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Chapter Text

Albus's thoughts drift back to the letter he had carefully pinned up four days prior, positioned in the exact same spot where the mysterious informant, V, had left the initial intel. It remains untouched, unread, and seemingly forgotten.

Lost in thought, Albus's fingers absently stroke his beard, his mind racing with possibilities. Perhaps, he ponders, V desired to witness tangible progress before establishing any connection. In any case, tomorrow's Prophet, with its front-page headline proclaiming Rookwood's arrest, should finally bring some long-awaited answers to the many questions that had been plaguing him.

The intelligence reports proved to be a bitter pill to swallow—Rookwood's spy network had indeed infiltrated the Ministry's highest echelons. It transpired that numerous Ministry officials, both old and new, were entangled in the web of deceit, either coerced by dark magic, intimidated by the implied threats of Greyback, or having made the deliberate choice to betray their colleagues.

Crouch had seemingly revelled in his ‘fighting fire with fire’ approach, gathering intelligence from the network and even detaining innocent Muggle-borns for further questioning. We need to pull those weeds, root and stem, he had proclaimed.

The whole ordeal was a disturbing reminder of the Ministry's vulnerability to the Dark Lord's influence.

Moody had been going over the office with a fine-tooth comb, leaving no stone unturned. He'd investigated every possible angle, from the owl potentially being charmed to move things an inch, to the strength of the owl itself. They'd even discussed the possibility of someone broom-riding in, or that the informant had a mole inside the school, someone with access to the password-protected door to his office. It was peculiar, to say the least, that the portraits of the former headmasters had failed to notice anything amiss.

Headmaster Phineas Black, however, was adamant that he had caught a glimpse of a shadowy figure lurking around the office, tampering with various items. The figure, according to Black, had seemingly materialised out of nowhere, much like a bird taking flight, or perhaps something bird-like. Needless to say, no one else corroborated his claims.

Undeterred, Albus had taken it upon himself to modify the ever-changing layout of the office, effectively stopping it from changing its location, much to Minerva's surprise.

He takes a sip of the pungent black tea, which is now pitifully tepid.

Professor Faucheux's normally rounded shoulders seem to sag under the weight of his indignation, his kettle-bellied figure quivering with rage. The silky, scraggly beard bristles with agitation, and the normal sardonic smirk has given way to a fierce scowl. His thin, handsome face has turned a deep shade of red, with blotchy patches of anger. "She's utterly disrespectful and irresponsible," he growls, his voice low and venomous, like a snake about to strike. "Thinks she can flout all the rules, and get away with it simply because she's had a taste of that semi-dark potion? She's milking it for all it's worth, the little...!" He seems on the brink of apoplexy, his anger boiling over like a cauldron about to overflow. "That...that detestable crow she insists on parading around? Did you hear its foul language? She's taught it to curse like a sailor, for Merlin's sake! It's an abomination, I tell you!"

“The crow is as sour-tempered as its owner,” agrees Slughorn plaintively.

Albus silently conjures a charm to warm the tea, and as the steam begins to float, he takes another sip, then he nods his head in appreciation.

Minerva's voice—curt and well-modulated—pulls him from his woolgathering as she rebukes the French professor. "I'm afraid Miss Snape's... behaviour isn't something she can control, Professor," she says, her tone as dry as the ancient tomes that lined the shelves of the castle's libraries. "I think we should grant her time for the potion's side effects to wear off." Her eyes wander to Horace, who sighs idly, his expression oddly contemplative. "Horace promised she'd get back to her old self; you know she was a well-behaved kid before... this mess."

Horace mutters under his breath. "I didn't anticipate the dose would be this potent, to be honest. I’m not sure anymore.”

Minerva's eyes flash with accusation. "What do you mean, Horace? You told me the girl would be back to normal in no time, that she'd shake off the effects of that potion."

Flat-footed, Horace's demeanour goes from contemplative to defensive in a heartbeat. He stammers, "She's fine; her memory's intact! It's just...ah...a bit...rusty, you know? The bottle was almost empty, just a millimetre or so left. The effects should wear off in three days, max, but Miss Snape's been...off, ever since." He looks at Minerva, his eyes darting about like a guilty conscience. "They should've received proper punishment; what if the Snapes enquired about their daughter's unusual behaviour?"

Politely, Minerva averts her gaze, her thin lips pressed together to stifle the correction that threatened to escape. The truth, of course, is that Miss Snape's family dynamics were far from idyllic. Her parents had consistently ignored the school's summonses, leaving their daughter to fend for herself whenever she got into trouble. In fact, the girl had stopped returning home during holidays a year ago, a decision that spoke volumes about the strained relationships within her family. The telltale signs of neglect were evident in her undernourished body and the ill-fitting clothes that seemed to hang loosely on her frame and overall unkempt appearance. Albus had, on one occasion, inadvertently read her mind, and the flashbacks he had seen were telling: her father's fanatical views on magic, her mother's inward disappointment.

"I dare say the accident has been the best thing that's happened to her," Pomfrey comments in a conversational tone that draws attention from everyone seated at the table. Her eyes dart to a ripped notebook page as she folds her hands, veined and wrinkled, in front of her, then she doubles down to meet their gazes. "It did her good, this potion. She's been happier ever since, making friends and standing up for herself against..." Pomfrey pauses, her glance darting to Minerva, who seems to stiffen defensively at the unspoken accusation of her students. "those who…bullied her.”

Minerva's mouth tightens into an angular line, but she says nothing; Pomfrey carries on, undisturbed. "All her professors, every single one of them, speak highly of her. Even Professor Mistvale, who's notoriously difficult to impress, is awed by her transformation. She's become outspoken and daring, and her health has started to show marked improvement. She even concocted her own nourishing potion to rectify her undernourished body. I say, if the accident has made her care about herself, I don't see anything wrong with that." Pomfrey's statements are mild in tone, but it then shows a trace of disapproval as she continues. "That being said, I've consulted with some healers about the possibility, and they advise hiring a Legilimens to determine the level of her illusions."

"Illusions?" Albus asks, his brow furrowed in confusion. "I'm afraid I'm not informed on this subject."

Horace shifts uncomfortably in his seat, clearing his throat before launching into a detailed account of the Nourisher of Illusions potion and the unfortunate accident that had befallen Miss Snape. The others chimed in periodically, adding their own observations and corrections to the tale. Meanwhile, Albus silently summons the paper from Pomfrey, who apparently had requested from Miss Evans that she jot down her observations on Miss Snape's behaviour.

