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Chapter Text

She feels like she’s drowning—not in the usual water-in-your-lungs way, but in something much freakier and deeper, like a fish choking on its own ocean. Or maybe it’s more like Icarus, plummeting into the sea with stones of regret in her pockets, heading straight for the deep end.

There’s this weird, unsettling peace creeping in, a cold clarity that’s almost comforting in its horror.

It’s as if the weight of her despair has numbed her, turning her into a spectator in her own life. Yes, she’s drowning, but it’s not the kind one can swim out of; it’s a suffocating abyss that’s not even real—sinking in a sea that’s not even wet, lost in a reality that feels like a bad dream. The darkness has swallowed everything, thick and unyielding, leaving nothing but an empty void.

She drifts through this bizarre, non-water space, gliding in an ocean of nothingness—just a faint mist, pure white, rising from the depths like a ghostly whisper in the all-consuming darkness. A sharp pang of hopelessness hits her, a finality she’s never experienced before. 

It’s beyond death, beyond the void—a desolate desert of emptiness that screams louder than any silence.

In that instant, she’s hit by this gut-wrenching, primal dread—the kind of fear that comes with staring into the abyss and realising it’s staring back. 

Then, without warning, she’s hurtling towards the unknown, and the ground rushes up to greet her. The impact is soft, almost surreal, like stepping into a dream. And then memories explode in her mind like a tornado, swirling with no rhyme or reason, no timeline to tether them. 

A question echoes in her mind like a thunderclap: Who am I, really?

Severina stares into the inky waters below, two faces looking back at her—both familiar yet completely alien. One is her own: golden hair plastered to her face, kohl-rimmed eyes smeared with tears and mascara. She’s decked out in a Ralph Lauren golden dress from the spring-summer 2019 collection; its once-shiny threads are now dull and damp. Red lips are smeared with wine and water—the same water that fully swallowed her. she died. A shockingly easy realisation to grasp.

For a heartbeat, she wonders if she’s Natalia Brown, born Natalya Mikhailv—a gifted 19-year-old fencer, six-time Olympic gold medallist, and student at some elite university, with life stretching out ahead like a bright, uncharted map.

But then the other face catches her eye, and a wave of memories crashes in: a lonely childhood, teaching ungrateful brats, lurking in the shadows. No, she’s Severina Snape—around 40, a traitor to some and a martyr to others. 

A professor, a spy, an outcast—but still that overachieving kid with dreams that never quite took flight. A Slytherin through and through, yet there’s a whisper of a mundane Muggle life left in the dust in the back of her mind. 

It’s like she’s two people—or maybe more—her identity fracturing, blurring at the edges.

She’s both and neither. A tangled mess of contradictions, a sad patchwork of fragmented selves. How on earth can someone be two people at once? 

How can she feel like someone else entirely? other than themselves. 

Her mind, a bit rusty but still firing, drifts back to the day she clinched her first Olympic gold medal. It was the 2016 Summer Olympics in Rio de Janeiro. The sun felt brighter back then, and her palms were sweaty against the familiar grip of those white gloves. Cheers erupted around her, and it took an embarrassingly long moment for it to sink in that they were calling her name.

Her father, John, had touched her face gently, whispering, “Good job, Nat.” 

Her mother’s lips stretched into a smug, full smile. “I expect nothing less from my daughter.” 

The word—daughter—had weighed heavily in the air, and in that moment she felt pure happiness.

She imagined flying home to the holiday house, riding Vlad, her horse, to unwind. But of course, that could wait—she still had two more medals to win. Her mother would want to celebrate, to brag, to make a big deal out of it. But Natalia was fine with it; she was happy, an Olympic champion.

Then, just like that, John and Elizabeth—her parents—faded into a whisper. Suddenly, she sees someone else: black, greasy hair, uncomfortably long—a woman, maybe 40, maybe older. 

It was May 2, 1998—long after the Battle of Hogwarts had ended, and her mind is all too aware of it.

The school was a tragic sight. Bodies lay strewn across the ground, remnants of both sides. The air was thick with the aftermath of shattered magic. Clad in a mourning robe, wand trembling in her hand, Severina Snape wore a mask of apathy as she watched her school being crushed by giants, the last defence of the Order collapsing. An Order made up of her students after the original members had been killed or wounded in the chaos. 

Her dark eyes took in everything, unflinching.

She could smell the ozone, tempting her with the promise of destruction, magic swirling around her in a bitter, barely suppressed rage. To the Death Eaters, it might look like the ecstasy of victory, but then Greyback recoiled, his werewolf instincts screaming to flee from the decaying magic snarling within the headmistress’s walls.

“I have a duty,” she told herself. “I cannot die.” With that, she rebuilt her Occlumency, layer by layer, pushing the smell of ozone away. At that, Greyback seemed to relax. 

