rigid, like the exoskeletons of mundane insects, but instead, it was smooth and almost velvety, warm to the touch, as if the creature had absorbed the heat from the enchanted peat it had been resting in. The Tunneler shifted slightly, its tiny bristled limbs flexing as it turned over in his palms, adjusting itself with slow, deliberate movements. It was light—lighter than he anticipated, its fragile weight barely registering against his skin.

As he studied it, testing the way it fit in his hands, a voice cut through the low murmur of students tending to their own Tunnelers.

“Professor.”

Severus glanced up.

Mulciber.

He was standing near the crates, golden eyes narrowed slightly as he peered inside the now-empty containers.

“There aren’t any more Tunnelers,” Mulciber said, his voice even, but edged with something that sounded vaguely irritated, like he had just missed out on something and was debating whether or not to care.

Professor Kettleburn clapped his hands together, turning toward them with an easy grin.

“Ah! Well, that settles it, then!” He gestured between the two of them. “Snape, you’ll be working with Mulciber today. This is a two-person job anyway—one of you will need to focus on keeping the Tunneler calm while the other performs the extraction charm!”

Severus stiffened.

Of course. Of course this was happening.

Mulciber was silent for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he exhaled through his nose and looked over at Severus. He didn’t seem particularly thrilled either, but he also wasn’t protesting. Instead, he just nodded once, as if accepting some minor inconvenience.

Severus clenched his teeth, shifting the Tunneler slightly in his hands as he resisted the urge to sigh. He really should have grabbed one sooner.

“Now you have an excuse to talk to him!”

Charity’s voice rang in his head, and Severus shut his eyes briefly, inhaling through his nose in exasperation.

He could hear Mulciber approaching. His footsteps were slow, unhurried, the kind of gait belonging to someone who never rushed for anything in his life.

Mulciber was a lazy student. Always had been. Ever since first year, Severus had seen him sit at the back of nearly every class, slouched in his seat with that uncanny ability to fall asleep at any given moment—sometimes even mid-lecture. It was as if he had perfected the art of existing in a state of near-consciousness without ever actually committing to paying attention, as if he could slip into unconsciousness at will, head tilted back, arms crossed, completely unbothered.

So, what the hell was he doing in a NEWT Care of Magical Creatures class?

It wasn’t as though Mulciber needed it. Everyone knew where he was headed after Hogwarts: professional Quidditch. As a Beater, no less. It made sense—he had the build for it, the reflexes, the reputation. Not to mention, Quidditch was one of the few things Severus had ever seen him take remotely seriously.

But this?

Severus doubted Mulciber had even read the syllabus.

Which meant one thing.

He was going to have to do all of the work.

For the sake of his grades, of course. But also—for the poor, unfortunate Tunneler, who had no idea its survival was now partially in the hands of someone who probably hadn’t even been listening to Kettleburn’s instructions.

Mulciber finally stopped beside him, peering down with a neutral, unreadable expression before he gestured lazily with one hand.

“I’ll take it,” he said, voice low and lazy, as if the entire situation mildly inconvenienced him at best.

Severus’ grip on the Tunneler tightened. 

“No.” 

Mulciber raised a brow.

“I’ve got it.” Severus finally elaborated, clearing his throat.

Mulciber furrowed his brows, as if unimpressed. “Relax.” he said, looking at Severus, “I’m not gonna kill it.”

“I’d rather not take my chances.” Severus replied.

A pause.

“You think I don’t know how to handle a little thing like that?” Mulciber asked.

“I think you don’t know how to handle much of anything, really.”

Fuck.

Him and his quick mouth. He shouldn't have said that.

Mulciber let out a short laugh, more of a huff through his nose than anything. “You sound like my mother.”

Severus’s shoulders tightened. He stared blankly down at the little Tunneler, swallowing a bit before he spoke again.

“Then maybe she has a point,” Severus deadpanned. After a short breath, he spoke again. “Just sit back and let me handle it. That’s what you were going to do anyway, isn’t it?”

Mulciber tilted his head slightly, expression unreadable. Then, after a beat— “I don’t take handouts.”

Severus scoffed. “Please. You’ll be doing me a favor by not interfering.”

Mulciber’s golden eyes flickered down to the Tunneler in Severus’ hands. “That’s what you think?”

Severus didn’t answer.

Mulciber hummed at that, seemingly unfazed, before suddenly reaching forward. Before Severus could react, Mulciber’s fingers moved toward the Tunneler as if to take it from him—

The creature screeched.

It was a small, high-pitched noise, but it was enough to startle Severus—enough to make him flinch just as sharp little mandibles clamped down on his fingers.

“Tch—!”

Pain shot through his hand, and for a split second, his grip faltered—he almost dropped it—

But then Mulciber’s hands were there, fast.

Faster than they had any right to be.

Severus barely registered the movement before he found himself staring at the sight of Mulciber’s hands beneath his own, steadying both him and the Tunneler.

His reflexes really were insane.

It would have been impressive, if Severus wasn’t actively trying to ignore the sharp sting in his fingers.

“Fuck.”

Mulciber didn’t say anything at first. He just looked down at the creature in his hands, watching as it wriggled slightly before settling again.

The Tunneler was still squealing, its tiny body writhing in Mulciber’s grasp, mandibles clicking in distress. The sharp, keening noise made his ears ring, grating against his already frayed patience.

But worse than that—

Severus was bleeding.

Badly.

Far worse than a bite that small had any right to cause. His fingers were slick with crimson, blood spilling from the punctures as if something in the Tunneler’s saliva had thinned it, prevented clotting— Damn it, damn it—

The Tunneler’s screeches rose in pitch. It was panicking.

“Come here,” Mulciber said, voice quick and firm.

“What?” Severus snapped, instinctively taking a step back. But then—Mulciber reached out.

His fingers wrapped around Severus’ wrist before he could jerk away, palm warm and solid, calloused from years of gripping a broomstick. The contrast against Severus’ own skin—already damp with blood—was startling. His fingers pressed against Severus’ pulse, grounding, before shifting lower to grasp his injured hand.

Severus barely had time to process the foreign sensation—

Because Mulciber was moving—

Severus’ stomach dropped when he watched Mulciber lift his bleeding finger toward the Tunneler’s mouth.

“What the fucking hell are you doing?” Severus hissed, instinctively trying to pull back.

“Relax,” Mulciber muttered. “It’s a baby. It’s not going to drink much. They don’t need a lot to get full.”

Severus’ breath caught when he felt it—

The Tunneler latched onto his injured finger, its tiny mandibles settling over the wound.

A sudden, odd sensation spread through his skin, a dull, tickling pull as the creature’s small, spiked tongue flicked over the bite. It wasn’t painful—just weird. Almost like an odd, rasping suction, followed by the lightest drag of something textured—like a cat’s tongue, but finer, more delicate.

He stiffened, muscles locking up.

Mulciber must have noticed, because his grip tightened fractionally.

“You need its saliva,” he said, tone matter-of-fact, like he was reciting a well-known fact from a textbook.  “Tunnelers don’t have venom, but their bite releases an anticoagulant so their saliva can seep in properly.”

Severus’ brow twitched, resisting the urge to glare.

Mulciber sounded technical about it. Which was annoying, because Severus highly doubted he’d ever seen him pay attention in class before.

“They suck blood instinctively, but they don’t need a lot,” Mulciber continued. “They mostly do it when they’re scared—it calms them down. Kind of like a pacifier. And since they use the same saliva to seal up their tunnels, it stops the bleeding.”

Severus clenched his jaw, trying to focus on anything but the bizarre, wet tickling sensation on his fingertip.

The Tunneler, at least, had stopped squealing. It had gone slack, its tiny body settling in his palm as it suckled lazily, its limbs no longer trembling.

It was calming down.

Damn it.

The little Tunneler had warmed up significantly in Mulciber’s hands, its trembling having subsided. It was still latched onto his fingertip, but its suction was growing weaker, turning into something softer, more absentminded. Then—its spiked tongue flicked out again, swiping along the remainder of the blood on his skin in quick, wet strokes.

Severus shuddered at the odd sensation, feeling the light scrape of its tongue against his fingertip. The creature made a few small, satisfied clicking noises before its tiny feet kicked out, nudging his finger away with surprising force.

Then, with the same lazy confidence as a cat sprawling out in a sunbeam, the Tunneler flopped onto its belly, limbs stretched outward as it lay completely still in his palm.

Severus exhaled, finally pulling his hand back.

His fingertip was still tender, but the wound had closed up entirely, leaving only a faint, pink scar behind. He turned his hand over, inspecting it. It wasn’t the first mark on his fingers—his skin was already littered with faint, silvery scars from potion experiments gone awry, from acid burns and chemical spills. This was nothing new.

Still, it was odd, seeing such rapid healing from a simple creature’s bite.

He turned his gaze back toward Mulciber, expecting some sort of smug comment—but Mulciber had already turned away, completely focused on what Professor Kettleburn had instructed.

The other boy was handling his own Tunneler with surprising ease, his large hands moving with a level of care that Severus hadn’t expected. He was already working the creature up, tilting it slightly, coaxing it into releasing the resin that they were meant to collect.

Severus narrowed his eyes.

“You haven’t cast the spell,” he admonished immediately, tone sharp.

Mulciber barely reacted, just gave the simplest, laziest response: “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” Severus countered, irritation rising. “Did you not hear the professor? Tunnelers are delicate creatures. If you mishandle them, you could damage their internal linings. That’s why we cast the spell—to loosen the resin without harming them.”

Mulciber glanced at him then, brows slightly raised, before looking back down at his Tunneler. “Blood does the same thing,” he said.

Severus’ eyes twitched. “What?”

“The anticoagulant in their saliva doesn’t just thin blood,” Mulciber explained, still not looking at him. “It works as a binding agent. When they burrow, they use it to mix with resin and reinforce tunnels. It’s part of their natural process. That’s why their bites make you bleed more—it helps them get the resin flowing. If they detect blood, their bodies respond the same way as if we’d cast the spell.”

Severus stared at him.

That was…accurate. Technically.

But still.

“That doesn’t mean you should skip the spell,” Severus snapped.

The Tunneler in Mulciber’s hands gave a sudden, violent wiggle, its entire body convulsing in a way that was both distressing and oddly mechanical—like a muscle contracting all at once. Then, without further warning, it opened its tiny, sharp-toothed mouth and heaved.

A thick, viscous substance spewed out in a slow, steady stream.

“Shit,” Mulciber muttered, stepping back swiftly to avoid the splatter, his heavy boots scuffing against the dirt. “Hand me a bottle.”

Severus’ hands moved before his brain could even process the request. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing against the cool glass before pulling out a small collection bottle.

Mulciber snatched it from him without hesitation, his movements surprisingly fluid, and quickly angled it beneath the Tunneler’s mouth. The resin dripped thickly into the bottle, slow at first, then in long, syrupy strands, stretching from the creature’s mouth in iridescent ribbons. The liquid shimmered faintly in the sunlight—like molten amber, except with an opalescent sheen, colors shifting between deep honey gold and hints of pale green as it caught the light.

Mulciber adjusted his grip slightly, tapping the Tunneler’s back in slow, rhythmic motions, coaxing out the rest of the resin without jostling it too much. He barely flinched as the last few strands dribbled down, twisting into sticky tendrils before snapping cleanly into the bottle.

Severus was speechless.

What the fuck.

Severus stared at him, trying to figure out what he had just witnessed.

Since when was Mulciber good at Care of Magical Creatures?

He wasn’t even in the top ten students in the subject. Hell, Severus could count on one hand the number of times he’d ever seen Mulciber even take notes in class.

And yet here he was, casually collecting Tunneler resin like it was something he did every day.

Mulciber frowned as he looked at his fingers, the resin still sticking to his skin. His usual carelessness seemed to vanish in the face of the slime, but instead of bothering with trying to get it off, he simply let it be. He wasn’t particularly bothered by it, at least not enough to waste time trying to scrub it away. After all, there were better things to do.

“Here,” Mulciber muttered, holding out the Tunneler. His hands were outstretched but stiff, careful to keep his fingers as far from the slime as possible. The creature wiggled restlessly, its tiny feet tapping against the air as he passed it back to Severus.

Severus took the creature back into his hands, but he felt his own hesitation. The Tunneler was small, but it was warm, and despite everything that had just happened, he didn’t want to be caught in another awkward moment with Mulciber.

Mulciber glanced at his hands, grimacing at the slime still clinging to them. “Damn,” he said, frustration creeping into his voice.

Severus stiffened at the sound. He wasn’t sure if Mulciber was even going to bother asking for help—after all, he had always been the type to shrug off anything that wasn’t immediately relevant to his interests.

Mulciber’s eyes lifted, staring at Severus for a moment. Then, his gaze dropped to Severus’s scarf, something flickering in his expression that Severus couldn’t quite place. The look didn’t sit well with him.

“Do you mind?” Mulciber asked, taking a step forward, his voice unexpectedly softer.

Severus furrowed his brows, caught off guard. 

“What?” His tone was sharp, defensive, as though he was already preparing for whatever ridiculousness was about to unfold.

“I can’t really reach for my wand,” Mulciber replied, his words making Severus pause.

Severus’s frown deepened. He moved, reaching into his own pockets for his wand. “Right. Give me one—”

But before Severus could finish his sentence, Mulciber reached forward. Severus’s mind didn’t process it immediately—it felt like everything was happening in slow motion. Mulciber, without even a second thought, lifted Severus’s scarf— Charity’s scarf— and wiped his hands across it. The smooth, soft fabric slid across his fingers, catching the gooey resin, as Mulciber methodically cleaned his hands.

The motion was slow, deliberate—almost like a careful, measured stroke. Severus could see the slime soaking into the fabric, darkening it in patches, the strands of the scarf smearing with the mess as Mulciber wiped his hands off as though it was a paper towel. The resin spread across the material like ink on parchment, the thin fibers of the scarf crumpling under the weight of Mulciber’s careless movements.

Severus’s body froze as he watched, his mind failing to catch up with what his eyes were seeing. The sensation of shock was slow to creep through him, like a wave he couldn’t avoid. His body felt paralyzed, as though he wasn’t even sure how to react, much less how to pull himself away from the scene unfolding in front of him.

Everything seemed to slow down—Mulciber’s hand on the fabric, the way the resin spread, the way Severus’s thoughts were paralyzed by confusion.

What…the fuck.

It felt absurd. How could Mulciber do something like that? Especially given the fact that the scarf was quite obviously not his. Mulciber had never outright gone after him, or ever made a move to bully him at all. As far as Severus was aware, he didn’t exist to Mulciber, so where the hell was this all coming from? What the bloody fuck had he done to piss Bruce Mulciber Jr. off?

Students nearby noticed, whispers spreading like wildfire. Heads turned as the action continued, murmurs growing louder as more students caught on. Severus was beginning to feel their eyes on him—on the way Mulciber was desecrating his scarf with no care whatsoever.

“That’s fucked up,” one Gryffindor muttered.

“Yeah, Mulciber’s an arsehole. Can’t believe he’d use that for—” Another voice joined in, trailing off when they noticed Severus was looking their way.

A Hufflepuff girl nudged her friend. “He’s totally bullying Snape, right?”

“I mean, it’s just so—ugh. What an arsehole,” the other girl said, frowning.

The murmurs continued as Severus stood there, still stiff, unable to break free from the oddness of the situation. His mind was racing, his anger bubbling up under the surface, but he was still frozen, unable to make sense of it.

Mulciber continued to wipe his hands off on the scarf, oblivious to the growing attention. Severus could feel the tension in the air, the whispers swelling around him, but he couldn’t move. His thoughts were too tangled to process the scene, and Mulciber was still there, not giving a damn about the fact that he had just wiped resin all over Charity’s scarf.

What the fuck? He thought

“What the fuck?” He said.

He stood there, frozen, as Mulciber wiped his hands on the scarf—the scarf Charity had given him. The realization hit hard, and the anger quickly followed. It wasn’t just the scarf, though. It was Mulciber’s complete lack of respect for boundaries. The way he had handled Severus’s belongings so carelessly made Severus’s blood boil.

What the fuck?

“What the fuck?” Severus repeated, his voice sharp as a whip, his patience snapping. He had reached his limit.

Mulciber, who had been focused on the task at hand, glanced up lazily, unbothered by Severus’s outburst.

“What?” Mulciber asked.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?” Severus hissed, his voice trembling with rage that he couldn’t contain. He felt the heat rise in his chest, his fists clenching at his sides as his eyes shot daggers at Mulciber.

Mulciber didn’t react immediately. His expression remained as nonchalant as always, his gaze flicking down to Severus’s scarf before he gave a careless shrug. 

“It’s just a scarf.” His voice was casual, almost dismissive, as though Severus’s anger meant nothing to him. “Doesn’t seem that important.’

The anger inside Severus boiled over. “It’s my scarf,” he spat. “It’s not just some scrap of fucking cloth.”

"Since when were you a Hufflepuff?" Mulciber asked. His eyes lingered on Severus for a moment longer than usual, but there was something unreadable in his gaze. He didn’t seem to care, not about Severus’s feelings, not about the scarf—nothing. 

He just leaned back slightly. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Then, after a moment, he shrugged.

“Let’s call it even,” Mulciber continued, “My shirt for that scarf.”

Severus’s vision blurred with rage, his breath coming in shallow, sharp gasps. He could feel his heart hammering in his chest as everything within him screamed to make Mulciber feel the weight of what he had just done. 

This fucking arsehole—after he had been the one to spout the nonsense of ‘It was just a shirt.’ He had the audacity to try this?

He didn’t care if Mulciber was a large, intimidating figure—he was going to beat the everloving shit out of him.

Before he even realized what he was doing, Severus’s fist flew forward, connecting with Mulciber’s jaw. The sound of bone meeting bone reverberated through the air, and for a brief moment, Severus felt a surge of satisfaction. It wasn’t enough, though—not nearly enough.

Mulciber shifted back slightly, but only just. His eyes narrowed, tongue rolling on the inside of his cheek as he furrowed his brows, as if he was surprised. Severus didn’t wait for him to speak. He lunged forward, fists clenched, and tackled Mulciber to the ground. His body collided with Mulciber’s with a hard, violent thud, and for a moment, the world narrowed to the adrenaline pumping through his veins, the struggle beneath him, and the heat of Mulciber’s body beneath his.

They rolled across the ground, Severus trying to land a blow, but Mulciber’s larger frame was difficult to subdue. Severus was leaner, faster, but it didn’t make up for the difference in their size and strength. Mulciber’s hands gripped his shoulders, pushing him down, and with surprising ease, Mulciber flipped their positions, pinning Severus beneath him.

For a moment, Severus’s breath caught in his throat as Mulciber held him there, the weight of his body pressing against Severus’s chest, and there was nothing but the feeling of Mulciber’s rough hands on him. 

“Get the fuck off me.” Severus growled, his voice filled with frustration. His hands were pressing against Mulciber’s chest, trying to push him off, but Mulciber’s grip was too strong.