The list is surprisingly lengthy, detailing the numerous delusions that had taken hold of Miss Snape's mind. Apparently, she believes herself to be the male version of a character from a book, or so the list claimed, and even went so far as to assert that she had once been an Olympic champion—a claim that Professor Faucheux met with a derisive laugh. Along with her admissions of feeling confused and unsure of who she was, the list also mentioned her seeming detachment from reality, and her hint of suicidal thoughts.

Folding the paper, Albus looks over the list with curiosity one last time. He says, "A curious thing indeed," his visage contemplative. "Don't worry, I'll talk to her directly."

Albus's words fail to allay either Professor Faucheux’s ire or Madam Pomfrey’s concern. He doesn’t think too much of it.

The study group—a motley crew of opinionated swots and vindictive grudgeholders—had agreed to meet at the library.

When Severina strides in, she spots Sinistra already looming over at a table, deep in conversation with her housemate.

The girl flashes Severina a brief nod, inviting her to claim any table she likes while she finishes up with her housemate before joining her. Severina opts for one near the window, where her crow could bask in the sunbeams streaming through the panes. Mulciber escorts Avery to the library entrance, then promptly vanishes to presumably the Quidditch pitch. Coincidentally, Charity walks in, and the two of them bump into each other, and she shoots him a withering glare while he sniffs and mutters something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like "nitwit Mudblood."

For a fleeting moment, Severina glimpses into her mind and finds her fantasising about hurling Avery's cane into the black lake, where the Giant Squid could use it as a toothpick. She snorts, and she shifts her seat, making room for Charity beside her, Avery opposite her, and Sinistra beside Avery, opposite Charity.

Avery slinks in first, and his acceptance of the seating arrangement stems from distaste for Charity that conveniently outweighs any petty desire he might have had to spite Severina. He edges towards the window, casting a suspicious glance at Vlad with those unsettling pale green eyes of his, flecked with gold, one darker than the other.

He lowers his cane against the table edge, the movement eerily deliberate. Involuntarily, she realises that he is in pain.

Charity, on the other hand, bursts into a sugary sweet smile, her face transforming from a scowl to a beam in a comically alarming fashion. "Good morning, Severina, Vlad," she trills, nodding at them both with an air of false cheer.

Vlad, perched on the windowsill, lets out a solemn, mournful caw, his proud gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the window. At the headmaster’s office.

“Good morning.” Severina says. She places her books down on the table, a crumpled sheet of parchment slipping out, scrawled with a list of titles that might just back up her half-baked idea. She shoots a sidelong glance at Avery and Charity, her eyes flicking towards Sinistra as she wanders over, snatching up random tomes from the shelves.

“What's your take on the runes project?" Severina asks, her eyes darting between the two of them as she reads through the homework requirements scrawled on the parchment: "Design a two-circle runic pattern or more, describe its use, weaknesses, and construction steps."
Simple enough, on paper, at least.

"Protection's been done to death,” Avery drawls, “How about...curse breaking?" He pauses, his gaze drifting over his own scribbled notes, his eyes gleaming with a subtle intensity that fades abruptly. "A make-up runic to protect an object before breaking the curse, of course.”

Severina lets out a noncommittal hum, deliberately sidestepping the undertones in Avery's suggestion. "If you've got a curse in mind that won't land us in hot water with the headmaster, that is.”

"No, no curses," Sinistra says, dumping her own stack of books on the table and plopping down beside Avery, her eyes flashing with a hint of trauma. "Merlin, help us, the last time I tried, Professor Mistvale ripped me apart."

Amused, Charity lets out a snort. "You took Mistvale's classes twice?"

Sinistra shrugs, a wry smile on her lips. "He's kind of fascinating, in a sadistic sort of way. And I want to get him as one of my N.E.W.T. later,”

"Admirable," Severina says, smiling. Her gaze darts to the entrance, where Lupin is hobbling about while staring at her. Her eyebrow lifts in a silent challenge, but Lupin, for once, doesn't back down, his stare meeting hers with an intensity that's out of character.

She slips into his mind, and the conversation between Peter and his crew of dim-witted mates flickers to life in her consciousness. ("So, I overheard Lily gossiping with Mary about Snape's potions disaster a few months back. That's when her behavior started going off the rails," Peter babbles, his words spilling out in a rush. "You know, like she's two people trapped in one body, or something... uh, what's the Muggle term for it? Uh—Coprophilia?") (Remus shakes his head. “If Evans finds out about this...”—“Which she won’t,” Sirius cuts in. “Come on, Moony, don’t be such a killjoy. Let’s dig in and see what sort of dirt Evans has been digging up on our little Sniv!”)

Severina's jaw clenches so hard it's a miracle her teeth don't shatter. Lily hadn't breathed a word to her about this. No wonder she's been nodding to herself while scribbling in that gaudy pink notebook she's been carting around. Now the pack of morons has caught wind of it and is sniffing around her. And to top it all off, Severina's seething at Peter's sheer idiocy for linking her name with a term like Coprophilia. The pig. She's half-tempted to march to stomp on his rodent face.

Charity's gentle touch on her hand snaps her back to reality. "What's wrong?"

Severina finds herself the focus of a collective stare, with even Lupin's gaze fixed on her. "Nothing," she forces out, trying to sound nonchalant. "Just a... fleeting urge to stomp on something. It's passed, don't worry about it. Here, let me silence the table – I can't think with the sound of Potter's inevitable yapping in the background."

With a flick of her wand, Severina casts a silent Muffliato, enveloping the table in a soft, whispery haze that devours the surrounding library's din. "No curses, hah? What about a map?" she suggests. A ghost of a wolfish smile on her face, the Marauders' map flashing through her mind.

The others snap out of their stunned silence, their faces swiveling towards her.

Avery scoffs, "A map? Don't we have enough of those already?"

"A map to find anyone.” Sinistra picks up the thread, her eyes lighting up. "Or to find everything we've ever lost," she murmurs, snatching a piece of parchment and beginning to scribble furiously.

“That’s not what I mean—“

"The first layer would need multiple maps to adjust them into one with varying degrees of detail.”