Her allies—a ragtag bunch of underage students forced to fight like soldiers—were crumbling. She willed herself to look at Harry Potter, just a few feet away. 

The last gift from Lily—just another name that flickered through her shattered mind—left for this godforsaken world. Nagini coiled around him, her grip tightening, bones cracking as she prepared to swallow him whole. Severina showed nothing, her expression a mask of calm.

In her hand, hidden beneath her long sleeve, were Harry’s glasses. But she also held something smaller—a golden chain with intricate runic designs, wrapped around her finger—the broken Time-Turner.

Bellatrix laughed loudly, perhaps at her. Voldemort shot her a look that silenced her, shrinking her down to nothing. She felt his red eyes on her, searching. Whatever he saw seemed to please him. “You could mould the school in your image, Severina. This is my gift for you, my most loyal servant.” He stood beside her, finally willing the giants to stop. “What could be better than the very heart of wizarding education, restored to glory?”

Hogwarts lay in ruins, but the state of the castle mattered little to her. The walls and the broken bridge could be rebuilt. Not her students.

Severina tightened her grip on the broken Time-Turner. “Thank you, my Lord. This gift is as unexpected as it is significant. I assure you, I will dedicate myself fully to Hogwarts.”

The memory shifts. It was 2000, Two years after the war, after the Chosen One had fallen, in a partially restored Hogwarts—only the Great Hall had been fully replaced. The castle had accepted her as its mistress, loyal and faithful to her just as it was to Dumbledore. She wielded its eldritch magic, fixing the wards as if they’d never been shattered by the giants' warhammers. 

It was a bedroom—unfamiliar, with blue-grey walls, old bookshelves lining every inch, coated in dust, and threadbare furniture. The headmaster’s chamber. Hers, back then. She changed nothing and personalised nothing; the only difference was her collection of books. 

She’d gathered ancient runes and dark magic texts from the Department of Mysteries library, all with The Dark Lord’s permission. Some were in old languages, others translated by her own hand—covering various branches of ancient magic. There were dictionaries, too, and dictionaries for the dictionaries.

Some of these she’d collected on her undercover holiday jaunts. A wanted woman like her couldn’t exactly waltz outside Magical Britain. In her self-absorbed sabbatical, she learnt enough magic to ditch the wand for good.

And then, on the table, Natalia-maybe-not spots Potter’s broken glasses.

On the carpet, Severina sat in a short, faded silk slip that barely covered her flat chest, hugging her knees. Her skin was unnaturally pale, and the steam-like black veins snaked across her back and over her knees. Her hair hung long and greasy, a tangled mess of shadows.

Across from her on a chair, a portrait of Dumbledore watched her with sadness. At first glance, it seemed like she was curled up on his knee, as if he could lean down and stroke her hair to comfort her.

“MACUSA and the Kremlin have issued a statement today. I suspect their wizards will arrive before the month concludes,” Snape remarked, breaking the silence with a vague gesture as if quoting the air. “‘Restore peace to Britain,’ they proclim. I was rather disappointed to learn they have moles within their own ranks.”

Dumbledore enquired, “Did you attempt to persuade him to make you a spy once more?”

“I considered it,” she replied, taking a measured sip of the wine. “However, there is nothing I could say or do that would convince the union of my allegiance. It would be on sight, regardless. Moreover, Voldemort has begun to doubt me of late—Bellatrix’s influence, no doubt. I suspect he has started to fear me, though he would never allow himself to acknowledge it.”

Severina hugged her knee tightly, and the slip stretched, revealing a generous expanse of skin marked with those steam-like black veins creeping through her pale complexion. The fabric slipped off her shoulder, exposing a tip of the nibble, but neither she nor Dumbledore seemed particularly concerned about her lack of decency. They were both too exhausted to care. Bellatrix had been ambushing the school, tearing apart her apartment, hunting for anything that might rid her of Severina once and for all.

Severina summoned Potter’s broken glasses to her hand, swift and silent. She spun it idly, grieving a lad who was not hers. 

Severina's fingertips, Natalia observes, are bloodied—peeled and raw from her nails, red and inflamed. Magic crackled around her, bitter and cold, while the scent of ozone thickened in the air.

As headmistress of Hogwarts, she had reconfigured the apartment wards to adjust to the twisted, rotten remnants the Obscurus-ridden magic core would leave behind. 

From its enchanted windows, Fawkes made a sound that Severina heard rather than saw. Natalia glances upward and sees him. 

“The Chosen One,” she sneered, her tone coated with bitterness. She came to despise the word: prophesy. “What a jock. I’ve never had much fondness for prophecies; they lead fools to their own demise.”