His chest heaved as he strained against Mulciber’s hold. He felt the heat rising in his neck, his jaw tightening, his body tensing, preparing for the inevitable punch that he knew was coming.

But it didn’t come.

Mulciber’s hand didn’t swing, didn’t strike him. Instead, Mulciber’s grip tightened around Severus’s shoulders, holding him in place. Severus, disoriented by the sudden change in Mulciber’s approach, tried to twist out of the hold, but Mulciber’s body remained a solid weight on top of him. 

“What the hell is this?” Severus demanded, his voice sharp, but there was an edge of confusion beneath it. He expected Mulciber to be violent, to be the one who would retaliate. But Mulciber’s amber eyes shifted, if only for a fraction of a second. He pulled the scarf off of Severus, gripping Severus’s hands to keep him still as he did.

“Would you fucking relax?” Mulciber said, his voice low, almost a mixture of bemusement, though Severus couldn’t place it. “Merlin.” Mulciber let out a breath.

Severus glared at him, his mind racing. 

“Let me up,” Severus growled. He couldn’t understand why Mulciber wasn’t finishing this fight. Severus’s chest tightened, and he tucked his chin in, ready for a punch that didn’t come. He shifted, ready to knee Mulciber, but suddenly, the sound of someone clearing their throat broke the tension. Professor Kettleburn was standing over them, eyes wide with disbelief as he pulled them apart with surprisingly little effort for a man with amputated limbs. 

“Enough!” he barked, his hands on their shoulders as he physically separated them, pulling Severus to his feet and giving Mulciber a firm shove back.

Severus’s body was still buzzing with adrenaline, the fight not quite over in his mind. He could feel Mulciber’s presence next to him, still lingering, and something twisted uncomfortably in his stomach. The anger was still there, simmering beneath the surface, but it was now mixed with confusion. What the fuck had even happened?

“Both of you—to the office, now,” Professor Kettleburn ordered, his voice hard. The students around them had fallen silent, eyes wide, some of them still whispering about what had just transpired.

Chapter Text

“YOU’RE JOKING.”

Charity’s voice lifted at the edges, teetering between disbelief and amusement, as if Severus had just spun her the most absurd tale—one she was half-expecting him to laugh about any second now.

Severus rolled his eyes and turned away. The grainy crunch of sand beneath his feet was nearly drowned out by the sharp clack of Charity’s Mary Janes as she hurried after him.

“Please tell me you’re joking,” she said, breathless now that she’d caught up.

He didn’t respond, just wiped his mouth on his sleeve and shook out the sand clinging to his damp hair.

“You fought him?” Charity asked, her voice urgent, cutting through the heavy air. “You fought Mulciber?”

Still, Severus said nothing.

“Oh, for the love of—” Charity snapped. She grabbed his arm and yanked him around with more strength than her delicate mannerisms usually suggested. The force of it sent him stumbling, feet catching awkwardly in the sand. His stomach lurched at the sudden shift in gravity, his balance tilting off-center as her grip tightened like iron around his sleeve. She was so bloody strong when she wasn’t pretending to be a delicate flower.

“What?” Severus snapped, his voice sharp, irritated.

“‘What?’” Charity echoed, her voice rising in incredulous disbelief, as if Severus had just asked the most ridiculous question in the world. “‘What?’ What do you mean ‘what?’ Are you mad?”

Severus exhaled heavily, his patience thinning by the second. He rolled his eyes, the motion slow and deliberate, as if physically trying to shake off the weight of her fussing. He could feel the way his irritation coiled at the base of his skull, tight and pulsing. There was something almost practiced about the way she flailed and huffed—like she had made it her personal mission to be outraged on his behalf. The corners of his lips twitched, but he smothered the impulse before it could form into anything resembling agreeableness.

He drew in a breath, parting his lips to respond, but before he could get a single word out, Charity steamrolled ahead, her voice rising with something more urgent than mere frustration.

“Is he okay?” she demanded, frantic now.

Severus froze.

His stomach turned slightly, the question catching him off guard, knocking the rhythm of the conversation off balance. Then his lips curled into disgust.

“…What?”

“Mulciber!” Charity said immediately, “Did you hurt him?” She didn’t even wait for an answer before barreling on, her words spilling out with dramatic flair. “Did you scratch his face? Because, look, the nick on his brow is an amazing touch, but any more and he’ll look—”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, move,” Severus snapped, shoving her aside with a sharp push to the shoulder.

What a fucking lunatic, that girl.

She followed him anyway, obviously.

“I just can’t believe you fought him,” Charity continued, her voice lilting with exaggerated disappointment. “What part of ‘be nice and make friends with him’ did you not understand exactly? The part where I said nice or—”

“Because—!”

Severus rounded on her so fast she nearly collided with him, her Mary Janes scuffing against the stone. He hated having this conversation in public. Already, he could feel eyes on them—middle years giving them sidelong glances as they passed, younger years blatantly staring, whispering. The sharp-eyed Ravenclaws, the nosy Gryffindors—he could practically hear the rumors brewing.

Severus Snape and Charity Burbage, fighting in the middle of the corridor.

Again.

He was already getting a headache just thinking about whatever stupid theories would come out of this—it didn’t even matter how absurd it was; by dinner, someone would have exaggerated it beyond recognition.

Grinding his teeth, he lowered his voice, trying to keep his irritation from spilling over.

“He’s a fucking arsehole, that’s why,” Severus muttered, his voice rough and low.

Charity blinked at him, as if that was the least relevant thing he could’ve possibly said.

“So?” she said, her brows furrowing in confusion.

“‘So?’” Severus echoed, incredulous. “What do you mean ‘so?’ How the hell could you even fancy someone that’s that much of a prick?”

Charity tilted her head, looking at him with an unimpressed raise of her brow, as if waiting for him to get whatever point she was about to make. Then, with perfect ease, she shrugged and said,

“You’re a prick, and I like you just fine.”

Severus inhaled deeply through his nose, forcing his breath to stay steady, even as irritation pressed against his ribs like a vice.

“He took your bloody scarf and used it like a fucking paper towel,” he said, his voice clipped, his fingers curling into fists at his sides.

Charity blinked at him, her expression momentarily unreadable.

A flicker of something sharp and vindictive curled in Severus’s chest—relief, maybe, that she finally seemed to grasp just how much of a bastard Mulciber was. That scarf hadn’t been cheap. Charity had wrapped it around his neck herself, and Mulciber had ruined it and pulled it off like it was nothing. That had to mean something to her. Surely this would be the thing that finally set her straight—

“Seriously?” Charity said, her brows drawing together as she gave him a look, “that’s why you fought him?”

Now it was Severus’s turn to blink.

“Oh, for god’s sake, Sevy,” she said, exasperated, her hands fluttering in the air like she was shooing away a particularly annoying first-year, “the scarf was only 30 Galleons. Why would you fight him over that?”

Only 30 Galleons.

Only 30 Galleons.

Severus stared at her, his mind blank for half a second before a sharp, simmering heat coiled in his stomach. There was something almost nauseating about the casual way she said it, as if 30 Galleons wasn’t a small fortune, as if it wasn’t an amount of money that would have made him faint before even considering spending it on one item.

He clenched his jaw so tightly it ached.

Severus exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand through his hair in one slow, deliberate motion. His fingers caught at a few tangles, but he pushed through them, tilting his head back just slightly until his gaze hit the ceiling. The dull stone above blurred in his vision as he let out a long, measured breath, willing himself to not react.

With practiced ease, he swept a few stray strands behind his ear, the motion precise, almost absentminded. Then, finally—

“Right,” he said, his voice eerily even, though there was a coolness beneath it, a razor-thin edge. “How on earth could I have forgotten.”

Charity’s brows knit together. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her face, disrupting that usual polished self-assurance.

“I feel I’ve made a mistake of some kind,” she said slowly, as if testing the words, her head tilting just so.

Severus didn’t answer. He simply turned and walked off, his footsteps brisk, his cloak swishing sharply behind him.

He didn’t meet her at detention that night.

Severus hadn’t talked to Charity Burbage in five days, and surprisingly, she hadn’t made it her mission to bother him at all.

It was a curious thing, really, how quiet it had been. 

It felt oddly... peaceful. Too peaceful. Without her voice accompanying every step, without the constant swirl of her presence that seemed to fill up every space, without the polished clack of her Mary Janes on the stone floors, so unmistakable it was as if the sound had been branded into his mind, without her backhanded commentary on any and every thing that lived and breathed, all while looking like a perfect porcelain doll on the outside, all smiles and sweetness. Severus found himself walking to class without the expected sting of her voice, without her criticism cutting through his every movement. There was no mocking eye on him, no comment about the way his robes fit too loosely or how he always looked like he hadn’t slept in days. It left him with a strange emptiness in the pit of his stomach, one he wasn’t sure he liked.

But even that hollow feeling couldn’t compare to the tension still gnawing at him from the fight with Bruce Mulciber. That had been... hell. The weight of the fight still hung heavy on him, like a bruise that wouldn’t quite fade. He couldn’t think about it too much, or he’d be left reeling. So instead, he trudged on, each step heavy, but determined to keep moving forward.

He walked into the Astronomy Tower, the air cool and crisp, the faint scent of parchment and dust mingling in the room. The vastness of the tower spread out before him—empty, quiet. No one had arrived yet, which suited Severus perfectly. Being early had its perks. It gave him the luxury of choosing a good seat.

The room felt larger when it was empty, its stone walls lined with arched windows that looked out into the night sky, though the ceiling hadn’t yet been opened. The moonlight streamed in, casting a gentle glow across the room, but it wasn’t the moonlight that caught his attention. It was the silence.

He walked toward one of the desks, his shoes barely making a sound on the stone floor. His bag hung loosely on his shoulder, a weight he was used to, a reminder of all that he carried with him, whether he wanted to or not. He chose one of the stools, sitting down on the plush pillow with a soft exhale, letting his body relax for a moment.

The desk was just the right height for him to lean forward, elbows on the surface, and he placed his bag beside the stool, setting up his astronomy tools with practiced precision. He reached into his bag, pulling out his telescope—a slender, polished thing that felt almost delicate in his hands. There was a certain rhythm to the way he worked, as though the very act of setting up these tools was a form of meditation.

He began to tune the telescope, adjusting the lenses with careful precision, ensuring everything was just so. The quiet clink of the metal against metal was the only sound in the room, a soft and comforting noise, almost like a lullaby. His movements were methodical, practiced over years of learning how to make sense of the stars, the planets, and the shifting constellations. He didn’t need to think about it, not really—his hands knew what to do.

For a moment, the room felt like it belonged entirely to him, and he could almost forget the tension in his chest, the conflict that lingered at the edges of his mind.

He was so engrossed in his task, adjusting the telescope’s position, that he didn’t hear the soft footsteps until they were right behind him.

“I heard about your fight with Mulciber.”

Severus’s muscles tightened instinctively, his body stilling for a brief moment, before he slowly turned his head. The voice had a warmth to it, something familiar and gentle, though it still made him jump slightly.

He looked up.

Aurora was standing a few paces away, her dark skin glowing softly in the moonlight, her dimples visible even in the dim light. Her smile was genuine, a rare thing in a world so often filled with pretense.

He met her gaze, noting the way her doe-like eyes seemed to twinkle with amusement.

She didn’t look at him with judgment, didn’t look at him with the suspicion that seemed to cloud so many others’ eyes. There was something about her presence that made him feel... less on edge, even in his current state. It was an odd thing, really, how her calm seemed to still his nerves, even when he had been wound so tightly only moments ago.

The soft sigh that had left his lips earlier now seemed to settle in the pit of his stomach. His fingers tightened slightly on the telescope, but he didn’t let his gaze slip from hers. 

“Did you now?” he said, his voice a touch rougher than he intended, betraying the exhaustion that had been gnawing at him all day.

Aurora’s smile softened, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she stepped a little closer, letting the quiet fill the space between them, a comfortable silence that seemed to wrap around them both.

Severus could feel his heartbeat in his throat. 

Her hair was different this week, styled into two sleek, low pigtails, each one sectioned and tied into cloudy, bubble-like tails that cascaded down over her shoulders. It was a soft—playful in its structure but refined in its execution.

Aurora walked over to Severus, her movements graceful but not overly deliberate. She was a Ravenclaw, after all, and there was a certain calm precision in how she carried herself. She didn’t hesitate as she sat down next to him, her movements casual but with an air of practiced ease. Her robes fell around her in soft folds, and she settled herself comfortably, barely disturbing the space between them. There was something quietly confident about her, a sense of ownership over her space.

Without skipping a beat, she reached into her bag and pulled out her telescope. It was a sleek, professional model, dark and polished, the kind of thing one would expect from a student who took their astronomy seriously. Severus watched as she worked with it, her fingers flying over the adjustments with speed and ease. It was almost shocking, the way her hands seemed to know exactly what to do, how effortlessly she adjusted the lenses and the focus. She had the kind of dexterity that he could never quite match, the way her fingers clicked the pieces together without a single moment of hesitation. He couldn’t help but stare for a moment, surprised by how quick and adept she was at it.

With a little shrug of her shoulders, Aurora leaned in close enough to speak in a low voice, her tone conspiratorial. “Between you and me,” she said, giving Severus a sideways glance, “he probably deserved it.”

Severus turned his head sharply to look at her, his gaze piercing. He studied her for a second, blinking slowly, as if caught off guard. His reputation—one that had followed him for years—wasn’t exactly a good one. In fact, it was downright awful. Severus was known for his scathing remarks, his bitterness, and, most damning of all, his association with the darker corners of Hogwarts. He was a Slytherin, which meant suspicion always followed him, especially considering his temper and the harsh words that seemed to slip from his mouth without warning. No one, not even his fellow Slytherins, particularly cared for him. They kept their distance, which was fine by him. He didn’t mind being alone. In fact, it was preferred.

It was odd, though, for someone like Aurora—smart, composed, and not quick to throw compliments around—to be speaking to him like this. He wasn’t used to being given the benefit of the doubt. People didn’t give him the chance to explain himself, let alone treat him with a bit of care. For a moment, he couldn’t quite place it. He felt an odd warmth rise in his chest, one he immediately tried to suppress.

“What makes you say that?” he asked, his voice a little quieter, more measured than usual, as though trying to distance himself from the words.

Aurora shrugged again, a casual gesture, and smirked slightly. “You don’t peg me as the type for nonsensical violence,” she said, her voice low and teasing.

Severus raised an eyebrow, a slight tension creeping into his posture. “You don’t know me,” he replied, his gaze narrowing slightly. “We have one decent conversation and suddenly I’m Mother Teresa?” He tilted his head, a wry line playing on his lips, though his eyes stayed focused on her. “That’s a bit much.”

Aurora blinked, confused for a moment. Then, a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth. 

“Who?” she asked.

Severus pursed his lips, his brows furrowing. He had forgotten—she was a pureblood, from one of those old families that didn’t know much about Muggle figures. And though he had never paid much attention to her family’s status, it suddenly hit him that she might not have a clue who Mother Teresa was. 

“Never mind,” he muttered. “Forget I said anything.”

But Aurora, never one to leave a question unanswered, immediately pressed on. “Tell me,” she said, her voice insistent, though not in an unkind way.

Severus hesitated, pursing his lips again, as if trying to figure out how best to explain it. He wasn’t used to this—having someone genuinely ask. He found himself at a loss for a moment.

“She’s a Muggle,” Severus began, his voice quieter now, the words feeling strange in his mouth. “A nun, really. Devotes her life taking care of the poor, the sick, and the dying. The sort of person that people revere for kindness and selflessness.” He shifted uncomfortably, his gaze darting away for a second before coming back to her. “You wouldn’t care to know about her,” he added quietly, his voice tinged with something he couldn’t quite name.

Aurora didn’t respond immediately, and Severus could feel her watching him closely, her eyes not unkind but measuring. After a moment, she gave a small nod, as if processing what he had said. 

“Alright,” she said softly. “But still—Mother Teresa? That’s quite the leap, don’t you think?”

Severus gave a small snort, barely more than an exhale through his nose, but the corner of his mouth twitched ever so slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted, though his voice carried the barest hint of amusement.

Aurora tilted her head, her brows knitting together in faint curiosity. “What’s a nun?” she asked.

Severus inhaled sharply, as if debating whether or not he actually wanted to explain this. He glanced at her, then away, before finally relenting. “A bit like a Healer, I suppose,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But not for injuries. More for… faith. Muggles have a god—well, several, actually—but nuns dedicate themselves to serving one of them. They live in places called convents, away from most of society, and spend their lives helping others.” He hesitated, then added dryly, “And taking vows of poverty, which is probably why no one listens to them.”

Aurora hummed in understanding, considering this. “So, like a devotee of some ancient magic, just without the magic?”

Severus inclined his head slightly. “Essentially.”

She nodded again, thoughtful. “Huh.” Then, after a beat, she grinned. “So, you’re saying I should start calling you Saint Severus?”

He rolled his eyes. 

“I was named after an emperor, actually,” he said, his gaze flicking toward her before returning to the night sky.

Aurora glanced at him, intrigued. “Really?”

“Septimius Severus,” he clarified. “Roman. A strategist. Harsh, but effective.” His fingers idly traced the spine of his textbook. “Not exactly a saint, if you were wondering.”

Aurora let out a soft chuckle. “No, I gathered as much.” She tilted her head, considering him. “Fitting name?”

Severus hesitated, then gave a small, dry tilt of his lips. “Depends who you ask.”

Aurora laughed, then they fell back into silence. Minutes passed, both of them seated, polishing their equipment and straightening out their parchment as they waited for class to start.

It was after a moment that Severus finally offered up an explaination.

“Mulciber was being a cunt,” Severus said flatly.

Aurora raised her eyebrows, clearly not expecting such bluntness.

After a beat, she tilted her head. “And what about Burbage?”

Severus blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Aurora gave a sheepish little smile, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “Word around the castle is that you two got in a row again.”

Severus sighed, long and slow, as if he were already exhausted by the conversation.

“Trouble in paradise, they’re calling it,” Aurora added, her voice laced with amusement.

Severus groaned, dragging a hand over his face. The irritation radiated off him—his shoulders tensed, his fingers pressing into his temple as though trying to physically dispel the stupidity of Hogwarts gossip. The last thing he needed was people whispering about him and Burbage as if they were some bickering couple.

“I hate rich people,” he muttered in explanation (though it didn’t really explain much at all, at least from Aurora’s perspective), letting his hand drop back into his lap.

Silence settled between them, just for a moment.

Then—

“Ah,” Aurora said simply, as if she understood.

It was only then that Severus became keenly aware of the fact that Aurora was, in fact, one of said rich people. The entirety of Hogwarts was made up of them. Old families, old money, new money, names that had been passed down through centuries. She wasn’t as loud about it as some of the others, but it didn’t change the fact that she was raised in a world completely different from his own.

“I didn’t mean—” he started, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

But Aurora just laughed, light and amused. “No, no, by all means, tell me how much you despise my kind,” she teased, eyes twinkling. “Merlin knows it’s warranted.”