Blinking, Severina exchanges a quick look with Avery, observing Sinistra too engrossed in meticulously assembling the motifs.

"An ever-changing pattern.” Charity suggests. “Adjustable.”

Then Severina shrugs and adds, "With a second layer of the usual searching runes.."

Avery presses his lips, thoughtful, and says, "or tracing charm, and another runic-based charm to protect the map from getting wet or torn.”

For a moment, he almost looked excited—about as much enthusiasm as a stiff git like him could muster.

So they sit within the whispery confines of the Muffliato-enchanted table, the crew engaging in a fairly strident debate, Charity and Avery occasionally trading coarse jabs. Severina and Sinistra, meanwhile, try to steer the conversation back on track. At one point, Severina resorts to discreetly nudging the others' thoughts, her mental fingers subtly guiding the discussion and implanting ideas. By the end, everyone seems satisfied with the map idea, a far cry from their initial skepticism.

In the midst of it all, Aurora and Severina earn the right to address each other by their first names for their combined efforts to prevent Charity from snatching Edmund's cane and sending it flying into the black lake, or Edmund from retaliating by transforming her heels into razor-sharp fangs.

A sense of unease has settled in the pit of her stomach, a persistent feeling that something is off-kilter. She has double-checked the date repeatedly, her eyes scanning the calendar as if the answer lies hidden in the neatly printed squares. But it's not the date that's the problem—it's the fact that she can't quite put her finger on what's wrong. 

A baffling sense of urgency hovers in the air, a weight that appears to rest solely on her shoulders. It makes her restless, on tenterhooks, and temperamental. She has turned to her friends, hoping they might sense it too, but Lily, Charity, Wilhelm, and Aurora all return her queries with vacant stares, shrugs, or irrelevant responses.

Frustrated, she has tried to jog her memory by flipping through her notebook and planner, but the pages remain stubbornly blank. She attempts to lower her Occlumency walls, hoping to catch a glimpse of something, anything, that might explain her growing anxiety. But there's nothing. Her mind remains a labyrinth with missing pieces, haunting her with its emptiness. Instead, her thoughts are flooded with fragmented memories of Ilya, of Harry...of faces, names, and reasons that hover just out of reach, taunting her, taunting her, taunting her. The more she tries to grasp them, the more they slip through her fingers like sand. The faces blur, the names fade, and the reasons dissolve into nothingness. She's left with an overwhelming sense of isolation, as if she's lost her moorings in a world that's spinning out of control.

In a futile attempt to reconnect with her emotions, she puts her thoughts into words, writing about the people who once mattered. But tears prickle the corners of her eyes as she consumes what she's written because she feels nothing—no love, no yearning, no grief. The words are empty, hollow, and meaningless. It's as if she's been hollowed out, leaving her a shell of her former self. The realisation is a bitter pill to swallow: she's lost herself, and that's the cruellest punishment of all.

After that odious, dim-witted professor had the audacity to ban her from the Duelling Club, effectively killing the lucrative betting pool that had sprouted around her name, she has taken matters into her own hands. She has started secretly seeking out Rosier in the Room of Requirement, where they began engaging in intense duelling sessions that left him battered and bruised. She'd tend to his wounds, administering potions to speed his recovery. As they’d sat together in the silent room, she'd share a cigarette with him, her knees drawn up against her chest, and he’d take it, laying on the cold wooden floor. Even after the potion had taken effect, they'd linger, her gaze drawn to his pale, cold eyes, which seemed to bore into her very soul.

One time, she leaned in, her lips brushing against his, searching for a fleeting memory of someone else in his thin, almost translucent lips. And he’d let her, and they’d pretend it never happened. But another time, he took her face in his hands, his nose nuzzling her cheek first, and then his lips grazed the corner of hers. The gentle touch sent a shiver down her spine, and for a fleeting moment, she was transported back to a time when Ilya's father had shown her a similar, although dazed, tenderness.

He whispered against her cheek, his breath a gentle caress, "What's eating at you?"

She closed her eyes, and her mind became a jumble of thoughts and emotions, a chunk of memories that weren't quite hers, of a son who wasn't hers to claim, of duties that didn't quite belong to her.

Her lips curled into a smile, but it was a sad, strained thing. "I feel like Joan of Arc most days," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper, "and I don't like it."

Rosier didn't laugh, and for that, she was grateful.

“I think I’m making mistakes. Many mistakes.”

“Hmmm?”

The resemblance between Rosier and Sirius—the older version from her memories, not the swaggering fool somewhere outside—was faint, almost imperceptible, while their differences stood out sharply. They were cousins, she reminded herself, but Rosier lacked the haughty flair of Sirius, with his rich, tousled hair, wine-stained lips, and the lean tattooed physique marked by Azkaban’s toll, and that signature wolfish grin. He wasn’t untamed or lascivious like Sirius; he didn’t have the crow’s feet around his not-quite-grey eyes, nor the laughter lines. Instead, Rosier’s features were narrower and sharper, his hair was ash-blond, his pale, droopy eyes giving off an air of indifference, his frame more spindly. Yet, in certain lighting, they could almost be mistaken for brothers, their faces mirroring each other’s contours. If she squinted a little, she could almost catch a glimpse of Black’s wolfish grin peeking back at her.

He claimed her lips, and she responded with equal fervour, their chests pressed together as they lost themselves in the kiss. The tang of mint and the bitterness of coffee mingled on their tongues. She kissed him with reckless abandon, and he kissed her back with a hunger that left her reeling. But as she finally broke free, guilty. "We can't do this.”

“Why not?"

She faltered, her gaze still trapped on his lips. "Because it would be... unfair. I'm using you," she stammered, the words tumbling out in a rush of confession. "And that's wrong."

“Use me then,” Evan said, “I don’t mind.”

“I do.” She says. After giving him one last kiss, she withdrew to the dorm and had a five-hour shower that she spent staring at her naked reflection. The dueling matches with Rosier have ceased after that day, she finds herself becoming more restless as her pent-up energy searches for an outlet never found. She has thrown herself into her work, pouring over her rough drafts, experimenting with potions, and refining formulae and evading The Murderers' feeble attempts to rile her. Towards the end of the week, she submitted all the revised versions to be registered in her name, pending Ministry clearance. Impulsively, Severina even has picked back up her bad habit of clawing at her cuticles, and one evening she stomps her feet angrily when she notes the ripped skin around her nails.