“Grindelwald had a vision years ago,” Albus remarked, “in which an Obscurial killed the man he feared above all others.”

“The man he fears above all others,” Snape echoed, “you?”

“Yes. And here you are, an Obscurial who killed me.”

“You made me do it. You turned me into this,” she retorted, “and you are the fool who believes that madwoman’s ramblings.”

Breezily, the former headmaster lowered his head humbly. “I apologise profusely for what you have endured, Severina. Truly, I am sorry.”

Severina sniffed and glanced at her hand. Being an Obscurial didn’t just mean being a ticking bomb waiting to explode. Dumbledore had convinced her she could master it completely—just like his apparently late nephew, Aurelius Dumbledore. Aurelius had managed to control his Obscurus, transforming it into a flying, incorporeal entity that looked like a black, fluid-like cloud or a violent torrent of darkness. Strong and chaotic enough to unleash a mindless rampage of destruction, much like Credence Barebone’s catastrophic spree through New York, if not kept firmly in check.

She willed it, and just like that, her hand transformed into an incorporeal, shapeless black mess. The air crackled with the smell of ozone—like a brewing storm, like the sea, like the sky after a downpour. It was heavy with anger, fear, and the ghosts of that unforgettable night at the Shrieking Shack. But there was more bubbling beneath the surface. It tugged at her memory, evoking Christmas and starless nights by a frozen lake, though she couldn’t quite pin down why. Maybe it was some deep-seated childhood memory trying to claw its way back into the light.

“More people become good through practice than by nature. You’re naturally gifted. I have no doubt you’ll succeed,” Dumbledore assured her. He paused, his voice softening. “You’ve done remarkably well, Severina. For what it’s worth, I’m proud to call you my student.”

Severina sat silent, her gaze fixed on her hands. With a flick of her wrist, she summoned a collection of papers, spreading them out before Dumbledore’s portrait. Four tomes lay there; one, a half-translated Babylonian manuscript, yellowed with age and barely held together despite the charm she had cast to stabilise it. Another tome focused on Germanic tribes and their runes.

“My research has reached an intriguing juncture,” she stated, her fingers suspended in the air as she traced shimmering runic lines in pale blue. “I cannot guarantee that I’ll be able to repair the Time-Turner itself; however, the core runic structure is intact.” She paused, allowing the weight of her words to settle. “I believe I can traverse time—or at least send part of myself back. The specifics elude me, and I cannot predict what might be sent. It remains a theory, untested, but I wish to conduct further research before proceeding.” 

She knew, deep down, that the portrait wasn’t really Dumbledore. No enchantment, no matter how powerful, could capture the depth of his knowledge—just a vague impression based on how he looked to the painter. The portrait was limited in what it could say or do. Dumbledore himself had helped her set the enchantment on a blank canvas for the artist she chose, sharing a bit of his experience and some memories, but none of his living intelligence was there. 

But she still needed to speak with him, to show him everything, to catch that glint in Dumbledore’s eyes. It would soothe her pain and wash away her despair.

“I’m not myself,” the portrait of Dumbledore said gently. “I can’t fully judge your work, and I don’t doubt your abilities, but Severina... be mindful. What you’re suggesting bears a resemblance to Horcruxes—the most heinous act of evil. You are proposing to give away parts of yourself, and from what I gather about your runes, this is perilous, Severina. Consider the consequences, the danger of dehumanisation.”

Severina delicately folded Potter’s glasses and set them atop one of the tomes. She emptied the wineglass in a single gulp, her high tolerance for alcohol a result of years spent testing her own potions since her girlhood. 

“I know,” she stated, her tone measured. “If there is one lesson you imparted, Albus, it is that the greatest good is…priceless.”

She owed it to them, to herself, to try.

Natalia-maybe-not feels a chill spreading through her body, her mind teetering on the brink of shattering. Another memory, sharp and vivid, slips into her fractured mind. She gasps for air, for anything to steady herself.

It's the memory of Voldemort standing over her desk, his hand poised over the enchanted oak. Just behind him, out of sight, hovers a half-drawn runic circle, suspended in the air behind the threadbare tapestry, ready to be used. 

“Snape,” Bellatrix said curtly as she passed her, lowering her hood slowly. 

“Bellatrix,” Severina replied, her lips curling into a subtly mocking smile.

She did not take her gaze from Severina as she moved to stand behind her lord, glowering at her. 

“I trust you are well, Severina?” Voldemort enquired, his hand hovering just above her desk, barely making contact. It was a pale, elongated appendage—utterly devoid of humanity, like everything else about him. 

Unlike Bellatrix, who flaunted her curves in revealing attire, Severina opted for a high-necked black leather bodice—charmed and expertly tailored. It not only protected her figure but also concealed the scars beneath. Over it, she draped a plain black leather coat.