Severus studied her for a moment, searching for any trace of offense, but there was none. Just amusement.

He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly. “Good to know you’re self-aware.”

Aurora smiled. 

“It helps, doesn’t it?” She turned back to her telescope, adjusting the lens with that same effortless ease. “Besides, I’d be delusional if I thought we weren’t insufferable. You should hear my grandmother talk.”

Severus let out a breath despite himself. “Charming.”

“Oh, incredibly,” Aurora said dryly, peering through her telescope. “She’d probably faint if she knew I was out here talking to you.”

Severus gave her a sideways glance. “And yet, here you are.”

Aurora shrugged, still focused on adjusting her view of the stars. “Like I said—self-aware.”

“Besides,” Aurora said, turning to him with a smile. Her dimples were more pronounced, the soft curve of her lips pulling the expression into something warmer than usual. “I like you.”

Severus froze. His heart slammed against his chest, as if the mere words had knocked the air from his lungs. A rush of heat flooded his face, creeping up his neck and spreading like wildfire. His ears burned so intensely, it was almost painful, as though they’d been pressed too close to a fire. His hands fumbled for a second, and before he knew it, he had dropped his quill, the sound of it hitting the floor suddenly deafening in the silence that had settled around them.

He scrambled to retrieve it, his fingers brushing the wood too quickly, then slipping, and finally he grabbed it, his grip tight as though it would anchor him. His face felt like it was on fire, and he could barely muster the courage to look up at her again. His mouth was dry, his thoughts a chaotic mess of fleeting thoughts. 

He had no idea how to save himself from the wave of embarrassment crashing over him. He had never felt so clumsy in his entire life. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, and it felt like everything in his chest was constricting with panic.

But then, as if on cue, the rest of the students began trickling into the classroom, tired and sluggish, muttering as they made their way to their seats. Midnight had struck, and with it, the weight of the moment lifted just slightly. Severus let out a slow, barely audible sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders loosening just a little as the room filled with the familiar hum of students settling into place.

He glanced at Aurora one last time, the flush on his face still burning, but at least now he had an excuse to look away. 

Class came and went, the hours slipping by in a blur of constellations and theory. The lesson that night was focused on the star formations—specific clusters and the way they aligned with various magical properties. They were learning how to use telescopes to chart and map out stars, studying how they could use these maps to predict certain magical events or phenomena. The lecture was dense, with Professor Woolworth detailing the interaction between celestial bodies and the wizarding world’s many uses for star charts.

Severus tried his hardest to focus on the material, his mind racing with calculations and diagrams, but it wasn’t easy. Every so often, Aurora would drop a quiet comment, and it was like a distraction he couldn’t resist. It wasn’t annoying—far from it. Her remarks were always perfectly timed, witty, and cleverly insightful. Sometimes, she’d lean toward him with a small grin, her eyes sparkling as she made a joke about the complexities of the subject or the oddities of the professor’s ramblings. Severus couldn’t help but be amused, despite himself, even though he was wound up so tightly, he felt like he might snap in half from nerves. His chest was tight with tension, and his fingers, still tingling from the earlier encounter, occasionally brushed the edges of his notes without really absorbing any of the words on the page.

By the time the class ended, Severus was both relieved and slightly disappointed. He hadn’t quite gotten as much work done as he’d hoped, but at least the class had passed without incident. He packed his things quickly, and as the students began to file out, he fell into step with Aurora, just like last time. Their walk to the door was quieter than before, their words fewer. Their goodbyes were quicker, more perfunctory—there was an odd sense of distance that hung in the air between them, a subtle shift that Severus couldn’t quite pinpoint but could feel nonetheless.

As he turned to walk toward his dorm, he tried to breathe more evenly, trying to sort out the jumbled thoughts that had tangled themselves up inside him. What had that been? He didn’t know. But he was positive it wouldn’t happen again. He had been caught off guard. That was all. Focus on the task at hand, he thought. Focus on the dungeons, focus on the walking.

He made his usual turn down the corridor that led to the dungeons, his footsteps echoing against the cold stone walls. He was trying to settle his breathing, to calm the swirling nerves from the evening, when—

“Aha!”

The sudden shout made Severus jump, his heart lurching in his chest as fear shot through him. His entire body stiffened, and he let out a sharp, irritated breath.

“For fuck’s sake!” he yelled, his voice laced with annoyance and a touch of panic. He turned to face the source of the commotion, his mind already bracing for whatever nonsense was about to come his way.

It was Charity. Of course.

Severus felt his blood boil. His pulse quickened in irritation, and he gave her a sharp glare. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he demanded, his voice a low growl, his patience already stretched thin.

Charity was grinning, the wide, pearly white smile never faltering. Her golden blonde hair caught the dim light, and she looked like a smug, mischievous cat who had just caught her prey. 

“I knew it!” she declared, practically bouncing on her heels with excitement.

Severus groaned inwardly. 

“Oh for God’s sake, what are you on about now?” His mind was already preparing for whatever ridiculous accusation she would throw at him next.

Charity’s grin widened, and she stepped forward, her voice dropping to a playful whisper. “You like her!”

Severus gave her a look so incredulous, it was almost comical. He raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. 

“Have you gone mad?” he asked, his voice dripping with disbelief.

Charity’s grin grew even wider, if that was possible. She took another step toward him, her eyes gleaming with excitement. 

“You like her!” she repeated, now practically beaming with triumph. “Oh my God, you like that girl! The Ravenclaw!”

Severus froze.

Chapter Text

THERE WAS SOMETHING fascinating about bathrooms—especially the girls’ ones. No matter how cramped or chaotic, how many bodies crowded in front of the mirror touching up lipstick with smudged fingers or gossiping over the clatter of stall doors, there was always room for conversation. Secrets passed between stalls like contraband, mascara wands became magic wands of social power, and whispers carried louder than howls in the corridor.

The lavatory was the one place where girls spoke like the walls weren’t listening, even though they always were. Which is precisely why Charity Burbage, reigning queen of Hufflepuff and perpetual center of gravity, spent so much time not saying a word in them.

She stood inside the furthest cubicle, back resting against the door, hands folded as she studied her manicured nails like they held the key to the universe. Her lip gloss shimmered under the dull lighting, and her ears were razor-focused.

“…guys like Snape are all like that,” one of the voices said, echoing through the porcelain chamber. “They get one pretty girl to give them a chance and suddenly think they’re Merlin’s gift.”

Charity didn’t blink. Her expression didn’t shift. But her nails—baby pink with silver moons on the cuticles—dug just a little deeper into her palm.

“What happened now?” another girl asked, a bit too eager.

“You haven’t heard?” the first voice gasped, triumphant. “Snape and Burbage had another row. Like, proper screaming match outside the Charms corridor. They're not speaking.”

“No way,” a third voice cut in. 

“I’m telling you—if I were Snape, I’d be the one begging for her back. Merlin knows what he’s got that makes someone like Charity Burbage act a complete mess.”

Giggles, one snorted. Another flushed the loo like punctuation. The stink of cheap floral perfume mixed with the gossip. One girl dropped her lipstick; it rolled under the sink unnoticed.

“She’s pretty,” one of them said finally, “but, like… come on. There’s only so much she should be allowed to get away with.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“She’s mean , too,” one of them hissed, the word sticky with spite. “Like, proper rotten.”

“And a Hufflepuff, of all things. Go figure.”

 “Aren’t they supposed to be all hugs and biscuits and helping people study?”

“Yeah, well, Burbage must’ve been a sorting error. She doesn’t hex people, she just… talks. And suddenly you’re not invited to anything and everyone’s laughing at your shoes.”

“Exactly! And she never says anything outright, but you feel it. Like she thinks you’re stupid just for being near her.”

“I swear she once complimented my hair and I nearly cried because it felt like she was insulting me.”

The toilet flushed again, louder this time. Still, no one noticed the quiet figure in the last stall.

“She’s fake, too. You know she’s Muggleborn ?”

“No she’s not.”

“She is! My sister told me. Her parents are, like, some filthy rich art collectors or something, old money. She’s just got the wardrobe to pass. The purebloods don’t even realize.”

“Well, that’s how she plays it, isn’t it? All those silk blouses and imported perfume and those bloody pearl earrings she wears to breakfast—”

“She’s vapid. I don’t think she’s ever read a book she didn’t tear the pages out of just for the aesthetic.”

“It's like her insides are made of perfume samples and cruel intentions,” someone said, dramatic. They all laughed.

“I don’t care how shiny her hair is—she's as deep as a puddle.”

“But she’s clever,” someone offered, almost begrudgingly.

“Sure. But she weaponizes it. Like, the way she talks to professors? All sugary and sweet. She gets away with everything because no one wants to argue with someone that pretty.”

“She flirts with people just to get a seat in class.”

“She’s so—”

“Oh, come off your high horses,” a new voice cut in, sharper than the rest. “If any of you looked like her, you wouldn’t know what to do with yourselves either.”

Silence. A shuffle of feet. Someone fiddled with the tap, suddenly very interested in washing their hands.

“If I looked like her,” someone said with a scoff, “I wouldn’t even try to have a personality.”

“And newsflash: she doesn’t.”

“…I’m just saying,” the girl continued, more measured now. “She knows she’s beautiful. So what? If you were her, you’d probably be worse.”

Silence.

“She’s still a cow,” one of them mumbled eventually.

They laughed again. One of them popped her gum.

And behind the cubicle door, Charity smiled. Just a little.

Not because any of it wasn’t true—but because they were still talking about her .

That was the thing they never understood—being hated was fine. Being envied was better. But being talked about? That was thrilling.

What wasn’t thrilling, however, was the fact that Severus wasn’t speaking to her.

Again.

Charity almost groaned out loud, dragging a hand down her perfectly moisturized face. All that progress—weeks of delicate, strategic progress—down the drain. All because of some bloody scarf.

She kicked at the corner of the cubicle with the toe of her Mary Jane. It wasn’t like she meant to offend him. Honestly, she hadn’t even thought it would register as a thing. But Snape, in all his brooding, broomstick-up-the-arse glory, had taken it personally. Like everything else.

What even was his problem?

You could never really tell with him—he was the kind of person who didn’t come with a guidebook. Everything about him demanded a second glance, then a third, then an uncomfortable fourth where you started to wonder if maybe you were the problem. A boy with hair that fell past his shoulders, nails stained ink-black from constantly scribbling in notebooks no one had ever seen, and clothes—well. Clothes that didn’t exactly come from the boys’ section.

He wore skirts. Long, swishing ones that grazed the stone floor as he walked, always in some funeral-adjacent color, always paired with what were obviously women’s-cut blouses. Not androgynous—feminine. Purposefully. And no one said anything anymore, not really. They had, of course, once. A lot more than they did now. First and second year were brutal for him, third and fourth year even worse. Even she was aware of that. 

Boys like Severus didn’t get away unscathed. He hadn’t either. But multiple brawls and duels later, now they just didn’t speak to him at all.

It would’ve been more surprising if he hadn’t been bullied. If he’d just glided through Hogwarts with his black skirts and his glowering silence like some strange batty prince. But he hadn’t. People had picked him apart from the moment he set foot in the castle. And in many ways, he’d only sharpened for it.

Charity had had a lot of misconceptions about Severus Snape.

First, she’d thought he was a pureblood. With the name, the House, the scowl—it seemed obvious. But he wasn’t. And now that she thought about it, she wasn’t sure how she’d missed it. The way he held a quill like a ballpoint pen, the way he always hovered too long over enchanted objects like he was trying to decipher the mechanics of how to work them. The worn-out trainers he wore under his robes instead of dragonhide boots. The way his face went blank when someone made a joke about some wizard celebrity—because he didn’t get it, didn’t have the cultural context.

He was Muggle-raised, that was obvious now. He just never spoke about it…and since no one spoke to him…

Another misconception: she’d thought he was cruel. And, alright, he absolutely was. But not in the way she’d assumed. Not in the way she was. Charity Burbage was cruel in the curated, silk-gloved, social way. Severus wasn’t. His cruelty was ragged, reactive. Like a half-feral cat backed into a corner.

And there was… kindness in him. Somewhere. Not all the time, and not for everyone, but she’d seen it—selectively offered, sharp and awkward and hidden.,It always felt like she was playing a game of Bluff with him—a fast-paced, high-stakes guessing game where you never knew which move would make you win and which would make the whole tower come crashing down. And she was constantly losing.

Because with Severus, there wasn’t a rulebook. There wasn’t even a pattern.

It wasn’t like he had any friends she could ask for advice. Sometimes it was like he vanished for days entirely. He never came to Hogsmeade. He never laughed in public. He wasn’t mysterious so much as impenetrable.

It had been a week. A whole week of sulky silences, of him slipping into classrooms just after the bell and pointedly sitting on the opposite side of the room. She’d left him alone. She’d learned that lesson, at least—trying to force Severus into a conversation was like trying to charm a Banshee mid-wail. But she also knew she was on a timer. If she didn’t fix things soon, his grudge would fossilize. Turn permanent.

The problem was, Charity had no idea how to fix it.

As a matter of fact, Charity Burbage had never apologized for anything in her life until she met Severus Snape.

And now? It felt like every other conversation between them ended with her figuring out a new way to say I’m sorry.

Or worse— I didn’t mean to hurt you.

Because she never did. But with Severus, you didn’t have to mean to. You just had to say the wrong thing, or laugh at the wrong time, and now here she was. 

Again. 

In a toilet stall, trying to figure out how to say sorry to the only person in the castle who ever outright looked at her like she was the devil incarnate .

Pointing out his crush on that Ravenclaw girl probably hadn't helped her case or favorability stats at all.

Charity could admit that now, in the quiet echo of the bathroom stall, far removed from the heat of that argument. She’d said it like a weapon—offhand, a bit too loud, a bit too gleeful. Like she was trying to prove something. Like she needed to. Which, in hindsight, meant she’d already lost whatever that fight had started over.

But it wasn’t like she’d meant it cruelly. She’d just been surprised . Pleasantly so.

Thrilled for him, actually. Genuinely. Charity, for all her diamond-edged social commentary and dagger-heeled fashion sense, liked love. She liked romance and gossip and the rare, electric thrill of seeing someone choose someone else. And the more she thought about it, the more it made sense .

Of course a Ravenclaw was the right match for Severus. Not one of the proper, rule-abiding ones, obviously. But one of the strange, sharp ones. The kind who carried three books at once and forgot meals but remembered every constellation by name. Someone with enough intelligence to keep up with him and enough bite not to care when he sulked. Someone who would match his brutal honesty with analytical dissection, who wouldn’t flinch when he said something jagged and raw.

Someone who could unpick his silences without needing him to bleed himself dry explaining them.

That was the kind of Ravenclaw Severus deserved. The kind that might even deserve him back.

She just probably shouldn't have brought it up while they were already fighting.

But like… that was the first time she’d ever seen him being cordial with anyone.

Even her .

Charity froze. That thought rang through her head with the weight of revelation. Her breath caught, not in horror—but in recognition.

That was it. That was the thing. The piece she hadn’t seen.

She stood, suddenly, the toilet seat creaking behind her, and unlatched the cubicle door.

The bathroom was still humming with the leftover heat of girl-talk and the stench of insecurity. One of the girls from earlier was reapplying mascara in the mirror, eyes flicking toward Charity and then away in horror, realizing that Charity had been there the entire time.

Charity didn’t care.

She walked straight to the sinks.

Turned on the tap. Cold water gushed against her hands as she scrubbed the ghost of soap across her palms with precise, practiced movements. Her reflection glinted back at her from the mirror—hair perfect, gloss unbothered, expression unreadable.

But behind the eyes?

She was calculating .

Charity dried her hands slowly, watching her own movements like a witch studying a ritual. Then she leaned in, adjusted a lock of hair by her temple, fluffed it slightly, tilted her chin.

And smiled.

She knew exactly how to fix this.

Charity wasn’t known much for being grateful.

Not because she was ungrateful, necessarily—just… selective. Precise. Like perfume or shoes or boys, she knew that too much gratefulness could make you seem desperate.

But if there was one thing she could admit—if pressed, if waterboarded, if maybe a particularly handsome Ravenclaw seventh-year happened to ask—it was that she was profoundly, sincerely, soul-deep grateful that she hadn’t been sorted into Ravenclaw.

Because what on earth was this bullshit?

She stood at the top of the spiraling tower steps, arms crossed, skirt slightly askew from wind, glaring up at the stupid, sentient bronze knocker shaped like a raven’s beak. It blinked once. Judgingly.

“This statement is false.”

“What?”

“What walks on four legs in the morning, two legs at noon, and three legs in the evening?” the raven m asked in that silky, infuriating voice.

 “For Merlin’s sake, I already said I don’t know!”

“A lack of knowledge is not a sufficient answer,” the raven sniffed. Yes. Sniffed. “You must engage in the process of reasoning.”

“Oh, I have engaged. Thoroughly. I’m thoroughly engaged. I am, in fact, so thoroughly engaged that I’ve come to the very reasoned conclusion that this is the dumbest door in the entire castle.”

The raven made a sound not unlike a scoff. “Rude.”

“Rude?” Charity’s eyebrows shot up so fast they nearly left orbit. “I’m not the one gatekeeping a staircase with a logic puzzle. At midnight. In the freezing cold. Do you realize how expensive this blouse is?”

“The blouse appears ordinary.”

Charity gasped—audibly, clutching at her pearls (metaphorically, but still). “You know what? I’m not even offended. I’m concerned. Someone should check your enchantments. You’re obviously malfunctioning.”

The raven remained infuriatingly silent.

Charity groaned. “Oh, come on. Do you ask everyone this or do I just look like I don’t read enough?”

“A fair assumption.” The raven answered.

Her mouth dropped open. “You’re a door.”

“I am a guardian of wisdom.”

“You’re a glorified sentry owl with a thesaurus.”

“If only wit were as abundant as perfume.”

Charity’s eye twitched. “You want a riddle?” she snapped. “Here’s one: what do you call a talking bird that’s about to be hexed into a pile of feathers?”

There was a beat of silence.

“Denied.”

Charity gaped.

The raven settled back into stony smugness, wings folding like it had won a debate.

“Ugh!” Charity slapped her hand dramatically against the wooden door. “Just let me in!”

“Try again later, when your frontal lobe has caught up with your lipstick.”

She actually shrieked.

Just as she was about to hurl her heel at the door and claim insanity as her legal defense, she decided to take a deep breath instead.

It was very mature.

Charity breathed, then she smiled, planting a hand on her hip. “Look,” she said, “I’m not here to play riddle-of-the-day. I’m not here to borrow a book or date a poet. I’m here to talk to Aurora Sinistra. That’s it. That’s the whole quest.”

“I do not keep track of house members’ personal affiliations.”

“Oh, obviously, because if you did, you’d know that this is very important, and you’re the only thing standing between me and that very important conversation.”

A pause.

Then, archly:

“Perhaps if you were cleverer, I would have let you in.”

Charity stared at the raven. The raven stared back.

For a moment, the bathroom echoes were back in her ears: vapid, fake, perfume and cruel intentions.