“What’s wrong?” Lily asked one chilly day beneath their tree. “You have been…strange, more than usual.”

With a frantic intensity, Severina's hands reached out and automatically clutched Lily's. When Severina's hold tightened—to the point of nearly hurting—Lily flinched, surprise flashing in her eyes. “What–you’re hurting me–“

“Something’s wrong,” Severina whispered. And Lily halted her struggles to look at her, searching Severina’s face for answers. “What?”

“Something’s wrong, and I can feel it. I can feel it, but I don’t know what it is.”

Then, as though scurrying away from a terrifying reality, she let go of Lily's hands and began to tug at her nail beds, digging and pulling.

“Stop this,” Lily wrenched her hands away from one another, only to discover that her fingers were already smeared with blood, each nail encircled by a crimson ring of raw, bitten skin.

It is almost midsummer, the finals mere days away, when Slughorn extracts her from the confines of History of Magic class.

Wilhelm’s snickered comment—"Someone's in trouble"—earns him a distracted "Sod off" as she makes her way to the office.

Slughorn fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, before grasping her elbow and steering her towards the window, away from the prying eyes of the hallway. As she glances out the window, the sunshine seems to dust the rolling towers with a fine, golden powder. It’s a good day, she decides.

Vlad flutters its wings. Slughorn's eyes, normally affable, now shine with a characteristic softness filled with a deep, abiding pity. "I wish I didn't have to tell you this, Miss Snape," he begins, his voice low and somber. She watches, transfixed, as his lips form the words, "Your mother has passed away in her sleep. My deepest condolences—“

The irony isn’t lost on her—a morbid sense of vindication swept over her, an instantaneously guilty pleasure that this gloomy, unfathomable intuition of something impending had been proven true. For a moment, she basks in the bitter satisfaction of being right and of having intuited the presence of some unseen, uncontrollable event. But as the words continue to reverberate in her mind, their meaning begins to take hold, and her initial euphoria gives way to a crushing sense of despair. What-ifs and maybes rain down on her like a downpour of questions that would have devoured her alive. Could I have prevented this? Was there something, anything, I could have done differently? Was fate an unalterable, uncompromising force, or was she simply cursed to possess a precognitive sense that served only to torment her, powerless to alter the course of events? Her legs buckle, and Slughorn's quick reflexes save her from collapsing to the floor. He catches her, his voice a gentle murmur, but the words were lost on her, drowned out by the cacophony of her own thoughts.

The world around her grows dark; the sun's warm rays from the window transform into a harsh, accusatory glare. A throbbing headache erupts behind her eyes, and a sudden, feverish heat courses through her veins. Sweat trickles down her forehead, beaded on her palms, as she feels herself being led away, guided towards the dormitory. Slughorn hovers at the edge of her vision. Slughorn presses a calming draught into her hand, and she chugs the whole thing down. She Occludes, and it takes her precisely sixty seconds to regain control. The potion's effects are swift.

"I want..." She licks her dry lips, her eyes darting around the familiar surroundings—she is sitting on her bed, Slughorn looming over her. "To go home."

“To the funeral, of course, yes, yes. Today—" The tone grats on her nerves, and she feels a familiar spark of resentment ignite within her. "Pick up your clothes; you'll have a week for the mourning period," he harps on, as if she were a child in need of guidance. Severina's response is slow and measured.

"No, you don't understand." She pauses, her eyes gazing absentmindedly onto her raw cuticles. "I want to go home. I—need to—“ The look he gives her is one of patronising pity, and it fuels her anger and her resentment. How dare he treat her like a fragile, broken thing? He looks at her as if she were insane, as if she were being unreasonable. Maybe she is, maybe she isn’t. But what did he know of her pain, of the void that had been ripped open within her? Her mother is gone, and with her, a part of Severina has been lost as well. Her foreknowledge now seems feeble, a pathetic attempt to grasp at a sense of control. For a time now, she feels like she was drowning in the sea, suffocating under the ridiculous attempts at psychoanalysis by Lily and Madam Pomfrey.

"I'll take my exams at the Ministry," she declares. Cold as stone. He stares at her for a moment before giving a curt nod. The Head of her House fills her in on the details, his voice a gentle drone as he explains how her mother had passed away the day before and how her father's work would cover the funeral expenses. Severina listens, her eyes fixed on some distant point.

"I will speak with the headmaster. My deepest condolences again, Miss Snape. Rest now; the funeral will take place in four hours."

Without a word, a flurry of clothes and personal items begins to levitate, hovering in mid-air before being unceremoniously stuffed into her bag. Slughorn's eyes widen while his gaze darts back and forth between the bag and her wand, which was still tucked securely into her boot. Wisely, he chooses to remain silent, opting instead to offer a gentle, paternal pat on the shoulder. "Give me an hour to sort things out, and then we can leave," Slughorn promises her.

Severina nods, her eyes already glazing over as she turns to her trunk. She rummages through her belongings numbly. Her fingers close around a faded pair of wrinkly black stockings, the same ones she'd worn with her old skirt uniform. She even finds the mid-length skirt, her old uniform, and with a flick of her wand, she charms it black, loosening it slightly, then adjusting it to fit her perfectly. The mundane task is a balm to her frazzled nerves; it gives her a purpose, something to do. Next, she retrieves a black blouse—she has many, but it didn't matter; they all seemed to blend together in her grief-stricken haze.

A quick shower follows, just long enough to wash away the fever and anxiety that clung to her skin like a shroud. As she dresses in her mourning clothes, her hands tremble, and for a moment, she feels the overwhelming urge to rock back and forth. But she stiffens, her arms wrapping around her body before slowly relaxing, her hands coming to rest by her sides.

With a cigarette clenched between her teeth, she steps outside, the smoke curling around her like a shroud.

When Slughorn rejoins her, he makes no comment about the cigarette; his expression is sombre and understanding. Severina tightens her grip on the bag strap, her mind consumed by thoughts of home—and what home even meant to her anymore. I don't have one, she thinks bitterly. I'm all alone, stuck in this limbo. She thinks back to the last time she saw her mother. I'm all alone, she reminds herself. I have to be strong. I might think I’m losing it, but above all, I need to hold on.

The weather in Cockworth is as bitter and grey as her mood. Slughorn, annoyingly stays, hovering beside her through the whole ordeal. At the edge of her consciousness, she feels her crows—two of them flitting from the Forbidden Forest into the expanse of the mainland. Her sweetlings, who else had her back if not them? She forces herself to command the rest to stay put.

Above, Vlad soars, cutting through the foggy sky, a dark silhouette against the dreariness of Cockworth.

"I hate this town," she finds herself admitting to Slughorn, who stands there solemnly. They are outside the church, she hates that church. They hadn’t found her father yet; he was likely drowning his sorrows somewhere, drinking away the weight of his sadness before the funeral. That foolish, selfish man. Like Black, she thinks suddenly, a flash of irritation sparking within her. Slughorn, in his own way, seems resolute in giving her space, almost admirable, but the urge to cry alone claws at her insides.

"Don’t occlude, Miss Snape," he saya, his voice jowly is stern. "I can see you wish for privacy to mourn as you see fit, but don’t occlude.”

That’s how her mother had died—shut away in her own mind. A sad death, a meaningless death. But why would a woman like her mother seek a heroic end? A death is a death, after all. And Severina, for all her self-proclaimed Machiavellianism, saw her own demise as a payment for her sins.

"I do try, sir. But it’s either that or I’d fling myself from the bridge," she replies.

She spots her father among his coworkers, accepting condolences absently. Henry Evans clasps his hand, offering his own, but her father doesn’t respond immediately, just nodding his head absently. Severina makes her way to him, Slughorn trailing behind her. Her father’s eyes flick over her, then away. Perhaps, in his drunken haze, he truly doesn’t recognize her.

At first. “Toby,” she hiss. He blinks at the sound, his gaze finally landing on her. Recognition flickers in his eyes, widening as he takes in her face and hair. Softly, he murmurs,“–Rina.”

Henry pauses, glancing back and forth between them. Then he lifts a hand hesitantly, “Severina?”

"Mr. Evans," Severina says, her eyes fixed on her father, who gazed at her as if she were a stranger, his eyes roaming over her face, her body, with a slow, deliberate intensity. He raised a hand, hesitated, then turned and disappeared into the church, leaving her to face the prying eyes of the townspeople alone. 

Henry Evans, bless him, envelopes her in a hug, whispering empty condolences, while his wife hovers beside him for her turn, Putania sulking behind them. Mercifully, the Evanses soon draw Slughorn into a hushed conversation, allowing Severina to slip away and sit beside her father.

“Мы даже не католики!” ¹ she mutters, faint as a whisper.

Tobias snorts, bitter, "Мне, блин, разжечь костер и сжечь её тело на площади? Или что, черт возьми, ведьмы делают со своими мертвыми?” ²

Severina refuses to rise to the bait, refuses to even glance at him. She can smell the stench of booze on his breath, and beneath it, the heavier scent of sorrow. He had loved her mother, still did, but his love is a worthless currency when it came to actions, not just empty words. Later, after ensuring Slughorn's safe departure from Spinner's End, with the promise of sending her trunk with the elves and scheduling an appointment for her exams, Severina surveys her father's home.

The kitchen sink is stacked high with dirty dishes, and a whiskey-stained glass sits abandoned in front of the TV. Vlad lands on the windowsill with a soft thud and scratches at the glass.

"Don't let him see you," she tells the bird as she pushes open the window, "he'd probably blast you with the shotgun he keeps stashed under his bed."

The crow cocks its head, as if in judgment, “Wanker,” it declares, and Severina has to admit that she agrees.

It settles onto her shoulder as she hobbles up the creaking stairs to her room. In the corridor, she pauses, hesitates for a heartbeat, then follows her intuition, which leads her to the one corner that vaguely still feels like an unremembered refuge.

Her room is a drab, grey space with worn-out, spartan furnishings and a bed snuggled beneath the window. Vlad darts to the window, scratching at the glass until she relents, opening it for him to claim the black tree branch it'd been eyeing.

Severina falls face-first into the creaky bed, causing a cloud of dust to rise and the bed to moan under her weight. She swears, uses a couple of cleansing spells, and then lies down once again.

She has no appetite, not really; the calming draught had long since lost its effect. She sinks onto the couch, her gaze locked onto the yellowing walls, emotions churning between anger and grief, then back to anger again. Slughorn is wrong, she thinks fiercely. Occlumency is the answer. It is a dangerous art, yes, but effective. What did the old fool know of Occlumency? She had nearly won them a war by shutting her mind down, if not for that ill-fated spawn and his misguided sense of heroism. She had survived this long by spite alone and Occlumency.

The Death Eater used to call her the Dark Lord’s hand to her face and whispered ‘the brooding half-breed bitch’ behind her back.

Occlumency, Occlumency, and a bloody good distraction—that's what she needs. To turn her grief into something productive. She flings open her closet, and fishes out a random faded pair of jeans and a shirt. At the kitchen, she gives her wrist a lazy flick, and the dirty dishes obligingly floated off to clean themselves. The evening is a blur of cleaning, restocking the shelves with the mundane necessities, doing the laundry. The house reeks of lemon and the pungent stench of chlorine bleach, even Vlad refuses to join her inside.

A day ago, the Hogwarts house-elf had dropped off her trunk. Buried among her school supplies, is the charmed forbidden potion and 17,000 golden coins, untouched. If Slughorn ever happened to pry, she would find herself tangled in a web of explanations that no one would believe. Lily has sent a letter of condolences, and Charity follows suit, clearly having gotten her address from Lily. Aurora followed, and Wilkes last. She fed their owls before sending them back, but she hadn't responded to any of them—not even Lily.

Nightmares have plagued her. Her mother's dying breath; the sickening crunch of Dumbledore's fall from the tower; Voldemort's cold, calculating gaze, his wand poised to strike, halted only by Harry's foolish foolish foolish bravery. The idiot had given his life to save hers, and the memory of it still seared her soul. She'd wake with a start, her heart racing, her body drenched in sweat. The rage and grief that followed would be overwhelming, and she'd stumble to the bathroom, her stomach churning with a violence that seemed to rip her insides apart. Blood would splatter the sink.

Beneath her pale, creamy skin, Obscurus's black filaments latch onto her like grasping claws.