She leaned in, smiling just a little. “Listen, knock-knock. I will—”

Just then, footsteps padded softly against the stone. A Ravenclaw boy turned the corner, probably fresh from the library—books stacked under one arm, tie loosened. Fourth year, maybe—young, pale, with the kind of angular bones that hadn’t quite figured out how to wear a face yet. A twitch of something feral in his eyes, like he’d bitten someone once and gotten away with it.

Charity clocked him immediately.

Barty Crouch Jr.

Perfect.

She stepped in front of him with the grace of a lioness in heels. One arm out, the other hand planted firmly on her hip. A tilt of the head, just so. 

“Oh, thank Merlin,” she breathed dramatically, sweeping in front of him before he could blink. “Finally. A brain with legs.”

He blinked at her, expression pinched and skeptical.

“Hi,” she said sweetly. “Do me a favour and open the door.”

Barty blinked. Then narrowed his eyes like she’d just asked him to wash her socks.

 “You’re not a Ravenclaw.”

“No, but you are,” she said sweetly, sliding her arm into his like they were old friends on a promenade. “And you’re going to get me into that common room.”

He jerked away, affronted. “Get—away from me.”

“Open the door and I’ll do just that.”

Barty bristled.

“You couldn’t solve the riddle?”

“I could,” Charity said, smiling wide, “but I have a strict policy of not playing games with birds who neg me.”

Barty frowned. “And I have a strict policy of not opening doors for Hufflepuffs with inflated senses of self-worth.”

“Good,” she said. “Then we’re both operating with integrity. Now open it.”

He stared, trying to get a closer look before his expression cleared. “You’re Charity Burbage.”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me,” she cooed. “I’m flattered.”

He scowled, glancing toward the raven-shaped knocker. “Why do you even want in?”

“Private, emotional girl talk. The kind that makes men feel squirmy and spooked.” She leaned in slightly. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I don’t care.”

“You don’t have to, but you will do as I ask,” she said, stepping into his path again. “Because otherwise, I’ll tell your prefect you’ve been hoarding contraband from the restricted section.”

“I haven’t.”

“Yes you have.” 

There was a long, hateful pause.

Then Barty Crouch Jr. huffed through his nose and turned to the door.

“The answer,” he said flatly, “is ‘man.’”

The door swung open.

Charity clapped him on the shoulder. “See? That wasn’t so hard.”

“Don’t touch me,” he snapped.

Charity rolled her eyes.

She stepped through the arched doorway and into the Ravenclaw common room, and for a moment—just a moment—she forgot herself.

It wasn’t like the other houses. It wasn’t warm and flickering like Gryffindor, or coiled and secretive like Slytherin. It wasn’t even cluttered and cozy like Hufflepuff. No—this was something else. It was quiet, not in a sleepy way, but in a reverent way, like walking into a cathedral where thought itself was worshipped.

Towering shelves spiraled upward, crammed with books older than time, each bound in colors richer than blood. Arching windows curved overhead, glass glinting silver in the moonlight. The ceiling soared so high above that it disappeared into shadow, the stars reflecting in wide panes until it felt like the whole cosmos had bent itself down to press against the tower walls. The moon hung low and swollen, so close it seemed you could touch it if you reached far enough.

She stood there with her mouth ever so slightly parted, her posture softening as the quiet washed over her like an incantation. She had never, not once, wanted to be a Ravenclaw—but even she could admit...

Then—

“Aurora! Aurora!”

The voices pulled her out of it. She blinked, eyes snapping toward the far end of the room where a few first-years—tiny, breathless, and visibly enchanted by someone—were clustered near a desk piled with scrolls and crystalline models of star systems in motion.

Aurora Sinistra turned to them, all graceful lines and easy elegance. Her skin was dark, polished, catching the light like lacquered sepia. Her hair was braided back and crowned with silver pins shaped like crescent moons. She looked like someone who had been born knowing the sky was hers.

“Aurora,” one of the children gasped. “If you’re Vanishing something mid-transfiguration, and you haven’t finished the morphological conversion, is it—um—is it possible for the matter to, like, collapse in on itself? Or is that only if you mess up the intent of the incantation?”

The second one chimed in, eyes wide: “I said it’d explode, but he said it’d implode, and then she said it might just disappear—but like—where does it go?”

Aurora smiled, indulgent and kind. “Well that depends,” she began, “on the type of object, and whether your spellwork is—”

Charity sighed.

As cute as this all was—little scholars with their adorable hand-raises and catastrophically exploded snails—she didn’t have time to watch a fan club form around Aurora Sinistra. She hadn’t braved some enchanted riddle-door and a self-important teen boy with a superiority complex just to stand here while Ravenclaws discussed shell viscosity and magical stability thresholds. Time was ticking. Severus wasn’t going to unsulk himself.

Charity stepped forward, draping an arm around one of the kids with a grin too wide to be entirely comforting. 

“Oh, aren’t you two adorable,” she said. “What’re your names? No, let me guess—Octavian? Julius? Something tragically doomed? Like Helen, or Hyacinth”

The boy blinked. “…It’s Rufus.”

“Mine’s Laura,” the little girl said.

“Isn’t that sweet,” Charity said, smile entirely too wide. She immediately moved to change the subject. “This is adorable, truly. You’re both brilliant and precious and headed straight for burnout at twenty. I love that for you, but I need a word with Miss Sinistra. Immediately.”

The first-years froze.

Aurora’s brows lifted slowly. Her mouth parted. 

“Charity?” she said, her voice a bit surprised. Which was fair, given Charity had never once so much as glanced in her direction before this moment—other than the one time. “What—How—”

“Hi,” Charity said, already toeing a stack of star charts off the nearest settee. 

Aurora was still staring. “How did you even get in—”

“Bribed a boy,” Charity said breezily. 

The first-years continued to gape.

Charity snapped her fingers. “Scoot, little ravens. Go draw a moon phase chart or alphabetize some footnotes or whatever it is you lot do before bedtime.”

The first years were quick to book it.

Aurora stood, slowly, like the laws of physics were still catching up to her. “…You bribed a child?”

“Don’t act new,” Charity said sweetly. Aurora’s mouth was still parted in suprise.  “Now. Sit.” 

Charity stared at Aurora Sinistra like she was trying to divine something from her cheekbones. Her arms were crossed, one perfectly sculpted brow arched in appraisal, head tilted like she was mentally rotating the image of the woman in front of her. The slow, deliberate tap of her manicured nail against her elbow punctuated the silence —click, click, click— as if marking the beats of some internal calculation.

She hadn’t expected this.

Aurora wasn’t anything at all like what she would have thought Severus would like, now that she was able to get a closer, detailed look. Or maybe Charity had never known what Severus actually liked to begin with, which—seemed entirely plausible now that she thought it, actually.

She was pretty though, that was for sure.

There was a softness about her, like the quiet before a storm or the lingering scent of a candle long after it’s been blown out—moon-round eyes and an easy stillness to her face, like she’d been born knowing how to listen. Her voice had the tone of someone who never needed to raise it to be heard. Her skin was smooth and deep, a warm brown that looked like it had never seen a day without sunlight, and her dark eyes were framed by lashes that fluttered like the pages of a book too often read. Her style was simple but careful, a shift in fabric here, a touch of jewelry there, nothing flashy, but all of it understated and deliberate, like she knew she didn’t need to impress anyone to be noticed.

There was something about her presence—feminine, but not fragile, soft but not yielding—just like ballet. Even the way she sat radiated a kind of quiet steadiness. She was gentler than Charity would have thought Severus would ever take a sweetness to. And yet…

On the other side of the table, Aurora fidgeted.

Not nervously—no, that would’ve made too much sense—but precisely. Like she had to move or combust. Her fingers toyed with the feather of her quill, smoothing it down, then letting it spring back up. Her other hand worried the edge of her sleeve, thumb brushing over a frayed thread that had no business being there. She shifted her weight, then stilled again, jaw tight and gaze fixed on something in the middle distance.

Every time Aurora looked up and accidentally met Charity’s eyes, she flinched—quick, guilty, like she’d been caught doing something she shouldn’t. At first, it had been funny. A little adorable, even. But after the fifth or sixth time, Charity was starting to feel almost offended.

God, she wasn’t the bloody devil. She crossed her arms a little tighter, nails drumming against her sleeve, and tilted her head.

“So—”

“I need your help,” Charity said immediately, cutting across whatever timid, polite inquiry Aurora had been about to stammer out. She turned fully to face her, elbows on the table.

Aurora blinked. Once. Twice. The surprise that flitted across her face was almost beautiful in its rawness—like someone who’d just been tapped on the shoulder in the middle of a dream. Her dark eyes widened just slightly, the corners crinkling, her mouth parting a little as if the idea of Charity Burbage needing anything from her had never once crossed her mind.

“From…me?” she managed after a second, voice soft and genuinely bewildered.

Charity grinned—big, slow, sweet. A practiced, dazzling smile. She leaned closer over the table, closing the gap between them by a few inches, but with a casual air that suggested it was just because she was friendly like that. Her hair swung forward with the motion, glossy and deliberate. 

“Of course you,” she said warmly, like it was obvious.

Charity knew the rules of this kind of thing— make them feel safe, make them feel wanted. You didn’t strong-arm people into spilling their guts. No, you smiled at them. You listened to them. You asked them about themselves until they got so comfortable they thought they were the ones steering the conversation. Until they handed you exactly what you wanted without even realizing it.

She propped her chin up on her hand, keeping her posture casual, unthreatening. 

“You seem so smart. I mean, the little ones were practically lining up to ask you for help, weren’t they? I thought, now there’s a girl who has her life together.” She let out a light, breezy laugh, like they were two old friends who had always gossiped over tea.

Aurora made a small, uncertain sound in the back of her throat. Her posture relaxed by a hair, but not by much.

“So,” Charity continued, twirling a strand of her hair around one manicured finger, “what’s it like being the unofficial princess of Ravenclaw? Always getting mobbed by adoring first years. It’s kind of adorable. Honestly, I don’t know how you do it. If it were me, I’d be charging them by the question.”

Aurora flushed slightly, ducking her head but smiling shyly. “I don’t mind,” she said. “I like helping people…it’s nice when they trust you to know things.”

Charity tilted her head, her smile stretching. “How sweet…” she said, for lack of anything better to say. It wasn’t like she could relate.

“I was actually wondering…” Charity continued, voice lilting with practiced curiosity, “how do you manage it? Balancing everything. Your coursework, tutoring those sweet little first-years, looking like that, and still having time for yourself?”

Aurora blinked again, disarmed, and gave a nervous little laugh. “Oh. Well… I mean, it’s just time management, I suppose. And—and I don’t tutor all the time. Only when Professor McGonagall asks.”

Charity widened her eyes, impressed. “The Deputy Headmistress personally asks you?” she said, gasping a little. “Aurora, that’s huge. I would kill for that kind of attention.”

Aurora flushed slightly, ducking her head. “It’s not really a big deal…”

“Don’t sell yourself short,” Charity said, resting her cheek against her hand. “You’re clearly brilliant. Top of the class, right?”

Aurora hesitated. “Well. Top of Astronomy, maybe. But there are others who are—”

“Astronomy?” Charity repeated, pouncing on the word with a perfect little tilt of her head, pretending it was new information. “You must be amazing at it. I’m rubbish with numbers and stars. Couldn’t tell Orion’s Belt from my own waistband.”

Aurora smiled, shyly.

Charity leaned in a fraction closer, voice turning conspiratorial. “And I bet you’re top of that class for a reason. I doubt anyone could give you a run for your money.”

Aurora laughed, a little more real this time, a sound like the first breath of spring air after a long winter. “I wouldn’t say that,” she said simply. “There’s plenty of brilliant minds in our Astronomy class. It’s NEWT level after all.”

Aurora gave a small smile. “And as much as I appreciate your vote of confidence, I sometimes go toe to toe with the other students in class.”

Charity gasped, her eyebrows shooting up in performative surprise. 

“No.” She said in disbelief. She clutched her chest lightly, like she’d just been told a scandalous secret. “Like who?”  

Aurora almost seemed to give a little snort at the blonde’s suprise.

“Severus,” Aurora said, looking up. “Severus Snape. He’s really smart.”

“Severus? ” Charity blinked, as if caught off guard. “Wait. You know Severus?”

Aurora blinked back, uncertain if this was a good or bad thing. “Yes… I do. We’ve been partners since last month. Astronomy.”

“I had no idea!” Charity said, with a surprised little laugh, as if the universe had just handed her a rare and beautiful gift. “This castle really must not be as big as it looks.”

She leaned even closer across the table, voice bright with sudden familiarity. “Me and Severus are friends too!”

Aurora’s fingers tightened nervously around the edge of the table. Her shoulders bunched up slightly, betraying her discomfort. “Well,” she fumbled, glancing down at her lap, “I wouldn’t go as far as to say me and him are—” 

Charity cut in effortlessly, tilting her head sympathetically. “Oh, please, don’t be modest! I’m sure he likes you more than you think. He’s just… you know.” She made a vague, swirling gesture with her hand, as if trying to describe a particularly complicated potion. “He’s not exactly the easiest person to read.”

Aurora opened her mouth. “Well—”

“I mean,” Charity went on, looking utterly delighted with herself, “I would consider myself his closest friend, and I still don’t know if he likes me half the time.” She let out a soft, exaggerated sigh. “It’s like playing chess with a sphinx.”

Aurora made a soft noise that might have been a laugh. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear nervously. “He’s—just a little reserved, I think.”

“Reserved?” Charity gave her a look like she’d just suggested the sun was a little warm. “Come on.”

Aurora hesitated. “I—”

“He’s so prickly, isn’t he?” Charity said, cutting her off with a shake of her head, her tone half in disbelief, half affectionate. “Honestly. Like, one wrong word and he looks at you like he’s about to hex you into next week.” She rolled her eyes, smiling as if she were fond of it somehow. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, he’s brilliant— but sometimes it’s like talking to a cactus.”

Aurora let out a soft, startled laugh, covering her mouth quickly as if she hadn’t meant to. Charity seized on it immediately.

“Right?” Charity grinned, widening her eyes dramatically. “It’s like—you say good morning and he acts like you’ve insulted his entire lineage.”

Aurora hesitated, then—very quietly—she said, “I guess he does get a little…tetchy sometimes.”

“There it is!” Charity cried, laughing, like they’d just cracked some grand secret between them. “Tetchy! Exactly!”

Aurora smiled—small, reluctant, but genuine—and for the first time, her shoulders relaxed.

And Charity, smiling sweetly, just kept the conversation rolling—because now the door was open.

Charity sobered herself up a bit—physically shaking her head, as if knocking all the bright, easy laughter out of it. She let her smile dim, just enough to look a little rueful.

“It’s like no matter what you say with him,” she said, her voice lighter but edged now with something real, “somehow you’ll always end up managing to say the wrong thing.”

Aurora was quiet at that.

Not awkward, not embarrassed—just thoughtful, the way a girl does when she’s weighing whether or not there’s anything useful to say at all.

In the end, she added nothing.

A girl who knew how to mind her own business. Charity grinned to herself.

“Me and him got into a row again,” she said, letting the words fall a little heavier than before.

Silence followed.

Not a polite pause—silence, thick and dragging, the kind that stretched out just long enough to make Charity shift slightly in her chair.

Another beat, and she was already bracing herself to prompt the conversation along again, mouth halfway open—

—when finally, Aurora spoke.

“The scarf?” she asked, careful, like she wasn’t sure if she was stepping into something she wasn’t meant to be a part of.

It hit Charity like sunrise—like walking out of a dark room straight into light so bright it burned the backs of her eyes.

She blinked once, twice.

“He told you about the scarf?” she asked slowly.

Aurora immediately shook both hands, flustered. “Everyone in the castle’s heard about it,” she said hurriedly.

“But he told you something,” Charity pushed, voice careful, like she was trying not to spook her.

Aurora hesitated—she looked like she was about to refuse, even parted her lips for it—but then, like most people do when a girl as pretty as Charity Burbage asks them a question, she folded.

“A little,” Aurora admitted, her voice so low it was almost a whisper. “Not much.”

Before they could fall back into silence, Charity broke it.

“Well?” Charity pressed when Aurora didn’t elaborate, leaning closer over the table, her voice low and insistent. “Spit it out.”

Aurora blinked at her, confusion knitting her brow. “What?”

Charity caught herself a little too late, backpedaling with a little toss of her hair. “I mean—what did he say? From his perspective.”

Aurora sat back slightly, the polite mask sliding over her face so seamlessly it almost impressed Charity.

“I don’t think it’s really my place to say,” Aurora said, voice gentle, almost apologetic.

It annoyed Charity more than she cared to admit. She fought the urge to roll her eyes, smoothing her expression back into something sweet.

Without thinking, she reached across the table and grasped Aurora’s hand.

Aurora flinched—barely, just the tiniest instinctive jerk—and it startled Charity more than it should have.

Wait.

Did Aurora not like her?

Charity stilled for a second, watching Aurora closer now.

A tilt of the shoulders, the sudden tension in her wrist, the quick blink as if bracing for something.

Look, Charity wasn’t naïve, no matter how much she played the part. She was blonde, skinny, and pretty—she knew better than to assume everyone liked her.

But Aurora?

She hadn’t pegged her as the type. Not at all.

Regardless, Charity squeezed Aurora’s hand lightly, anchoring herself back into the moment.

“Look, Aurora,” she said, and gently took Aurora’s hand in both of hers, warm and deliberate.

Aurora seemed to take a breath in, shoulders lifting and falling, before she gave a small nod.

“Yes,” Aurora said, looking at her properly now. “Of course.”

Charity inhaled through her nose, trying to figure out how to say it without sounding pathetic or crazy.

Finally, she just said it.

“I like Severus,” she admitted, the words falling out quieter than she intended.

Silence.

“Oh,” Aurora said.

It wasn’t a big sound. It wasn’t anything at all, really—just a soft, almost imperceptible noise, as if something inside her had quietly folded in on itself.

Charity barely noticed at first, too wrapped up in the swell of nerves filling her chest.

“And if there’s one thing I hate most,” Charity said, trying for a lightness that didn’t quite land, “it’s when we fight.”

Aurora nodded, but she wasn’t really looking at Charity anymore.

Her gaze had gone soft and unfocused, fixed somewhere on the table between them, as if listening only out of politeness rather than any real understanding.

Charity pressed on anyway.

“Look, I made a big mistake,” she said, her voice tightening. “But I don’t even know what I did wrong. He won’t tell me, and I—”

Some of the gloss peeled away. Frustration bled through.

“If someone would just spell it out for me, then I could fix it, couldn’t I?” she groaned, throwing her hands up slightly. “I mean, come on—he’s supposed to be smart! You’d think that would come with some emotional intelligence, but no, he’s got the emotional regulation of a bloody teaspoon.”

Charity exhaled hard, feeling like she was venting into a vacuum.

When she glanced at Aurora again, she found the other girl sitting very still, hands folded neatly in her lap, the same polite expression on her face—but her mouth was just a little too tight, her eyes a little too far away.