The midnight hour finds her in the kitchen, ankles crossed, slouching in a wooden chair. A lit fag burns between her fingers, a bottle of whisky she has snatched from her father's cabinet in front of her. She had meant to clean her mother's bedroom, but she had stopped in the middle of her sweep when she recognised her book on her mother's nightstand, its pages dog-eared, and a pile of unsent letters, some crumpled and dumped in the trash bin—all addressed to her. The house, charmed into silence, is freely full of the mournful howl of a sad song is spilling from the radio.

(It's nine o'clock on a Saturday

The regular crowd shuffles in) the radio sings.

Repeatedly, Severina reads the same letter.

Dearest Rina,

I must confess I have wasted considerable time rereading your letter and attempting to formulate a suitable response, as I found myself at a loss regarding many of your inquiries. Nevertheless, I shall proceed. Your father and I are, for the moment, well. Regarding your accident several months ago, I trust your judgment in declaring yourself fine.

The liturgy night at the church did indeed occur, although I am surprised you retained any memory of it, given my efforts to Obliviate you; it is a matter that has evidently affected you. There had been vile water nymphs involved, who lured you, and you, regrettably, followed their call, spurred on by a most despicable individual who drugged you. The condition you seem to be inquiring about—yes, it did indeed manifest. You have developed signs of being Obscurial, yet in your case, it subsided after my Obliviation, likely because I removed the triggering memory itself. Should you maintain your Occlumency, this state should remain dormant. I implore you, do not delve too deeply into Occlumency; this art is fraught with danger and requires the utmost caution.

On a different note, I see you have embarked upon the journey of authorship. While you may regard your achievement as modest, I assure you that any contribution to the field of potion-making merits recognition, regardless of your publisher’s rather generous assessment of your comedic talents—after all, you have inherited your father’s sense of humor. As for your request regarding a Gringotts account, I shall see to it that this is established.

Know that I am proud of you and your accomplishments, daughter.

Yours sincerely,

She pours the whisky into the glass and taps the ashes off the fag into the toast plate, her movements economical, precise.

(Sing us a song you're the piano man

Sing us a song tonight.)

Leaning against the kitchen door for some time now, somewhat sober, her father comments, “you have cut your hair.”

Her gaze shifts from the letter—her mother’s spidery handwriting a reflection of her own—to his weathered face, noting with a pang the way his brown hair has begun to grey. How did he die? She rummages through the depths of her memory but finds only shadows. All she knows is that he’s gone, leaving her with the house and that dreadful collection of sci-fi novels.

"You’re getting old," she blurts out before she can reign in the words. Gravelly, she doesn’t know how to bridge the gap that had opened up between them. So she lifts the glass, offering it to him instead. But his eyes narrow as he notices the stolen bottle and the fag, and his voice trails off into a growl. “Why you little…”

Severina shrugs, taking a drag from her fag. “Why didn’t she send the letter? It could have made my day,” she muses, folding it neatly to stash away in a wooden chest. Tobias looms over her, maintaining eye contact as he drinks from his glass. He slams it down, refills it, and shrugs. “Who knows what your mother was thinking?”

His gaze drifts to the table, landing on Advanced Potion-making for the Hopelessly Incompetent (1) by S. Vasilievna Alekseivna. He snorts, “She says you published this?” He picks up the book, sizing it up with one hand. Its weight is just like Advanced Potion-making, but packed with more details and little comments that had made it popular among readers.

“Of course. I like to keep my genius well-documented.”

Amused, he opens the book, scanning it, then says, “Hmm, she read it to me,” a rare flicker of fondness in his eyes. “She wur mortified by its sass, but Oi finds et right entertainin'” And Severina sees it as she slips into her father’s mind, uncovering memories of her mother—awed, fond, startled, amazed, and then afraid all at once. She sees them in bed, her mother reading with a look of horror while her father snorts in amusement. Tears prick at her eyes.

“I’ll sign you a copy,” she says, snatching his glass and downing its contents in one gulp. Her stomach growls, and a wave of nausea rises in her throat, prompting her to leap to the sink and retch blood. Behind her, she hears her father's curses, rough and unblushing. Her legs betray her as she bends over the sink. She turns on the water, trying to wash away the evidence of her distress, while her father shifts behind her.

“What the hell is that, Severina?” he demands.

(He says, "Bill, I believe this is killing me."
As the smile ran away from his face.)

She slides down, pressing her back against the wooden cabinet, and her father lowers himself beside her to catch her. But she pushes him away, singing along with the radio, “Well, I’m sure that I could be a movie star—if I could get out of this place.”

Her father's expression darkens, and for a moment, she fears he might slap the untimely playfulness right out of her. With one hand, he lifts her to her feet and shoves her into one of the three chairs. “Ey up, did this 'appen afore?” he demands. “As it 'appen often?”

“It started lately,” she admits, watching the fag burn down to nothing. He snatches it from her, takes a drag, his face stormy, and she feels a sudden pang of shame. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Tobias ignores her apology. “Since when do yow start chuckin' up blood? Why didn't anyone from yow freak school tell me?"

“No one knew,” she replies.

That startled him. “And why the hell not?”

Blankly, She stares at him. His patience is wearing thin by the second. The anger in his gaze is loud and bitter, jaw tight, and she can see his hands clenching at his sides, fighting the urge to shake her into speaking. In the back of her mind, she struggles to recall how her last living parent died. Was it alcoholism? The Death Eaters? She isn’t certain. Fragmented memories flash before her—green fire in Cockworth, lifeless bodies, and she thinks she glimpses Henry Evans among them.

“Speak!”

She doesn’t flinch at his sudden thundering command, taking one last drag before crushing the fag on the table. Tilting her head, she says, “Wizards’ illness. No known cure, not yet anyway. But I’ve got me theories. That’s why I’m back home early, aside from, y’know, going to the funeral..”

“Bloody hell, Severina,” Tobias exclaims.

She wants to assure him that she’ll outlive him, that she’ll reach twenty, thirty, forty, and even fifty. But deep down, she’s not so sure anymore. In another timeline, the signs had appeared in her fifth year, and it hadn’t been this bad.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers after him, watching as he storms away. A moment later, the front door slams shut behind him.

Two days later, her father storms into the basement where she’s busy brewing the aging potion and a few others.

He looms over her, a scowl etched on his face. “What’s this freak illness you’ve gone and caught?”