“You’re the only other person he talks to,” Charity said, softer now.

The words hung there, dangling between them like bait on a hook.

Aurora blinked slowly, the silence stretching between them. Then, after a long, careful moment, she said, “I’m not sure how you want me to help.”

Charity tilted her head, shaking it as she pursed her lips. Her shiny hair fell forward as she spoke again.

“Just—” she said simply, like it was the easiest thing in the world. “Tell me what he said.”

Aurora let out a little breath, barely more than a whisper of sound. Her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her sleeve, then, without a word, she reached down and pulled a book out of the satchel by her side, setting it carefully on the table between them.

Charity watched her, heart beating a little faster, waiting.

Aurora cleared her throat, the sound delicate, as she thumbed the old book open with careful fingers. Her nails were short, neatly trimmed, the pages whispering as she flipped through them. The book was clearly beloved—worn leather binding, thin sheets softened by time and touch.

She stopped on a page, pressing it flat with the heel of her hand. Her fingers hovered lightly over a hand-drawn map of a distant galaxy, the ink faint but still glimmering in the candlelight.

“In astronomy,” Aurora said quietly, her voice steady even as she tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, “there’s this star, in the Eridanus Cluster.”

Her finger tapped gently against the page, tracing an unseen path.

“It’s… big. Bright. Beautiful, even. So beautiful it doesn’t realize the way its gravity pulls and bends everything around it. It shines so fiercely that sometimes, the smaller stars nearby lose their shape. They stretch too much. They break apart.”

Charity stared at her, the words curling slowly, uncomfortably, in her chest.

Aurora turned another page, not looking up. Her voice stayed soft, like she was just talking about facts, not about anything personal at all.

“It doesn’t mean to,” Aurora went on, turning the page slowly, “but its pull distorts everything near it. It drags smaller stars out of their orbits. Warps planets until they don’t know where they’re spinning anymore.”

Aurora paused there, hands flattening the next page with a kind of reverence, her head bowed so Charity couldn’t read her expression.

The candlelight flickered.

She finally looked up, meeting Charity’s gaze—but there was no accusation in it. Just a simple kind of honesty.

Charity blinked, her face twisting slightly in confusion.

“What?” she said.

Aurora only gave a faint smile and lowered her eyes again.

Charity sat back a little, frowning.

That hadn’t answered her question at all. If anything, it left her even more lost.

The seconds stretched out.

Charity crossed her arms. “What does that have to do with anything?”

Aurora only shrugged a little, polite but distant, like maybe it hadn’t meant anything at all.

Charity narrowed her eyes slightly. She hated riddles. She hated when people made her work for things she was asking nicely for.

Still—Aurora wasn’t Severus. Charity could tell she wasn’t trying to be difficult just for the sake of it.

Maybe she was just shy. Weird. Quiet. Charity could work with that.

She leaned forward again, tapping her manicured nails lightly against the table.

“Well, that was… inspiring,” Charity said dryly, cocking her head, “but not super helpful.”

Aurora didn’t answer. She just looked back down at the book, hands smoothing the page like she hadn’t heard anything at all.

Aurora’s fingers stilled on the page.

She let a moment pass, the weight of it settling in the space between them.

Then, softly:

“But the thing about stars is,” she said, voice still even, “they can change.”

Charity straightened slightly, intrigued despite herself.

Aurora glanced up, her eyes flickering over Charity’s face before she looked back down again, like it was easier to keep her words directed at the paper.

“If it notices what it’s doing. If it chooses to.”

Her thumb pressed lightly against the image of the star.

“It can burn just a little less bright. Just enough to let the others breathe. To find their own way again.”

A pause. Aurora’s mouth pressed together, like she was tasting the words before she let them out.

“The star’s still beautiful. It doesn’t lose anything by being kinder.”

She sat back slowly, closing the book with a soft, final thud.

Charity frowned again, her nails tapping restlessly against her elbow where her arms were crossed.

“So,” she said, the edge in her voice mostly hidden, “you’re saying I have to, what, dim myself down?”

Aurora didn’t answer right away.

She just gave a tiny shrug, her shoulders lifting almost imperceptibly, as if to say: you asked.

Charity exhaled, frustrated, watching Aurora carefully.

Charity gave a short, humorless laugh.

“Why would I dim myself down just to make a man feel better about himself?” she said, flipping her hair back over her shoulder.

Aurora didn’t answer at first.

She only tilted her head slightly, studying Charity in that quiet, unassuming way of hers—It made Charity’s skin itch a little.

“I mean seriously,” Charity pressed, arms crossing tighter. “That sounds bloody backward, doesn’t it?”

Aurora tapped her fingers lightly on the cover of her book, as if thinking. Then she looked up, her dark eyes steady, reflecting the moonlight.

“In some systems,” she said,“there are binary stars. Two stars caught in each other’s gravity, spiraling closer and closer together.”

Charity lifted a brow, saying nothing.

“If the stars are roughly the same mass,” Aurora went on, voice smoothing out into the easy rhythm of someone explaining something she truly loved, “they can reach a stable orbit. They balance each other. But if one is too strong… or if they refuse to adjust for each other…” Aurora tilted her hand, mimicking an explosion with her fingers. “They tear each other apart. They collapse into something uglier. A nova. A black hole.”

Charity stared, arms still crossed, but her fingers were now drumming a little faster against her side.

Aurora offered a small shrug.

“It’s not about one star being better than the other, or one dimming itself to make room,” she said gently. “It’s about whether they can learn how to move together. Or if they destroy each other trying to shine harder.”

Charity sat back a little, chewing the inside of her cheek.

“…Right,” Charity said at last, voice a little too bright. “And if they don’t figure it out, kaboom, yeah?”

Aurora only nodded, fingers smoothing the book’s spine, her gaze lowering again to the table between them.

Charity let out a soft laugh and leaned back in her seat, offering Aurora a dazzling, grateful smile — the kind of smile that had gotten her out of countless detentions and earned her free drinks at pubs she wasn’t even supposed to be old enough to enter.

“Thank you, Aurora,” she said warmly. “Really. You’ve been… super helpful.”

Aurora smiled back, a little shy, smoothing invisible creases in the corner of the book with her thumb.

Charity kept smiling even as she stood, even as she gave Aurora’s hand a parting, gentle squeeze.

And even as she turned away, inside she was already rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle she didn’t trip on the bloody carpet.

What a waste of her fucking time.

All that cryptic, starry-eyed drivel just to tell her… what, that she needed to play nice? Adjust herself? Not be so brilliant just to make someone else feel secure?

Please. She might still have a lot of learning about the mystery that was Severus Snape, but playing a docile yes-man seemed far from something the Slytherin would likely appreciate.

Still, Charity kept her smile intact as she slipped back out of the Ravenclaw common room.

“I’m an asshole.”

Severus froze.

In the short, harrowing two months he had had the distinct displeasure of being acquainted with Charity Burbage, he had been subjected to a vast and colorful array of her excuses. He had weathered her entire arsenal: the faux-contrite non-apologies, the undermining dressed up as jokes, the endless, merciless badgering whenever he didn’t respond quickly enough for her liking.

There had been whining, bargaining, backhanded compliments, flattery so clumsy it might as well have been an insult—and, of course, plain and simple harassment.

Severus had endured it all until, like an exhausted referee in a boxing ring, he had finally thrown in the towel.

But never—not once—had Charity Burbage ever insulted herself.

Not even a little.

Not even in jest.

It was the only reason he was shocked into stopping, halfway through brushing past her on the stairs down to the dungeons.

He turned his head, slow and suspicious, to see her standing there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, face strangely serious for once.

She wasn’t smiling. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t performing.

She just stood there, staring at the stones under her shoes, looking—for the first time he could remember—like she actually meant it.

Severus said nothing at first.

He simply stood there, watching her—this girl—with her perfectly styled, glinting blonde hair, not a strand out of place despite the humidity that clung to the lower corridors. Her pristine black Mary Janes, caught the torchlight and gleamed with a polish so sharp it almost hurt to look at. Even now, with her arms folded tight and her mouth a taut, unhappy line, she looked more like a picture torn out of a magazine than a real person.

The silence stretched between them, long and strangely weighty.

It wasn’t the kind of silence Severus was used to with her—the heated, barbed sort that usually vibrated with tension, waiting to snap.

This was different.

It was thick and almost… waiting.

For once, Charity didn’t seem to have anything else to say.

And Severus, who lived most of his life fighting to not fill silences, still found himself clearing his throat.

Finally, with all the grace of someone volunteering to poke a sleeping dragon, he said,

“Well?”

Charity blinked at him, her lashes fluttering like she was pulling herself out of a daze.

“That’s… all I’ve got, really,” she said.

Severus rolled his eyes.

“I’m leaving,” he said flatly, already turning.

“Wait!” Charity blurted out, rushing forward half a step, the heels of her Mary Janes clacking against the stone floor.

Severus twisted back toward her, giving a long-suffering sigh.

“Oh, what?” he said, his voice sharp and exhausted, as if every second he spent here was some great, burdensome charity he was performing for her.

Charity ran her fingers through her hair—a nervous, almost frantic gesture, something Severus had never seen her do before.

For a moment, his brain snagged on it, puzzled. Where had she picked up that habit? It didn’t suit her at all—too uncontrolled, too human.

Without thinking, Severus raised his own hand and filed his fingers back through his lank black hair, sighing under his breath, as if trying to steady himself against the chaos.

“Look, Burbage,” he said finally, his voice low and clipped. “If you think the reason I’m not speaking to you is because I’m fishing for an apology, let me give you some advice: clack those little Janes of yours back to whatever burrow you crawled out of before you make this worse for everyone involved.”

“All right, just give me a minute!” Charity snapped, hands flailing a bit as she stepped toward him.

“You’ve wasted eight,” Severus said without missing a beat, eyes narrowed.

Charity shrieked.

It wasn’t a dignified sound. It wasn’t measured or practiced. It erupted from her like steam from a broken kettle—high-pitched and furious, enough to send a flock of birds scattering from the castle roof.

Severus immediately took a panicked step back. Then another. Then three more—until there were ten feet of stone and air between them. His head whipped around to make sure no one had seen. The last thing he needed was to be associated with this level of drama, much less blamed for it.

Charity, for her part, looked the picture of a girl completely coming undone: glossy blonde hair slightly mussed from her earlier gesture, cheeks flushed, fists clenched like she was ready to punch the sky itself. Her Mary Janes sparkled accusingly under the torchlight.

“I like you, okay?” she shouted.

Silence.

Not the calm kind. Not the peaceful kind.

It was the kind of silence that dropped like a lead weight in a deep lake—rippling out with the force of a bomb.

The horror that bloomed on Severus’s face was immediate and visceral: mouth parted slightly in shock, eyebrows knitting with revulsion and confusion, as if he’d just been told the castle was on fire and also, he was the match. His eyes darted left and right, like he was actively scanning for an escape route.

Charity saw it.

Saw all of it.

“Ew, as if,” she said, shuddering so hard her shoulders trembled. “I didn’t mean it like that, and you know it.”

“Why say it like that, then?” Severus gagged, actually taking another step back like she might explode on him.

“Because!” Charity snapped. “If you can’t tell, I’m a bit fried up and upset and—!”

She took in a sharp breath, steadying herself, shoulders lifting, then falling slowly.

Charity exhaled, a little shaky now. “I just mean… you’re my best friend, alright?”

The words weren’t even loud. They didn’t need to be.

They were soft, barely above a whisper. But they struck with the weight of a church bell tolling midnight—clear, resonant, impossible to ignore.

Severus froze.

At first, he didn’t even register it. His expression didn’t change. But inside—inside, it was like everything around him dropped into slow motion. Time didn’t stop; it bent. Warped. His heart didn’t race. It pulsed once—hard, like it had struck a wall and didn’t know how to keep going.

Best friend?

His eyes flicked over her, searching her face for sarcasm, for mockery, for some trace of a joke. There wasn’t one. She was just standing there, still a little breathless, pink in the face and sincere, brushing hair out of her eyes like she hadn’t just upended the whole world.

Best friend?

He blinked once.

Then again.

A third time, slower, because his brain was buffering.

Best friend.

He didn’t know what to do with that. The phrase didn’t fit anywhere in the filing cabinet of his mind. It sat too brightly on his shoulders, the way a borrowed cloak never settled quite right. Friend, sure—though even that had always been tentative, a category he was allowed to hover near but not actually touch. But best?

That was… unprecedented.

Growing up, people had always treated him like an optional part of the room. The kind of person whose name got mispronounced during roll call. Who got talked over without noticing until the second hour had passed. The one teachers praised with a hint of worry behind their eyes and classmates kept a comfortable three feet away from. It wasn’t hatred—at least not all the time. Just avoidance. Dismissal. His quietness was unnerving. His intensity a little too sharp around the edges. He didn’t know the rules of conversation the way everyone else did—when to smile, when to nod, when to back off. Sometimes he stayed too long. Sometimes he said too much. Sometimes he didn’t say anything at all, and that was even worse.

He had learned, after a while, to be useful instead. To be clever, and quick, and needed—but never exactly wanted.

So to hear this, now—

To  hear this girl—this maddening, shrieking, exhausting, relentlessly sparkling girl—declare it without flinching, without apology, without hesitation…

Like it was obvious. Like it wasn’t a wild, foreign, off-script thing to declare.

His mind struggled to keep pace with it. With her.

He didn’t know what to do with it.

He didn’t have a place to put it.

His hands hung stiffly at his sides, fingers twitching slightly, as though reaching for a wand, or a shield, or maybe just something to anchor him to the moment.

He could barely even hear what she was saying anymore. Her voice was still moving—something about how she hated the fighting, how everything she did came out wrong when she cared too much—but it was like the sound was being funneled through water. All of it felt odd, like walking into a room where the furniture had been rearranged just slightly—just enough to knock your hip against the corner of a table you swore wasn’t there yesterday.

The word friend hovered in the air like a scent.

Best friend pressed against his chest like a bruise.

Severus didn’t know what expression to wear. He didn’t know how to hold his face. The part of him that would usually fire back with something sarcastic or sharp had gone eerily quiet, like even it was unsure what the hell was happening.

And so he stood there.

Still.

Speechless.

While Charity kept talking like she hadn’t just lobbed a live wire straight into his ribs.

She called him her best friend.

And he—

He didn’t know how to exist inside that sentence.

“Stop talking,” Severus said.

Or—at least, he thinks that’s what he said. It came out quieter than intended, like the words snagged on the way out, too soft to be threatening and too hoarse to be commanding.

Charity didn’t stop. She kept going, plowing ahead with whatever string of over-explaining or joking or emotionally charged scrambling she was doing.

“Stop talking,” Severus repeated, louder this time, but still barely cutting through her.

And she still didn’t stop.

She wouldn’t. She never did.

“Stop,” Severus said again—firmly this time, and finally, she did.

The sudden silence rang in his ears like a slap.

He realized he was burning.

His face felt hot—not warm, not flushed, but hot. His ears were on fire, the kind of heat that curled behind the cartilage and pulsed like a heartbeat. The back of his neck prickled with it. Even the bridge of his nose felt sharp with blood rushing beneath the skin. It wasn’t embarrassment exactly—not entirely. It was panic. Overwhelm. A tidal wave of feeling pressed too tight behind his ribcage.

His body didn’t feel like his anymore. It felt like something on the edge of combustion.

“Severus?” Charity asked, voice soft now. “What—”

He ran.

It wasn’t a stumble, or a trip, or a flustered backpedal. It was a surprisingly smooth movement, legs slicing cleanly across the corridor like he’d planned it—like he was simply choosing to be elsewhere.

A very graceful thing, he thought grimly, even as he fled like a bloody coward.

And then he turned the corner, vanished from view, and disappeared.

Severus slammed the door so hard behind him that for a split second, he was certain it might come clean off the hinges.

Or maybe it was him that had come unhinged.

His chest heaved. His heart was a cannon going off inside his ribs. The echo of the door cracked against the stone walls like thunder, and the sound lingered in the room like smoke.

He leaned back against the door, breathing hard. The adrenaline hadn’t worn off yet. It had nowhere to go. It was just sitting inside him, electric and trapped, like a storm bottled behind his bones.

He didn’t notice, at first, that he wasn’t alone. It took a full, heavy minute of silence before the soft sound of a towel shifting caught his attention. He looked up just in time to see Mulciber stepping out of their shared bathroom, shirtless, hair wet and curling at the edges. There was a faint scent of steam and cedar soap trailing behind him—probably from post-Quidditch practice, if the bruising on his collarbone was anything to go by.

Mulciber quirked a brow, pausing mid-step as he took in Severus frozen by the door like a frightened deer.

The embarrassment came on fast. Immediate. Crushing.

It flooded Severus so completely he didn’t even know where his body was meant to hold all of it. There wasn’t space. His chest was tight, his mouth was dry, and most horrifying of all, he could feel the burn crawl up the sides of his face like wildfire. His ears, traitorous things, went scarlet with heat.

No. No no no.

Severus didn’t move from the door—he couldn’t. He didn’t trust himself to. One step and he might trip over his own shame. So instead, he did the only thing he could: he reached up and dragged the dark curtain of his hair forward, tucking it over his ears as subtly as possible.

It didn’t work.

Mulciber’s eyes tracked the movement. Those sharp amber eyes followed the shift, noting the careful way Severus tried to hide. And then they slid right back to meet Severus’s.

Severus held still, like that might undo the last ten seconds.

“Snape,” Mulciber said, voice calm and even—cordial, even, in a way Severus didn’t have the capacity to process right now. “I was just looking to talk to you.”

“What?” Severus croaked.

The word came out smaller than he meant it to. Not nearly enough venom. Not nearly enough edge. His mind was still scrambled. He could barely line up the words in his head, let alone bite someone with them.

He needed a minute. He needed ten.

But Mulciber was already speaking again.

“I wanted to apologize.”

Severus blinked. 

Oh fuck. 

Not this again.

But before he could say anything, Mulciber stepped forward and held something out to him.

A box.

Severus, unthinking, reached out and took it—because of course he did—and by the time he realized what had happened, he was standing there with it in his hands, as if it were something he’d asked for.

He looked down at it, heart still pounding.

Mulciber was still watching him, and Severus wasn’t sure if he wanted to fling the box across the room or clutch it to his chest like a life preserver.

It wasn't too heavy—something polished and neatly wrapped. His fingers curled around it instinctively, his mind still splintered and vibrating from the last ten minutes of his life. 

He didn’t meet Mulciber’s gaze. But Mulciber was watching him anyway, eyes like amber glass, sharp and unreadable as they flicked from Severus’s hands, to the flush spreading up his neck, and then back again.

“Snape,” he said again, quieter this time. “You alright?”

But Severus didn’t answer. He didn’t move from the door.

Severus didn’t move to open the box.

It rested in his hands like a question he hadn’t studied for. The paper was smooth, wrapped with a kind of care that suggested premeditation—intent. The corners were crisp. Tidy. Like Mulciber had taken the time to get it right.

But Severus just stood there, unmoving. Mind spinning.

Because what was inside didn’t matter. Not yet.

The words Charity had said were still reverberating in his skull like church bells. 

You’re my best friend.

Best friend.

They rang over and over—too large, too echoing, too bright for the small, echoless room he lived in. The syllables pressed up against the inside of his head, rattled around like birds at a window, wanting out. And he didn’t know what to do with them. Because they didn’t make sense. Because they did.

I need your help, she’d said.

And then— Set me up with Mulciber.

That was when his brain tripped.

Severus blinked slowly, the corners of his vision warping, his focus tightening into a pinpoint. His gaze dropped to the box in his hands. 

His thoughts twisted, then twirled. Danced. Folded in on themselves.

He could connect the dots.

He could see it: Charity, teary-eyed and flushed with emotion, telling him he was her best friend—because she wanted something. Because she always wanted something. 

Severus felt the last click of understanding slot into place.

And he looked up.

Mulciber was still watching him, a quiet question lingering behind the shape of his brow. His amber eyes—still amber, still not brown, and Severus still hadn’t gotten used to that—met his own.

That amber had struck Severus once before, out in the halls when they’d bumped into each other, when the sunlight had hit them just right, and Severus had thought, oh. And it had never un-thought itself since.

Water droplets still clung to Mulciber’s dark skin, scattered along the broad line of his shoulders and collarbones. Some trailed down the hollow of his throat like tiny rivers, and Severus tried not to track their paths. His hair was damp too, coiled hair curling just slightly, pushed back off his forehead.

Severus forced himself to breathe, and then he spoke.

“I’ll forgive you,” he said, lifting the box slightly as if to acknowledge it, “but not because of this.”

Mulciber furrowed his brows. 

There was a beat.

Then—

“What do you need?” Mulciber asked.

And Severus, swallowing everything, nodded once—calmly, as though it hadn’t cost him something to do it.

He spoke aloud, plain and even.

“I need a favor.”

But inside his mind, the motion had already been set like clockwork.

He was going to set Mulciber up with Charity Burbage. 

Chapter Text

NEVER IN SEVERUS’S life would he have seen himself voluntarily walking toward the Hufflepuff table, but here he was.

The Great Hall was steeped in golden morning light, the high windows filtering in warmth that did nothing to touch the tension bristling under Severus’s skin. Platters of food hovered lazily over the four long tables: toast stacked in crisscrossed piles, eggs glistening with just a little too much grease, porridge simmering in silver bowls with curled spoons resting inside. Owls swooped in overhead, dropping letters and packages that drew delighted gasps or groans of dread. The hum of morning conversation bounced off the stone walls—laughter, gossip, the clatter of cutlery, and the occasional bark of a Prefect enforcing order. It was ordinary. And Severus despised it.

He stalked past the Slytherin table without glancing sideways, his pace clipped, his robes whispering at his ankles. The moment felt wrong—like walking into a dream that someone else had started without him. He kept his eyes sharp, mouth set, and gaze locked forward.

There she was.

Charity Burbage, seated in the middle of the Hufflepuff table like a sun around which her little solar system revolved. Students leaned in towards her like flowers craning for light, hanging off her every sugar-laced word. Her laughter was loud, bright, and too precise. The kind of laugh that was rehearsed in mirrors. Her hair was done in glossy waves that definitely weren’t regulation, and her tie was loosened just enough to look casual and effortless. There were three people on either side of her—some first-year looking up at her like she was a goddess, a sixth-year boy who couldn’t stop grinning every time she looked in his direction, and another girl doing everything in her power to mirror Charity’s body language.

Severus didn’t hesitate.

He moved across the room, ignoring the buzz that followed him. People noticed. They always did. Slytherins didn’t mix. And Severus Snape didn’t do mornings, didn’t do casual strolls, didn’t approach people without a purpose sharp enough to draw blood.

He reached the table.

“—all I said was that if she can’t charm her eyebrows right, she really shouldn’t try—” Charity was saying, a spoon hovering delicately in her fingers, her wrist bent just so.

He reached across the bench. Without a word of warning, he grabbed her wrist.

Charity jolted, the spoon clattering to her plate. Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide with genuine surprise.

“What—?” she gasped, too startled to twist out of his grip.

“Get up,” Severus said, voice low and flat.

It wasn’t a question.

Around them, the table went still. Her little court stared in stunned silence—no one ever touched Charity Burbage like that, not without permission, not without consequences.

She looked down at his hand, then back at his face, confused. “Severus, what on—?”

“Now.”

There was something in his eyes—something tight, brittle—not aimed at her, exactly, but not missing her either.

She hesitated.

And then, slowly, she pushed back her bench and stood.

And she followed him.

Severus didn’t slow.

Once Charity stood, he pulled her forward, fingers still curled around her wrist—not rough, but unyielding. The sharp clack of her heels against stone followed him as he moved, his pace sharp and clipped. She didn’t protest. Not really. Just kept close, caught off guard enough to be quiet for once.

Still, after a few steps, her voice rose behind him. “What—?”

“Be quiet,” Severus said without turning.

The words cut the air clean.

They moved through the scattered crowd at the edge of the Hall. Students stepped aside instinctively, sensing the tension crackling between them like static. The warmth and noise of the room seemed to fall away as they neared the great double doors—towering oak things edged in iron, yawning open onto the corridor beyond.

And then Severus stopped—because he hit something.

Someone.

He stumbled a step back, and his hand twitched.

Mulciber stood in front of him.

He stood there as though he’d been waiting, though that wasn’t possible. His brow was already furrowed, annoyance plain across his face as he looked up from where Severus had nearly walked straight into his chest. There was no time to sidestep, no time to brace—just a sudden jolt of collision, fabric brushing fabric.

Mulciber blinked.

He looked down first—at Severus, at the sharp lines of his face, at the way his brow was creased in irritation.

Then he looked lower. At Severus’s hand.

Still wrapped tightly around Charity Burbage’s wrist.

And then his gaze slid sideways, to Charity herself—wide-eyed, golden-haired, a little breathless.

Mulciber’s frown deepened. No, not a frown. His mouth just… tilted downwards. Barely. Like gravity had tugged at it differently than the rest of his face. Like something in him had registered a note too off-key to ignore.

Severus followed his gaze and finally looked down.

He was still holding her.

His fingers were tight around the small bones of her wrist, thumb pressed just below the hinge of her hand. His skin against hers. And suddenly, it felt absurd. Like waking up from a dream in the middle of a word.

His grip loosened.

He turned his face to the side, jaw stiff.

Severus didn’t speak again until the moment threatened to settle.

He stood stiffly, his eyes fixed somewhere past Mulciber’s shoulder, jaw set tight enough to ache. His hand hung by his side now, cold from where it had just been gripping Charity’s skin, his fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do without purpose.

Then, quietly, almost like the words had to crawl up his throat—

“Come on,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait to see if she would. Just turned as he started down the corridor. But after a heartbeat, there was the soft sound of shoes against stone and Charity followed.

The alcove was narrow, stone-walled, and half-concealed behind a tapestry bearing the faded crest of some long-dead house no one bothered to remember. It was quiet here, save for the low hum of magic in the walls and the faint echo of footsteps from the distant hall. Severus had stopped walking only when the shadows swallowed them whole.

He stood with his back to her at first, the dark silhouette of his body outlined against the faint spill of torchlight from beyond the tapestry. Shoulders hunched. Head slightly bowed, like he regretted bringing her at all but was too far in to back out.

Then—“Tell me what you want,” he said.

Charity blinked, her breath still catching.

“…What?”

Severus turned. His face was hard to read in the dim light—sharp angles and cooler shadows. His expression didn’t shift much, but his eyes… there was something flickering there. Controlled. Calculated.

“You’re the one who pulled me out of the Hall—” she started, scoffing like she couldn’t believe this was happening. “If you’ve gone completely mad, maybe wait until after I’ve had breakfast before—”

“With Mulciber.”

That stopped her.

Just two words. Heavy. Measured. Laid out like a test she hadn’t studied for.

Charity stilled. Her brows twitched slightly, a slow, confused furrow forming between them as her eyes searched his face for a hint of humor—something to disarm the tension.

“…What?”

Severus didn’t flinch. “Are you deaf?” he said, frown deepening like the problem here was her hearing and not the utter absurdity of his suggestion.

“You’re—” She started to say something, then stopped. Tried again. “You’re going to set me up?” Her voice cracked slightly, the words tilting into something breathless. “With Mulciber?”

Her mouth parted—then hung open, suspended on the edge of disbelief. She looked at Severus like he’d just spoken in a completely different language mid-sentence. She was stuck in the kind of wild, disoriented pause people made when the ground shifted under their feet.

“You can’t be serious,” she said. “That’s—are you joking—?”

But Severus didn’t move. Didn’t answer. His face remained blank, impassive, except for the tiniest twitch at the corner of his jaw. Like he was bracing for something.

There was a beat.

A pause thick enough to stretch.

Then—

“Oh my God.”

Charity squealed.

Actually squealed, like someone had just told her she’d won a lifetime supply of sugar quills and Saturdays. It echoed off the stone walls, high and delighted, and Severus physically winced.

“You’re not joking.” Her hands flew up to her mouth, eyes blown wide with wonder. “You’re not joking. Oh my God,you’re actually serious—Severus Snape—you—setting me up—with Mulciber?! Bruce Mulciber?!”

She looked like she might levitate.

“I thought you hated me,” she gasped, as if remembering. “After what happened at the start of year? And then again with your cloak—which, for the record, wasn’t entirely my fault—and then the library thing—and—and the scarf—I—I thought you’d never speak to me again, let alone—”

She launched forward in a blur of motion.

Severus immediately stepped back, hand raised like she was a hex he didn’t have time to block.

“Don’t you dare,” he snapped.

Charity swerved at the last second with an unhinged little laugh, veering instead to grab his hands—both of them—in her warm, sugar-sticky fingers. “Oh my God,” she said again, absolutely beaming, “you’re the best. I can’t believe this. This is like—like getting kissed by destiny and slapped by fate at the same time—”

She spun his hands in a giddy little circle, twirling their fingers together like this was a joyous square dance and not Severus’s personal nightmare.

He stood completely still. Rigid. Like a statue caught in the act of glitching.

Her hands were everywhere. Not in a chaotic way—no, she was annoyingly graceful even now—but in the worst possible way. Like she didn’t understand that physical contact was his version of a full-body Unforgivable. Her fingers curled around his wrists, her palms brushed his knuckles, her thumb—Merlin help him—was stroking the back of his hand like he might vanish if she let go.

And then—just as he was planning how to subtly combust on the spot—

She hugged him.

Fully. Arms-around-neck, cheek-to-shoulder, full-body contact.

Severus froze.

His brain short-circuited.

He didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. His hands dangled uselessly at his sides like they’d been excommunicated from the rest of his nervous system. His entire spine locked up, posture iron-rod straight, like if he held still enough, maybe this moment would pass through him like a ghost and leave nothing behind.

But it didn’t. Charity gave him one last squeeze, like she meant it. Like she liked him.

And then she pulled back, smiling.

Severus still hadn’t moved.

He looked… disoriented. Glitchy. Like the entire framework of his day had been yanked sideways and replaced with something soft and scented like strawberry shampoo. His mouth opened, but no sound came out. His hands twitched at his sides, like they were trying to report back to command but had lost the frequency.

“I’m going to be sick,” he said faintly.

Charity laughed brightly.

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

Severus exhaled sharply the moment she let go, immediately stepping back and brushing down the front of his robes like he could scrub the physical memory of her off his uniform. He adjusted his collar, yanked his sleeves straight, and flicked imaginary lint from his lapel like a man trying to restore order after being struck by a natural disaster.

Meanwhile, Charity was bouncing.

Actually bouncing—on the balls of her feet, hands fluttering around her like excited birds. “I can’t believe this,” she kept repeating. “I can’t believe this. Severus Snape, setting me up. With Mulciber. Bruce Mulciber! You’re—” She pressed her fists to her chest like she might actually burst from joy. “You’re the bestest friend ever. Is this why people have friends? Best friends? Is this what it feels like?”

She twirled in place.

“I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone the way I love you right now.”

Severus went very still, eyes narrowing as if expecting some kind of emotional bomb to go off.

And then—Charity stopped.

Mid-spin. Mid-breath.

Eyes wide. Expression frozen in dawning, horrifying realization.

“…Oh my God.”

Severus’s shoulders drew up immediately, suspicion flaring in his posture. “What,” he said warily, like the word itself was a defense spell.

Charity turned to him, mouth agape. “I have to teach you everything.”

There was a pause.

“…What?” Severus said again, blinking like he hadn’t understood the language.

“You’re shit at talking to people,” Charity blurted, eyes going wide as if this were the worst thing she’d ever discovered. “Oh my God, I have to fix this.”

Severus recoiled, his expression flattening. “As if you’re any better—”

But before he could finish, she yanked him forward by the arm with alarming speed and zero regard for personal space.

“Follow me,” she said, already dragging him toward the light.

Severus stumbled half a step, scowled, tried to dig in his heels—but she was stronger than she looked, and there was glittering conviction in her grip. It wasn’t just physical—it was momentum. Charity Burbage had decided something, and reality was now expected to adjust accordingly.

“I’m going to fix you,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. “We’re starting with eye contact and literally anything resembling tone modulation—Jesus, you’re like a haunted filing cabinet—”

Severus dug his heels in.

“Burbage, wait—”

But she didn’t even hear him. Or maybe she just chose not to.

“This is my life, Severus!” she wailed, throwing an arm out dramatically like they were on a stage. “Do you understand what you’ve done? You’ve changed my everything! You can’t just drop Mulciber on me like this and expect me to function—”

“I didn’t drop anyone—”

“I need to be ready!” she steamrolled on, whirling to face him, walking backwards now with theatrical flair, “This could be the beginning of my entire future! I need to map out the next ten years immediately. This could be the man I marry. The father of my children, Severus!”

Severus blinked. “What?”

She clutched his arm again, eyes sparkling with existential panic. “I mean, not immediately, obviously. We’re still in school. But eventually! This could be my epic romance, my life-defining relationship arc! The one I cry about in interviews and write about in the acknowledgements of my memoir! And you—” she poked him in the chest, eyes wide, “—you are the inciting incident. You’re the Meet Cute Catalyst! Do you even get how important that is?”

Severus stared at her like she’d started speaking in tongues. “…What?”

“I need to manufacture this correctly,” she muttered, now pacing, one hand pressed to her forehead like a war general making battlefield calculations. “There has to be tension. Longing. A perfect slow burn—OH! We need stakes. Something tragic. A secret! Or family disapproval!”

“I think you’ve had a concussion,” Severus said flatly.

Charity spun back toward him, deadly serious. “Do you want our relationship to fail, Severus?”

“Our relationship—?”

“Me and Mulciber, obviously,” she said, as if he were the one being insane. “Honestly, if I don’t micromanage this, I’ll end up in some tragic midlife relationship I settled for with a half-hearted cursebreaker named Alexander or something, and that’s your fault.”

Severus was just standing there now, hands slightly lifted, like he’d tried to interrupt but forgot how to speak. His face was somewhere between confusion, horror, and the dawning understanding that he may never escape this conversation.

“…What,” he said again. Blankly. With feeling.

Charity clapped once, decisive. “Okay. Lesson one: social etiquette for people who look like they eat sadness for breakfast. You need to learn how to deliver a line without sounding like you want the floor to swallow you.”

“I do want the floor to swallow me,” Severus muttered.

“See? That’s the energy problem. We’ll fix it.”

And she grabbed his wrist again, dragging him down the corridor like this was her personal romcom boot camp and he was her unwilling, emotionally repressed project.

Severus let out a strangled sound that might’ve once been a sigh. “I’m never going to recover from this.”

“Exactly,” Charity chirped, “that’s how all great love stories begin.”

“I don’t understand,” Severus breathed, slow and low, like the words were being dragged out of him against their will.

His temples throbbed. He wasn’t sure if it was the headache that had been building steadily for the last forty-eight minutes of Charity’s elaborate exposition, or the fact that he was currently seated in what could only be described as a shrine to chaos and color. Most of it pink. So much pink. An assault of blush, coral, rose, cotton candy, bubblegum, flamingo, and fuchsia. He’d never known there were this many variations of a single hue.

How could a Hufflepuff not have a single trace of yellow in her room?

The walls were plastered with magazine pages—glossy spreads of muggle editorials, moving images of witchwear models, and muggle actors caught mid-laugh. There were racks and piles and actual mountains of clothing—some folded, some draped like casualties of war across every surface. Shoes lined the baseboards with no apparent system, and half of them had price tags still dangling from the laces. A stack of muggle and witch editions was arranged by month on one side of the bed, and what looked suspiciously like a dead plant rested in a crystal vase near the window.

And yet—there was one corner of the room that was pristine. A bar fixed to the wall, a full-length mirror charmed with a glowing enchantment that shimmered gently with magic, and a pair of worn-down pointe shoes tucked carefully beneath a bench. Leotards hung neatly, folded with reverence. It didn’t match the rest of the chaos—but it made sense. She was always twirling around in the Archives instead of serving her detentions. She seemed to like it. Was somewhat good at it as well.

Severus sat hunched in her desk chair, its pink velvet cushion doing nothing to improve his posture or mood. His long black skirt looked like a smear of soot against all the pastels. He didn’t belong here. Not even by accident.

“What’s there not to understand?” Charity huffed, pacing in front of him, hands flying as she spoke like a general planning a military offensive with scented parchment and lip gloss.

“Everything,” Severus replied dryly.

Charity stopped. Stared at him like he’d just confessed to not knowing how to breathe.

“It’s so easy!” she exclaimed, beginning to pace again. “Step one: befriend Mulciber. Not in a fake way, but just enough to be credible. People are more open to influence when it comes from someone they trust, you know? It’s like—you’re a Trojan horse, but instead of soldiers, you’re full of compliments about me.”

Severus blinked.

“Step two: learn everything you can about him. His schedule, his opinions, his allergies, his taste in music, how he feels about owls versus cats—everything. Because then,” she spun toward him dramatically, “I’ll already be predisposed to liking the things he likes. Compatibility is a constructed illusion, Severus. This is psychology.”

“Or stalking.”

“Semantics,” she said, waving him off. “Step three: toss the Charity crumbs. Something subtle. Something that makes me a topic in his mind. A passing comment—‘Oh, you and Charity have the same opinion on blah blah blah,’ or, ‘You should see Charity’s etcetera etcetera ,’—anything. It’s subliminal suggestion. It’s you planting the idea of me so that when he finally sees me, I’ve already been pre-approved by his own subconscious.”

Severus looked vaguely nauseated.

“And then—” she took a breath like she was saving the best for last, “step four: the introduction. A casual, coincidental, nonchalant encounter in which you, my new Mulciber-expert best friend, bump him into me, your devastatingly gorgeous best friend—” she pointed at herself grandly “—and you say, ‘Oh, you two haven’t officially met? Charity, this is Mulciber. Mulciber, Charity.’ And then—” she clapped her hands together, like it was divine intervention, “I take it from there.”