She raises an eyebrow, snapping her fingers with a hint of defiance, reveling in her magic now that she feels healthy and mentally steady enough to face him. The book Care for Magical Creatures materializes, and she flips to the page on Obscurus and Obscurial. Pointing at the moving image of a shadowy child enveloped by the dark Obscurus, she declares, “Like me.”

Toby disappears with the book.

Severina chooses a hairpin from her mother's room, a thin and unassuming trinket that'll do the job nicely. She turns it into Portkey and hands it over to Dante. The crow flaps its wing once, before taking to the skies, bound for France, where Damocles Belby is set to give a lecture in four weeks' time, according to the news report.

That night, she catches her father gazing out at the tree, his cheek cradled in the same hand that's clutching a fag. A half-drained Vodka bottle and the Care for Magical Creatures book sit in front of him. He fixes her with a stare, and she dares to dip into his mind, but what she sees leaves her reeling, guilt clawing at her throat like a demon.

Bracing herself, she brews a pot of coffee, grabs a sobriety potion, and swaps the vodka glass for a cup of coffee. She takes a seat in front of him, casting a glance at the book before meeting his gaze. “Fire away, Toby.”

“Did your mother ever?” He leaves the question hanging, unfinished, and she blinks at him, then denies hotly ”No, she never laid a hand on me... you know how she was... apathetic, at best.” The unspoken words ‘and neglectful at worst' linger on her tongue, but she bites them back.

“Was it me then?”

She snaps out of her thoughts, her eyes locking onto his. For a moment, his words don't register, and she struggles to grasp what he's getting at.

Tobias clarifies, “When I'm drunk, I know myself. I'm not proud of it. Was it me who messed this up?”

She raises an eyebrow, a wry smile curling her lips. “Funnily enough, no. We would've had a right old row, snapping at each other like a pair of wet cats, and nothing would've come of it.”

She retrieves her mother's letter, hands it to him, and begins to recount the memory of Christmas Eve and the frozen lake, of how her mother's memory charm had stilled the Obscurus within her. The sobriety potion seems to be working its magic, sharpening his senses, and for a fleeting moment, she glimpses the man he used to be, the one she'd heard stories about.

The scowl on his face told her he is seething—at her mother for keeping him in the dark, at himself for being a blind fool, and at the whole damn world for being so utterly unfair. Yet, he somehow manage to keep his temper in check, probably due to the rare occasion of being stone-cold sober and already drowning in his own misery.

“So we wipe your memory,” Tobias says, “and everything would've turned out fine?”

Severina lets out a heavy sigh, pulls the book towards her, and points to a line as she reads aloud, “Children possessed by an Obscurus almost always died before their tenth birthdays.” She thinks to herself, numb and detached, I've made it to twenty, thirty, forty, and even fifty, all alone, but out loud, she says, “I'm fourteen years old, and I'll live even longer, I know that because I can cast spells and I'm mentally strong. What you've witnessed, Toby, is just a moment of weakness."

"'Ow about an exorcism? Do yow need summat to get rid o' them demons?"

She giggles, "I've got this under control.”

He doesn’t say anything, so she decides to take a more...persuasive approach. She dips into his mind, planting seeds of hope and positivity, making sure he can't help but feel a spark of determination. She digs deeper, unearthing fond memories of the day she was born, of him beaming with pride as he gazed down at her. She pulls out memories of her grandfather, his father, sitting her on his lap, reading The Maiden Tsar to her, the room filled with the sweet scent of mimosas and the warmth of tea and home. Tobias looks at her, blank-faced but starry-eyed, oblivious to the manipulation, and for a moment, she should feel ashamed, but she tells herself it's for his own good.

She takes his hands in hers, her fingers digging into his skin as she looks up at him, her eyes pleading. “What I need from you, Toby, is for you to be strong enough for me. Can you do that? Can you put the bottle down, for us? I don't want to be an orphan. Don't you know what happens to foul-mouthed, entitled kids like me in the system?”

In the backyard, she planted many mimosas. Tobias doesn’t stop drinking altogether, but he clearly consumes less. Occasionally, he quietly joins her in the garden with a non-alcoholic beer in hand. They’re both making an effort, and she feels a swell of pride for them both.

Funnily enough, it's Avery's bloody letter, where he had the nerve to call her 'flighty and fickle-minded' for leaving them to deal with the project on their own, that finally gets her to sit down and open the others' letters too. She scribbles out a hasty apology to Lily and Charity and Aurora, reassuring them she's fine, just needing some time to herself, and apologizes for putting them on edge. And, for good measure, she even sends Avery a tweaked version of their runic design, complete with a doodle of a certain male anatomy.

Needless to say, she doesn't get a response from the prat.

Two weeks have passed, enough time for the pain to dull into a faint phantom. Her father is annoyingly sober. The Obscurus's black filaments, once clinging to her like grasping claws, begin to fade until they vanish completely, leaving her skin unblemished and soft. She realizes that achieving balance is essential, something she has overlooked by overthinking and relying too heavily on her foreknowledge and fragile memories.

From this ordeal, she learns two crucial lessons:

A) She can’t rely on her memory, not entirely. It’s a fickle thing, prone to twisting the truth and leading her astray.

B) For the uncertainties, she needs to be clever. Establishing protections and backup plans isn’t just smart; it’s essential.

It’s easier that way. Severina has woven intricate runic protection lines around the house, an unseen barrier designed to thwart any potential threats and alert her the moment a foolhardy wizard dared to approach. This enchantment not only fortified her defenses but also brought a welcome lightness, easing the strain on her overstuffed magical core by channeling excess energy into the wards. The result is a durable, multi-layered, and utterly impenetrable barrier. Her magic has the scent of rain, a storm brewing above their home so thick that her father often found himself glancing out the window, half-expecting dark clouds to roll in midsummer. It is a raw, precise force, one that even Muggles could sense to some degree, though not enough to raise their suspicions.

She drags Tobias to the alley for the first time in his life, solely to open an account for her.

He observes everything with a good dose of curiosity tempered with apprehension. He looks almost... bewitched, for a moment. But when he spots a house-elf, his eyes bulge, and he makes the sign of the cross, nearly launching into a panicked recitation of the Bible, had she not squeezed his hand with her nails to shut him up and dragged him away. He whispers loudly at her, “Это дьявол?” Squinting his eyes, he gasps, hilariously scandalized “Полуобнажённая!”³

Severina giggles, “Нет, это домашний эльф. Они... ммм, слуги, если говорить проще.”⁴ 

”Слуги дьявола?”⁵

Sagely, Severina nods, “Depends on who’s got him.” 