She beamed. Glowing. Triumphant. Like she’d just solved world hunger and improved your skin.

“It’s four steps!” she declared, like that somehow made this sane.

There was a long pause.

Severus stared at her.

“It’s manipulation,” he said, voice dry and low. “Manipulation so elaborate it would impress even the devil.”

Charity blinked, then smiled sweetly. “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Well, it sounded like one,” she said brightly, collapsing onto her bed in a flounce of skirts and pillows.

Severus rubbed his temple. “I don’t understand.”

“Oh my god—”

Tap. Tap. Tap.

They both turned at once, heads swiveling toward the sound.

The window.

Charity’s eyes lit up. “*Oh thank god,” she breathed, already crossing the room with renewed purpose, like the universe had finally delivered her a lifeline.

She unlatched the window, and a soft gust of morning air drifted in. An owl glided through, wings whispering against the curtains before it landed daintily on the edge of her vanity.

It was small, rounded, and perfectly fluffy—a vision in white and soft grey, its feathers so plush it looked less like a bird and more like an enchanted pillow. Its eyes were gently shut in a content expression, its face drawn into a serene little smirk, as though sleep still lingered in its bones. It looked like it had been pulled from a dream and dropped directly into the madness of Charity’s bedroom.

It came with a box tied to one leg.

Charity let out a squeal of joy and dropped to the floor, snatching the box with both hands like it contained answers to every life question she’d ever had. She didn’t even glance at the owl. “Finally!” she gasped. “It’s here, it’s here, it’s HERE—”

She sat cross-legged on the carpet, tearing into the packaging with manic energy, bits of ribbon and tissue flying.

The owl blinked slowly.

Then turned its head.

And looked directly at Severus.

Severus looked back.

He wasn’t particularly fond of owls. Not since second year—when he had been doused in rat oil and locked overnight in the Owlery. He still had the faint scars along his wrists from trying to claw his way out. He wasn’t afraid of birds, but since then, birds had been… not friends.

But this one didn’t move. It just stared at him, half-lidded, feathers fluffed, exuding a level of silent exasperation that Severus found strangely familiar.

For a moment, they regarded each other—mutual bystanders to the radiant hurricane that was Charity Burbage.

The owl gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod toward a jar sitting on the shelf beside Severus.

A clear jar of owl treats.

Severus turned his head, then looked back at the bird.

“…Seriously?” he muttered.

The owl didn’t respond. It simply waited, dignified and still.

With a resigned sigh, Severus reached for the jar, unscrewed the lid, and plucked out a small, dried morsel. He hesitated when the owl stepped forward, talons shifting on the vanity’s surface, feathers twitching.

Severus tensed instinctively, years of poorly-healed trauma bristling at the edge of his nerves.

But the owl paused.

Then, respectfully, stepped back.

Severus narrowed his eyes slightly. Then tossed the treat with a flick of his fingers.

The owl chirped—a soft, pleased sound—and snapped the snack out of the air with the practiced ease of a veteran messenger.

Severus leaned back in his seat, mildly startled.

The owl fluffed its feathers again and settled in like a judge who had been appeased.

On the floor, Charity let out a delighted scream.

“Finally!” Charity gasped, tearing away the last bit of tissue paper with manic glee. “My brother finally got me the new issues—look—Couture London, Drape, and ICON ‘76! Ugh, I thought my brother forgot to send them again.”

Severus looked at the owl.

The owl looked at him.

They both seemed to sigh.

Severus blinked, slowly leaning forward as she unfurled a stack of glossy magazines like sacred relics.

They weren’t wizarding prints. Not by a long shot.

These were Muggle magazines.

And they were… stunning. Not that he’d say it. Not that he’d even admit to thinking it.

The covers were thick and shiny, printed in striking, saturated tones. Dramatic lighting, angular faces, shadows and gloss. One woman wore a blazer with oversized lapels and no shirt beneath it. Another cover was just a close-up of a sequined shoe crushing a rose. Headlines in bold serif fonts bled across the page: MODERN RITUALS. POWER IN PEARLS. THE YEAR OF REVOLT IN DRESS.

He’d never seen anything like them.

Of course, Severus hadn’t grown up with anything like this. Not in the narrow, grimy streets of Spinner’s End. The only publications he’d seen as a child were the outdated Newsletters his father used to wad up and throw across the room after a rage or to roll into a cigarette. Even if he had encountered a Muggle magazine, something this lavish, this utterly unnecessary, would have struck him as incomprehensible. Why would anyone with barely enough money to feed themselves spend it on pages of cloth and posture?

“…Muggle magazines?” he asked, voice laced with skepticism.

“Don’t be judgmental,” Charity said automatically, not looking up as she spread the magazines out on the floor like tarot cards. “You’re a half-blood.”

Then she paused.

“…Well, I guess you weren’t Muggle-raised.”

Severus didn’t respond.

Charity didn’t press. Instead, she picked up one of the magazines and held it out like a professor unveiling a textbook. “Witch fashion magazines are so boring. No offense. But they’re all the same. Robes, robes, robes. Maybe a cloak with a new type of clasp if they’re feeling bold. It’s like they’re stuck in the same aesthetic century after century. No evolution. No point of view. Just the same stitched tradition repackaged with fancier stitching.”

Severus gave her a look that was half-blank, half-dismissive. “And the Muggle world is what? A revolutionary think tank?”

Charity didn’t even blink. “Yes. Especially in fashion. Look—fashion is basically history in motion.”

Severus blinked, taken off guard by the certainty in her tone.

Charity plopped back on her elbows, flipping one of the magazines open to a spread of women in trench coats striding down a rain-slicked street. “Every outfit is a reaction. Think about it. The war starts, and suddenly women are dressing like soldiers—structure, shoulders, combat boots. Then the sixties hit, and bam—everyone wants freedom. Hair gets long, skirts get shorter, everything’s loose and experimental. That’s not just fabric, that’s philosophy.”

Severus tilted his head slightly, watching her. Quiet. Not because he agreed—but because he hadn’t thought of it like that.

“And now,” she continued, flipping to a page with earthy tones and harsh collars, “we’re post-counterculture. People are disillusioned, tired. But they still want to look cool. So what happens? Everything gets harder. Cleaner. Sharper. Power dressing. Fashion’s just politics you can wear.”

She tilted her head toward Severus without looking away from the page. “Even your skirt is political.”

“No,” Severus said quickly, eyes flicking down. “It’s not.”

The truth was simpler—painfully so. The only reason he wore his uniform the way he did was because he couldn’t afford new robes tailored at Madam Malkin’s. And even if he could, he outgrew them faster than he could justify the expense. His mother had worn her Hogwarts uniform into threadbare decades; she’d kept it perfectly preserved from the 1940s like it was some kind of relic. But Severus had no relics, only hand-me-downs and whatever he hadn’t destroyed in summer growth spurts.

Under outer robes, it was all passable—mostly. The skirt hardly looked like one covered by a robe. But since Mulciber still hadn’t returned his cloak, his clothes were exposed in all their outdated, ill-fitted awkwardness. And the skirt—cut too long, clearly transfigured from a girl’s, not quite male, not quite current—it stood out.

But since Hogwarts didn’t have any rules against skirts for boys, he wasn’t breaking any code. It just meant he was subject to the quiet or overt mockery of nearly everyone around him.

“You’re a boy,” Charity said, eyes still on the page, “wearing a skirt.”

He didn’t reply. He didn’t flinch either.

“You know what that does?” she went on, thoughtful now. “It breaks visual grammar. People see you, and they can’t immediately categorize you. You’re not offering them the standard cues—robes, trousers, cloak cut to fit. So they have to pause. Recalculate. And for a lot of people, that’s confusing.”

He still said nothing. Charity sat forward, eyes narrowing slightly, as if she were laying out a case in debate club.

“That’s political whether you mean it or not,” she went on, her tone more curious than cruel. “Because people like conformity. It soothes them. It tells them they’re doing life right. And then there’s you, stepping outside the default. ”

“It’s just a uniform,” Severus muttered.

Charity’s smile was faint. “Nothing is just anything. You’re in a system. A hierarchy. A school where clothes are supposed to erase difference, but they never really do. Everyone’s still sorting each other—by blood status, house, accent, tailoring. Even the way your robe fades makes a kind of argument. You think you’re invisible, but the fact that you’re not trying to assimilate makes you hyper-visible.”

She leaned back, flipping another page. The model here wore a jacket like armor.

“There are two kinds of political statements,” she said. “The kind you choose. And the kind that get assigned to you. What you’re doing? That’s both. You didn’t pick it, but you’re still living it. Refusing to apologize for being inconvenient to look at—that’s a position. Quite the radical one, at that.”

He looked away, jaw set.

Charity shrugged, almost fond. “I’m not saying you’re trying to change the world. Just that you make people uncomfortable just by existing the way you do. That’s…admirable, really. I like that about you.”

She turned the page again. Something with shoulder pads and cinched waists.

Severus looked at the page. Then back at her. He was much more uncomfortable than he would say. “…You get all that from looking at shoes?”

Charity let a smile spread on her lips, lifting her head up to wink at him. “My dad was a politician.”

And for a brief second, Severus didn’t know what to say. So he stared. Because why was Charity like this? Supposedly loud, distracted, infuriating, only to shift her gear to show the cracks of what she seemed to not want to show anyone—clear and focused and knowledgeable.

It was the duality of her, he supposed. He just couldn’t wrap his head around why she chose to act ditzy as a coverup.

Charity caught him staring and grinned.

“Told you you needed to learn things.”

Charity was still flipping through the magazine, legs splayed on the floor, mumbling about page layouts and typeface fonts when, without looking, she reached into the opened box beside her and tossed something at Severus.

He caught it instantly—reflexes quick, precise—fingers snapping around it mid-air with an almost startling ease.

It crinkled in his palm.

Severus frowned faintly and turned his hands over to look.

A small packet.

Bright colors. Glossy paper. Unmistakable.

Spangles.

The candy’s cheerful wrapper gleamed softly in the dim dormitory light—blue, red, and yellow like it had never known poverty. Fruit chews, square and hard-edged, wrapped in colors that had always looked more like dreams than reality. He hadn’t seen one in years.

Something in Severus’s expression shifted.The faintest sparkle caught in his eyes—not joy, exactly, but recognition.

His mind flickered.

He remembered standing in line with his mother at a shop on the better side of town. One of the rare days when she’d tried to pretend things were normal—when they’d taken the longer walk into a place where no one knew their name. Severus had stood there, skinny and small, watching the candy shelves while his mum counted coins behind him. The Spangles had been right there. Glowing. Glossy. Safe.

The ad said: Ten flavors. Endless joy.

They’d left with a loaf of bread and a carton of milk.

That was all they could afford.

Later, when he was older, when his magic had settled hard and sharp in his bones, Severus had learned to use it wandlessly—quiet things, sharp things. He’d taught himself how to pull an apple from a stall, to open a lock with a blink. It wasn’t about stealing. Not really. It was about surviving. Vegetables. Bread. Oil. A head of cabbage. A tin of oats. A bottle of milk when the one they had spoiled too soon. Things they needed.

He’d only taken sweets once. Maybe twice.

But Spangles?

He remembered the taste.

It had been good.

It had tasted like childhood—only sweeter, because it didn’t belong to him.

“Bouncing frogs and jelly that makes your ears explode are fun and all,” Charity said suddenly, still flipping pages, “but I think a good old-fashioned sweet is best.”

Severus didn’t answer.

He stared at the packet in his hand.

The wrapper soft between his fingers. The quiet between them not awkward this time. Just… settled.

Something like warmth began to unfurl in his chest, slow and uncertain.

And maybe—maybe—just for a moment—he let it.

“Is this a bribe?” Severus asked slowly, still holding the packet in his hands like it might combust.

Charity laughed, rolling her eyes. “If I were bribing you, I’d be far less subtle.”

She reached over and dragged the box toward him, lifting the lid with a dramatic flourish.

Inside was a small treasure hoard of neatly arranged, vividly wrapped Muggle sweets. Severus leaned forward in spite of himself.

There were Curly Wurlys stacked like flattened golden ladders. Sherbet Fountains, their yellow paper tubes barely containing the chaos inside. Fruit Salads and Black Jacks, packed in pastel pink and purple wrappers. Texan bars, Caramac, Refreshers, Bazooka Joe gum with comics folded inside. And Flying Saucers, delicate as communion wafers, filled with sour powder that exploded on your tongue.

Severus eyed them all, his expression unreadable.

“We’re best friends,” Charity said, smiling. “What’s mine is yours.”

Silence.

It lasted for four beats.

He turned to her slowly, sharp-eyed. “Do you mean that?”

She gave him a look—wide-eyed, incredulous, like the question itself offended her. “Well, it’s not like I can finish all this by myself. I’ve been on a strict diet since I was eight.”

She pointed at her ballet slippers.

Severus’s brow furrowed. He glanced at her sharply, something like concern flickering in his gaze, but he didn’t say anything. He looked back down at the sweets instead.

Charity went quiet.

She watched him a moment, flipping a page of her magazine absently—but she wasn’t reading anymore.

“…I mean it,” she said.

Severus’s eyes lifted again, slower this time.

Charity wasn’t smiling anymore. Her tone had changed—softer, more deliberate. She reached for a Fruit Salad, turning it over in her fingers.

“I shouldn’t have said that thing about the scarf,” she added, not looking at him. “It’s value mattered more because I gave it to you. Not because of what it cost.”

Severus blinked.

The words sank in slowly.

He hadn’t expected that—hadn’t expected her to reflect it back at him with such clarity. Such… thorough analysis. It left him a little off-balance. Now that she’d said it that way, with so little pretense, Severus suddenly felt less like some wounded, brooding martyr and more like a particularly over dramatic slob.

“…Nobody gives a rat’s arse about that damned scarf,” he muttered.

Charity grinned.

But she didn’t say anything.

There was no smugness to her smile, no triumph. Just quiet understanding, a kind of shared language neither of them were used to speaking.

Severus scowled lightly and looked away, as if that would somehow erase the moment.

“We’re not friends,” he said under his breath.

“Right,” Charity said brightly, popping a Curly Wurly into her mouth. “Because we’re best friends.”

Severus rolled his eyes.

But he didn’t correct her.

Severus had eaten the first Spangle like it might vanish the moment he blinked. He unwrapped it with careful fingers, methodical, cautious. The candy was sticky and square, a stubborn burst of artificial pineapple that lingered on the tongue long after it was gone.

He didn’t expect to reach for another.

But he did.

And then another.

At some point—he wasn’t sure when, and that bothered him—he’d left the pink chair and joined Charity on the floor. Maybe it was the aching in his knees, or maybe it was the quiet comfort of not sitting above someone for once, but he’d slid down and crossed his legs beside her. The open box of sweets sat between them like a peace offering, and she had handed it over with a quiet kind of satisfaction. He didn’t thank her. She didn’t ask him to.

Now, with his back against her bed, Severus chewed lazily on a Curly Wurly, caramel sticking to his teeth as he watched her sift through the magazines. She had at least five open at once, a self-inking quill hovering beside her as she made tiny, looping notes in a notebook labeled “Future Acquisitions”. As if that were a normal thing to label a notebook.

She circled boots. Annotated patterns. Muttered about sleeve length and seasonal palettes like she was diagnosing an illness. Severus occasionally glanced over just to confirm that, yes, she was still a ridiculous person.

Pretentious rich people.

But still—he didn’t leave.

He shifted a little, stretching his legs out in front of him, the candy warming in his palm. The room was strangely quiet, filled with only the sound of turning pages, scribbled ink, and his own slow chewing. And for a moment—just a moment—he thought maybe this wasn’t the worst way to waste an afternoon.

Then Charity went still.

Her quill stopped mid-air.

Severus looked up. “…What?”

She didn’t answer at first. Just stared down at the magazine like it had whispered a secret.

Then she said, slowly, “Aurora.”

His heart gave a hard, inexplicable kick against his ribs.

Severus immediately scowled. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!”

“I’m not letting you set me up with her.”

Charity threw her hands up. “But she likes you!”

“No, she does not.”

“She does!” Charity insisted, twisting to face him. “Severus, how many people in this entire castle have you managed to have even a cordial conversation with?”

“That doesn’t constitute romantic affection,” he shot back, brows furrowed.

“She’s always the one starting conversations with you,” Charity continued, undeterred. “She chooses to sit next to you in Astronomy. You talk about stars and books and you’re both obsessive about charts. That proves you have, like, a lot in common—”

“How do you even know that?” Severus demanded, more sharply than he meant.

Charity gave a breezy shrug. “I have eyes everywhere.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“That’s not the point!” she said, pushing herself up onto her knees. “The point is that she likes you. And even if she doesn’t—”

“N—” Severus cut in, tripping over the word before he could catch it. He sighed, “Burbage, you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Charity tilted her head at him, eyes narrowing, sensing something raw beneath the edge of his tone.

Then, softly: “You like her.”

Severus’s spine stiffened. He didn’t answer. His jaw clenched. His fingers crumpled the Curly Wurly wrapper in his hand.

There had been peace. They had been sitting in silence. He’d eaten sweets. She’d stopped speaking for more than five seconds. He had almost—almost—been enjoying himself. He didn’t like her. But he could have, given enough time. Given a world where she didn’t open her mouth and fling chaos across every moment like confetti.

“Why do you always have to ruin everything?” he snapped suddenly, his voice low and sharp.

Charity blinked. Not hurt—just surprised.

“Fucking Christ,” Severus muttered, looking away.

“I am trying to help you,” Charity said, holding her ground, standing now as Severus moved stiffly to pull on his shoes.

“Don’t,” he said, reaching for his book bag.

“Just listen to me,” she tried again. “I set you up, you set me up. That’s the deal.”

“I’m leaving.”

“Think about it!” she called as he slung the strap of his bag over his shoulder. “It’s a perfect way for you to learn how it works on the forefront! You want to know how people operate? How attraction functions? You’re a Slytherin, Severus, this is just chess!”

Severus paused at the door.

Charity had stood up too, pacing, half-dramatic and wholly determined, arms gesturing like she was conducting an orchestra only she could hear.

“Look, it’s the perfect opportunity for you to observe me in action. To learn how this works. You’re always trying to analyze people from a distance, right? Well now you get front-row seats! You get to see how I work my magic in real time.”

Severus stared at her blankly, standing now, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against her wardrobe like he was trying not to physically recoil.

“I’m not watching you ‘work your magic.’ You make it sound like a circus act.”

She rolled her eyes. “It’s strategy, Severus. And think about it—if we set each other up, it’s not weird! It’s seamless. We casually introduce Aurora and Mulciber to each other. ‘Oh, Mulciber, this is my gorgeous, glowing best friend, Charity. Charity, this is Mulciber, my emotionally stunted but secretly tender dormmate.’ Then *bam—*you and I fade into the background. But then, switch—plot twist—it’s actually you and Aurora, and me and Mulciber. And no one suspects a thing.”

Severus looked at her like she’d grown a second head. “That’s not seamless. That’s sociopathic.”

“It’s efficient!” she declared.

“I’m not doing this,” Severus said flatly, reaching for his bag again. “I want no part of your romantic con.”

Charity groaned. “God! It’s not like I’m asking you to get married! It’s just a setup with someone you like!”

“I don’t like—”

“And even if—*if!—*you go on one date and you don’t like her, you can just do what normal people do and let it go! You stay friends! It’s literally the most harmless thing you could do. Think of it as just…” she waved her hand vaguely, “getting to know her as a friend if that makes it easier for your emotionally constipated brain!”

Severus’s voice cut through her babble like a wand slicing parchment. “Goodbye.”

He turned, yanked the door open, and stepped out into the Hufflepuff common room.

Soft golden light greeted him, cast by round windows and plush yellow upholstery. Several Hufflepuff students were scattered about—chatting, studying, laughing. They all froze as Severus Snape of all people emerged from the girls’ side of their dormitory like some gangly shadow expelled from sunlight.

Then Charity burst out after him.

“Wait! Just—just hear me out!”

He rolled his eyes as she grabbed onto his arm—too brightly, too familiarly—and the room collectively stared.

He’d made peace with it, at some point. Charity Burbage was just… a touchy person. Clingy. Dramatic. One of those people who seemed to think physical contact was a love language and a punctuation mark. It explained the constant stream of rumors. The whispers. The misunderstandings.

It didn’t make it any less annoying.

They walked down the corridor outside the common room, her hand still looped through his elbow, tugging every so often for emphasis.

“Just consider it!” she chirped.

“No.”

“You’re so stubborn!”

“You’re so loud.”

She tugged on his sleeve again. “Don’t you want to understand people better?”

“I already understand them. They’re stupid.”

“Don’t you want to experience new things?”

“No.”

She paused. “Don’t you want to kiss someone?”

Severus stopped walking.

Turned his head slowly to look at her.

“Don’t you have detention?”

Charity grimaced. “Yes, but this is more important.”

He resumed walking.

She skipped to keep pace.

“Just think about it!” she called again, triumphant and breathless.

He didn’t answer.

They had barely made it halfway down the corridor when disaster struck.

As if Severus’s night hadn’t already sunk to new, saccharine depths—his fingers still faintly sticky from Curly Wurly caramel, Charity’s perfume still clouding his senses, and the memory of pink satin walls haunting his peripheral vision—fate decided to twist the knife.

There she was.

Aurora.

She was rounding the far end of the corridor, framed in the glow of a wall torch, clutching a stack of Astronomy textbooks against her hip. Her skin was soft brown and warm in the light, her cloudy hair pulled back in a loose twist. Her eyes—doe-like and wide, the color of molasses—blinked in that slow, thoughtful way that always made it seem like she was mid-dream or mid-theorem, never quite tethered to the present.

Severus didn’t even breathe.

He barely got a glimpse—barely caught the outline of her silhouette and the curve of her smile as she glanced up—

—and he turned on his heel so fast it was almost impressive.

Charity yelped as he slammed into her shoulder.

“Ow!” she cried, stumbling back, loud enough to echo.

Loud enough to draw every available eye in the corridor.

Specifically, Aurora’s.

Severus kept walking.

Fast. Brisk. As if walking fast enough would peel back the reality of the past thirty seconds and delete it from memory.

Behind him, Charity was not so subtle.

“Severus!” she shouted after him, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “What the f—”

And then—

“Severus?”

Her voice was soft.

Aurora’s.

It floated behind him like something delicate, easily broken.

Severus froze mid-step.

His spine went rigid. His fingers curled. Every ounce of flight instinct screamed for him to keep moving.

But his name—from her—had never sounded quite like that before.

He closed his eyes.

Because of course she had seen him.

Because of course Charity had to scream.

Because of course the universe hated him.

Charity, meanwhile, was already turning around with her most radiant smile. “Hi, Aurora!” she called, cheerful as sin. “Aren't you pretty tonight.”

Aurora flushed.

A light pink bloomed across her cheeks at Charity’s compliment, and she shifted the textbooks in her arms, fingers fidgeting against their spines. “Thank you,” she murmured, barely above a whisper.

Charity’s grin widened, knowing exactly the effect she was having. “It’s awfully late to be wandering the halls, isn’t it? What are you doing out?”

Aurora brightened a little, hugging her books closer. “Astronomy class starts at midnight,” she said, “when the stars are at their highest point. Visibility and alignment are best around that time.”

Charity nodded, all exaggerated interest. “Fascinating.”

Severus didn’t even have to look at her to know she was enjoying this. The precise way her voice tilted, how long she held eye contact—he knew she was only pretending to be interested in star patterns for the sake of ruining his life.

Aurora smiled. “I was actually just coming back from Professor Woolworth’s office.”

Charity tilted her head. “Why’s that?”

Severus wanted to drag her away.

Aurora didn’t seem fazed. “Astronomy NEWTs are usually taken in pairs. It’s dangerous to study under certain astrological influences alone—when tracking planetary shifts or mapping active alignments, exposure to higher concentrations of magical energy can cause sensory disorientation, spatial confusion, even temporary memory fractures. At least during eclipses or significant conjunctions.”

Charity blinked. “I thought you guys just looked at stars.”

Aurora laughed, soft and unoffended. “Sometimes, that’s all there is to it. Yes.”

Then, as if pulled by gravity, her gaze drifted to Severus.

She sobered slightly. Her fingers tightened around her books.

“Well,” she began carefully, “I went to Professor Woolworth to ask if…” she hesitated, glancing between Severus and Charity, her voice softening with each word, “if I could nominate Severus as my partner for the NEWTs.”

The world tilted.

Severus stopped breathing.

Charity blinked once, then her face split into a grin so wide Severus wanted to hex it off.

But Severus—

He didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Didn’t think.

His brain had short-circuited somewhere between “partner” and “nominate.” He hadn’t even known she thought of him that way—that she considered him a viable academic equal, let alone someone she’d choose over the other star-charts-and-telescope freaks in their year. He’d assumed—well, he hadn’t thought. Because he didn’t let himself.

Aurora seemed to sense the sudden shift. Her smile faltered just a little, eyes darting between them.

“I just—” she tried again, “we work well together. And earning top marks on the NEWTs is nonnegotiable for me. I assume it’s the same for you—”

“And it is!” Charity jumped in. “You and Severus would work so well together—”

Severus shot her a glare. She wasn’t talking about the project, and they both knew it.

Aurora looked hopeful—nervous, but hopeful—until her gaze dropped slightly and she added, “Well… the only thing is… I just found out that…he dropped out this morning.”

The smile on Charity’s face stiffened. “And isn’t that wonderful—wait. Dropped out?”

Her head whipped toward Severus, her brow furrowing in alarmed confusion.

“You dropped out?”

Aurora’s brows pinched, clearly confused by Charity’s reaction.

Then her eyes widened. “Oh—Merlin,” she whispered, horrified. “Was I not supposed to know that? I shouldn’t have—” Her gaze flicked nervously between Severus and Charity. “I’m so sorry—I thought it was common knowledge, I wouldn’t have said anything if—”

“You’re fine,” Severus said quickly, cutting her off, his voice low but certain.

Aurora faltered, lips parted in apology she never got to finish.

Then Severus turned to Charity.

His jaw tightened. “You need to go.”

Charity blinked, stepping closer. “What does she mean you dropped out of Astronomy?” she whispered sharply, confusion clear in her tone. “I mean, I’ve always been shocked you could juggle fourteen classes and still somehow outscore everyone. But quitting? A class you’re brilliant at? Why would you—”

“I don’t really owe you an explanation, Goldilocks, so shove off,” Severus muttered under his breath, cold and clipped.

Charity recoiled slightly, her brows lifting—not hurt, exactly, but irritated. Her frown deepened and she rolled her eyes hard enough it was practically audible.

“Fine,” she whispered tightly, lifting her chin.

But she didn’t walk away just yet. Not entirely. Just shifted her weight, lips pursed, gaze flicking once between Severus and Aurora before she crossed her arms and stared resolutely at a sconce on the wall like it had personally offended her.

The tension between the three of them hovered, sharp and uneven, like a paper cut no one wanted to admit to having.

Severus sighed, dragging a hand down his face, fingers catching briefly in his hair before he exhaled again—longer this time, quieter.

Without a word, he pulled Charity aside, steering her a few paces down the corridor where they could murmur without being overheard. Another sigh slipped from him, softer now, more like resignation than irritation.

“I’m switching out of Astronomy,” he whispered.

Charity blinked, clearly still halfway bristling from earlier. “What?”

“I’m switching,” Severus repeated, more evenly, “into Flying.”

Charity furrowed her brows. “What?”

“It’s the only class I’ll have with Mulciber that won’t require me to insult my intelligence just to be near him,” Severus said flatly.

Charity blinked again—and then understanding flickered in her eyes like the moment a spell caught flame. “Oh…”

Severus gave a curt nod. “You asked me to get close to him, didn’t you?”

Her face softened slightly, lips parting as if to say something—but before she could, Severus gently nudged her toward the opposite end of the corridor.

“Go to detention.”

She hesitated for a beat, then gave him a skeptical look. “You know, for someone who claims to hate me, you sure like doing me favors.”

“I’m regretting it by the second.”

But there wasn’t bite in it.

She rolled her eyes again but turned and walked away without another word.

Severus watched her go, then turned back.

Aurora was still there—awkwardly standing near the wall, shifting her books slightly like she didn’t know whether to stay or flee. The torchlight bathed her in amber glow, catching the soft sheen of her skin, the silver ring glinting on her thumb.

He walked toward her slowly.

Neither of them said anything at first.

The silence stretched—not uncomfortable exactly, just wide. Unfilled.

Severus wasn’t sure how to start. He wasn’t sure what to say. He never was.

But, as always, Aurora came to his rescue.

“Hi,” she said gently.

“Hi,” Severus echoed.

She smiled. Her brown skin glowed warm under the flame’s flicker. Her eyes sparkled—soft, bright, and just a little bit mischievous.

“Are you sure the rumors about you two are unfounded?” she asked, tone light but teasing.

Severus grimaced, shoulders sagging. He shook his head slowly, like a man asked to relive a nightmare.

“Spare me,” he said, voice dry and tired.

Aurora laughed—a light sound, delicate and airy like wind chimes caught in a passing breeze.

And somehow, with just that, Severus’s shoulders eased. His pulse quieted.

The tension he hadn’t even realized he was carrying slowly uncoiled in his chest.

They began walking, side by side, through the still corridor—toward the Astronomy Tower. Neither rushed to speak. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward now. It just… was. Comfortable. Familiar.

And for once, Severus didn’t feel the need to fill it.

They walked in silence.

The kind that stretched long and soft between two people who weren’t entirely sure what to say next. The stairwell curved beneath their steps, each floor growing quieter as the bustle of the castle fell behind.

Then Aurora spoke.

“You’re too brilliant to drop this class,” she said, her voice quiet but steady.

Severus didn’t react.

Not outwardly.

Instead, he said, “Afraid no one will be able to keep up with you anymore?”

Aurora let out a small laugh, shaking her head. “Hardly.”

They kept walking, the sound of their footsteps echoing gently down the stone corridor.

“Why are you dropping out?” she asked finally.

Severus pursed his lips, then replied, “I’ve developed a sudden interest in flying.”

That stopped her. She paused mid-step and turned to face him, brows furrowed.

Just then, two patrolling Prefects strolled past, wands glowing dimly at their sides. Severus instinctively stepped aside, letting them pass without a word.

Aurora watched him, her expression still dusted with confusion. “Flying?” she repeated, as if testing the word.

“I’ve always considered the value of engaging with something beyond the confines of academic comfort,” Severus said, slipping easily into practiced rhetoric. “Personal growth. Exposure therapy. That sort of thing.”

Aurora’s lips twitched. “So it’s not because you hate me?”

Severus blinked.

His entire posture stiffened. “H—what?”

Aurora burst into laughter at the expression on his face, light and melodic. “Sorry. I couldn’t help it. You looked like you were trying to physically will yourself out of existence.”

He grimaced, already regretting every decision he’d made today. But she sobered quickly.

“It’s just a shame,” she said. “Not having you in class anymore.”

Severus didn’t respond. He could feel the tips of his ears begin to flush, heat blooming sharp along the back of his neck.

Aurora smiled again, gentler this time. “I’m going to miss our chats,” she said. “They were one of the things I looked forward to every Friday night.”

Now his ears were burning—so red they ached. He yanked at the edges of his hair, trying to cover them instinctively.

“…Sorry,” Severus muttered.

Aurora turned toward him, brow furrowed slightly. “I didn’t bring it up to make you feel bad,” she said. “I just… realized how much I liked you. Now that we won’t be seeing each other as often.”

Liked him.

Liked him.

Severus’s ears rang.

She said it so plainly. No dramatic inflection. No flicker of embarrassment. Just honesty—earnest and open, like something she hadn’t even realized was there until she said it aloud.

And Severus—

He couldn’t look at her.

Because the truth was, he hadn’t had much of a choice.

His astronomy equipment was ancient. Secondhand. Outdated by nearly a decade. The telescope lenses were scratched, and half the gear still bore the initials of whichever cousin or pawn shop it had belonged to before his mother scavenged it from the surplus bin. His star charts were ink-faded and curling at the edges, the calibration spells unreliable at best.

He could try to make do. But NEWT-level Astronomy required precision—standardized tools, clean enchantments, calibrated readings. None of which his kit could provide.

He’d tried to explain that to Professor Woolworth. Or—rather—he said that he had “fallen out of sync with the curriculum,” because he still had too much pride to say I can’t afford this.

The school didn’t offer compensation for advanced class supplies.

So, he’d dropped the class.

He could’ve fought harder. Begged, maybe. But that would’ve meant admitting it. Saying it aloud.

Instead, he buried it.

Aurora’s voice had already drifted into silence beside him.

She liked him.

Logically, he told himself she meant it as a companion. A classmate. A partner who enjoyed their conversations and would miss their study sessions.

Logically, he understood that.

But it wasn’t her words that had his mind spiraling—it wasn’t what she said.

It was the sudden, traitorous thought that bloomed up from somewhere unguarded in him:

What if she meant it the other way?

And worse—

What if he wanted her to?

Severus gave a quick, subtle shake of his head, as if the motion alone could dislodge the thought before it rooted itself too deeply. Stupid. Ridiculous. Misguided.

They reached the narrow spiral staircase that led up to the Astronomy Tower. Moonlight filtered through the high windows in fractured angles, casting soft shadows across the cold stone floor.

But Aurora didn’t ascend.

She stopped just before the first step, hovering like she hadn’t yet decided whether to go up at all. Severus paused beside her, confused, but said nothing.

She was frowning faintly, lips pursed, eyes fixed on some invisible point in front of her. Thinking. Deciding.

Then she turned.

So quickly that Severus startled, jerking slightly as she whirled to face him.

And then—she launched into it. No preamble. No warning.

“You always kept your telescope angled wrong,” Aurora began, eyes narrowed, voice strangely fierce, “because the primary mirror housing on your reflector is cracked. It drags the image to the left. You had to manually compensate for it every single time.”

Severus blinked, stunned.

“And your lunar filter? It’s warped. One side of the glass is denser, so you always got that weird halo effect around bright stars—but somehow, you figured out how to use that to your advantage to track visual magnitude shifts faster than I could.”

She was getting heated now, hands moving as she spoke.

“Your star charts—those parchment ones? They’re from 1956. They don’t even account for the Taurus–Gemini drift post realignment. But you memorized the corrections. You corrected me during the equinox mapping exam.”

Severus opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Aurora kept going.

“Your orrery is missing the Saturn gear. Missing. I watched you draw orbital projections by hand, and they were more accurate than half the class’s calibrated conjured ones. You don’t even have an enchanted compass. You mark out azimuths with a charcoal pencil and your thumb.”

Severus was just staring at her now. Genuinely speechless.

Aurora’s voice dropped—not in volume, but in temperature. Not cold. Just serious.

“I understand why,” she said.

And something in the way she said it—soft, measured, acknowledging without pity—made his chest tighten like it had been cinched.

“But you’re too brilliant to drop this class.”

She didn’t wait for a response.

She turned back around and took the stairs—up, up into the dark tower, disappearing step by step under silver light.

Severus didn’t move.

He just stood there, on the threshold between shadow and stone, with her words still unraveling inside him like constellations he hadn’t meant to look at.

There had been something in the way Aurora acknowledged his brilliance that settled deep beneath Severus’s skin—quietly, irrevocably.

She hadn’t spoken with pity. There was no soft tilt to her head, no faltering in her tone, no desperate scramble to fix him. She didn’t wince when she said “I understand why,” didn’t offer a saccharine smile or a whispered, “there’s always a way,” as if hope alone could fund new equipment.

She hadn’t tried to hand him a solution wrapped in gold and charity, the way Charity always did—offering to buy the problem away, always too eager to fix everything with the weight of her family’s coin, as though generosity was the same as care.

Aurora didn’t do that.

She just saw him. The effort, the compensations, the damn cracked lens and outdated charts and his thumb-smudged azimuths—and still, she called him brilliant.

Not despite those things.

With them.

Severus stood still.

His chest tingled—lightly at first, then all at once, like the delicate crack of frost giving way to something alive beneath. Like a seed that had been buried for far too long finally breaching the surface, growing vines and branches that wound upward and outward, curling around his ribs. It wasn’t painful. Not exactly. But it filled the hollowness in his chest with something unfamiliar and tender.

He looked up.

Aurora was already making her way up the stairs, the flickering torchlight brushing over the curve of her cheek, glinting off her hair like dusk on lakewater. Her skin—soft brown and glowing—looked almost celestial against the sharp lines of her navy Ravenclaw robes. Her hair bounced gently with each step, a cloud of curls that caught and held the light as she moved higher, and higher still.

Then, just before she turned the bend near the top—she paused.

She turned.

And for a moment, Severus saw her fully.

Those soft eyes—warm and thoughtful and so terribly kind. Her mouth curled in a small, knowing smile. And then, without saying anything, she raised her hand in a gentle wave.

Severus’s breath caught.

And then she was gone.

The space where she had been was empty, but somehow the hallway felt full.

That was when it hit him.

The realization.

Like starlight refracting off glass.

He opened the door to the Archive just in time to see Charity mid-turn—her arms extended in a fluid arc, one foot snapping up into a passé before she launched herself into a controlled pirouette. Her skirt flared slightly with the motion, the toes of her slippers whispering against the stone floor as she turned twice—three times—before landing cleanly in fifth position, her heel kissing the arch of her opposite foot.

She stilled.

Her chest rose and fell with quiet effort, and as she turned to look at him, a single strand of hair slipped loose from her bun. It curved softly along her cheek, catching the light like a line drawn in gold.

“What?” Charity asked, her voice a little breathless, her brows lifting.

Severus opened his mouth.