It’s July.
She has already taken her exams, and in the same week, she concocts an excuse of taking another test at the Ministry, which her father dismisses with a wave before heading to the bar. In her room, she drinks the pre-prepared hair-growing potion, dyes her hair blonde, and takes the aging potion while she applies her makeup.

Severina stares at her reflection. She doesn’t resemble the older version of herself from her memories, and it’s not just the blonde hair that frames her face so prettily. She’s beautiful in a way that’s different from Natalia (her old self), Bellatrix, Narcissa and all the other pureblood Slythrien girls. More ordinary, perhaps. She’s soft and rounded, full-cheeked, with gentle curves, flowing hair, and wide, long-lashed eyes. Nothing particularly striking stands out, except for her large eyes, but all her features harmonize exotically, and the longer she looks, the more beautiful she becomes.

The faint little crease on her face suggests she's probably hovering around her thirties. “What do you think?” she asks Vlad, who cockily tilts its head in silence.

“Tell me I look bloody lovely.”

“lovely, lovely, lovely,” the crow squawks in response, and she can't help but beam with pride, “Good lad.”

Her most presentable dress, a dark blue, is a tad too snug for her new curves, but a quick flick and a whispered charm sorts that out. She slips on a casual black coat before making her exit through the front door, deliberately avoiding using the unauthorized Portkey hidden in her pocket inside the house to keep it off the radar. Instead, she'll have to make her way to the park, where it will leave a trail of misdirection to throw off anyone who may try to track her whereabouts.

Overhead, Vlad soars, letting out a sharp cry, and Severina's gaze follows the sound to spot Lily marching over the bridge, her eyes fixed on Severina with an absent, yet intense, stare. Not a glimmer of recognition, just a curious, lingering gaze that lingers for a moment too long. Severina's mind is a blank, having forgotten that Hogwarts students had returned just a day ago for the summer holidays.

She digs deep into her thoughts and picks up on Lily's soft musings, 'Must be a new neighbor, why would someone who walks like her be doing here?' As they pass each other, Severina can't resist sneaking a glance over her shoulder, only to find that the redhead doesn't bother to look back.

She slips into Vlad's line of sight, and from the bird's-eye view, she sees Lily standing outside her home, her hand reaching out to touch the barrier with a look of surprise.

She wants to turn around and tell her everything, but Lily would likely look at her like she’s crazy, discourage her, or, worse, tell others. What Severina truly fears is the small chance that Lily might want to join in.

Magical Paris seems to hum with an air of sophistication that makes Severina feel utterly out of place in her thrifted dress, pilfered from her dead mother's wardrobe. She hastens across the copper-hued building, clutching a steaming hot pastry in hand. She takes a bite, then passes it to her crow, Vlad, while using Dante’s keen eyes to scope out the potion masters, who are lapping up the sunshine and posing for photographs. That's when she spots him—the future inventor of the Wolfsbane Potion, looking remarkably youthful, likely in his mid-twenties, though his dark hair is already thinning, leaving only a fringe framing his forehead like the shadow of a crown. Belby’s blue-black beard is neatly trimmed, accentuating his strong, square jaw.

As the speeches drag on, she sidles through the crowds of hordes of reporters and potioneers with the stealth of a cat burglar. Her eyes roam the throng, homing in on the most pliable targets—the apprentices and trainees, still green and ripe for exploitation. 

Subtly, she prods their minds, sowing the seedlings of her book in their very own thoughts. Once she has them under her thumb, she persuades them to order a copy, to use it as a reference, or even better, to recommend it to their instructors. Going above and beyond, she even tracks unsuspecting journalists, and she hands them a tantalising morsel to scribble about in a couple of weeks, ensuring her impact spreads far and wide.

She watches Belby for hours, observing as he nods thoughtfully or interjects with his opinions, until finally, someone pulls him aside, and the two men set off walking. Severina's lips purse in contemplation—it won't be easy to get close to him and manipulate his memory without arousing suspicion.

“Show time,” she tells Vlad, then she darts into the alley, quickly devouring the last of the pastry before dashing to follow the pair. She silently wills Vlad to swoop down, its dark form swooping too close to the other man, who lets out a string of curses in French as the bird seemingly targets the glinting golden bee-shaped brooch on his chest. Meanwhile, Severina seizes the opportunity to feign a faint, dramatically clutching at her heart as she stumbles towards Belby, “Oh my god.”

Taken in by her ruse, Belby jumps to get hold of her and exclaims, "Madame! Are you okay?" His hands wrap around her waist to stabilise her as he quickly leads her to a wooden chair nearby. Severina flings her arms around Belby's neck, her other hand grasping his shoulder for support as he guides her to the chair, but she refuses to release her grip, locking eyes with him.

His mind, she discovers, is impressively well-guarded, but she pushes, probing for an opening. And then, in a fleeting moment, she sees it—his eyes flash with anger and alarm as he realises what's happening. He tries to shake her off, but she digs deep, planting the seeds of his future potion recipe deep within his mind.

With a playful slap on the cheek, she whispers, “Don't thank me, handsome.” And with that, she erases her presence from his mind, leaving behind only a faint memory of their encounter.

Belby blinks, his eyes glassy as he looks around, disoriented, searching for her. His friend, still shaken from the encounter with Vlad, turns to him and asks, “Where's the madame?”

Belby's response is a confused murmur, “I don't know...”

“Weird.”

Then, Belby's eyes brighten with an epiphany. He claps his companion on the shoulders as he leaps to his feet, his face glowing with eagerness. “I've got it; I knew it! We need to get to the lab, Jared, now!”

From the roof, Severina grins at Vlad. That day, as a treat for her success, she allows herself an indulgent stroll through the city, perusing the stores. She also, naturally, gives in to the temptation of the muggle vintage jewellery stalls at the flea market and goes on a bit of a binge, buying a variety of trinkets for Lily and herself. She returns home, arms laden with a treasure trove of rings and jewellery, her prized possession being a simple, coin-shaped pure gold wax seal pendant adorned with a delicate crow motif, a tribute to her faithful feathered companions, which she had adroitly negotiated for with a subtle, not-so-honourable touch of Legilimency.