“I am, my Lord.”

Voldemort hummed softly. “Good good.” He looked at her, prodding her mind. “There are traitors among us—fools who have been doing MACUSA’s bidding and betraying our cause, thinking that by siding with the Mudblood they might save themselves. I want you to find them and bring them to me. Make an example of them.”

Severina kept her face impassive. She was not merely a mole for the Kremlin and MACUSA; she had orchestrated schemes with both prime ministers, the three of them working in secrecy. She had set up the wards herself at their chosen location, crafted and enhanced with dragon's blood, and taken the additional step of making unbreakable vows. So far, everything had proceeded smoothly. 

The members of Voldemort’s inner circle were being dismantled one by one. If he had come for her personally, it meant he was losing his patience, and when he lost his patience, he became prone to mistakes.

“As you command, my Lord.”

“I trust you above all others, Severina. Do not fail me as Bella has.”

“What is this?” Bella shrieked, gleeful and vindictive, as she stepped out from behind her lord to grab something from the table. Her once splotchy face, marred by Voldemort’s japes, regained its color. “Potter’s glasses. I knew it—I knew you were the traitor, you Mudblood wretch.”

“Put it down, Bella. We must not touch what does not belong to us.”

“My Lord,” Bella implored, brandishing the broken glasses before her face before hurling them at Severina, who deftly sidestepped. “Why does she keep Potter’s glasses? Potter, the son of the Mudblood she adored.” Her shrieks rendered her appearance unhinged.

“Enough, Bella,” Voldemort commanded, and instantly, her mouth clamped shut. 

“I expect to see you at our next meeting, Severina.” Voldemort strode toward the fireplace, and as he passed her, she bowed, then cast a glance at Bella, her lips curling into a silent, mocking smirk. This seemed to fracture Bella’s composure; she seized an ancient, yellowed book and hurled it against the nearest surface, causing the closet door to swing open. Inside, Dumbledore’s portrait, unanchored to Hogwarts’s gallery, lingered behind an old coat.

“Dumbledore!” Bella shrieked, triumph evident in her voice. “I knew it. I knew it from the start.” 

At the utterance of the old headmaster’s name, Voldemort’s gaze snapped to her, a flash of realisation dawning. In that instant, Severina cast two spells—cave inimicum, Sectumsempra—aimed squarely at Bella, acting swiftly. 

Warm blood spurted from Bella’s neck as if she had been struck by an unseen blade. Her body fell backward, thudding against the hardwood floor with a sickening splash, her head rolling away, while her face froze into a gloating, hollow smile. Her wand fell from her limp right hand. Lifeless. 

She stood over the body, watching as the blood nourished the clamouring runic circle, pale lights absorbing Bella’s essence. The last step of the dark ritual had demanded lives. There was a sense of relief in knowing she wouldn’t have to hunt anyone down. Even if Bella hadn’t seen the portrait, the Dark Lord would hardly object to a death—especially that of a fellow Death Eater. Yet still, there lingered a weight to the act.

But Bella was a constant nuisance. She had ruthlessly murdered Molly, leaving her children orphaned, and inflicted torment on many. She even caused Severina to lose her ill-fated unborn child—merely a week after his dimwitted father fell into the Veil.

A part of Severina, mired in vindictiveness and sorrow, found grim satisfaction in Bella’s death. That was why she had crafted Sectumsempra; there was a certain power in its finality.

Voldemort’s curse narrowly missed Severina, shattering the window behind her. With a quick movement, she threw herself sideways, sending another Sectumsempra—hoping to paralyse him, if only momentarily. Though he was immortal, such a spell would grant her the time needed to activate the runic circle before anyone could intervene to reattach his head.

From outside, the cloud-shrouded sky rumbled ominously. Grey mist began to rise from the riverside of the forest. Inferi, she realised. A strange sense of flattery washed over her; Voldemort saw her as a threat significant enough to raise the Inferi just for her. He had killed enough to create an entire army of them. It would be a daunting task to fight back.

"You demonstrate spirit and bravery, despite your dishonesty, despite your Half-blood status. I must admit, Severina, you have long fascinated me. Since when?"

They started to move sideways, both of them tracing a perfect circle, keeping just the right distance apart. Severina knew she had him temporarily mesmerised and at bay, all because she had played him for so long.

“I wasn’t yours. I was Dumbledore’s, Dumbledore’s from the moment you started hunting her down.” Severina seethed.

“The Mudblood?”

“—and you never realised it, because of the thing you can’t understand.”

Voldemort fell silent for a moment—the kind of silence that lurks in the air like the calm before a storm, the kind that precedes a kill.

He then let out a laugh, hollow and unhinged, echoing through the silent office. “You say you’ve hoodwinked me?” he sneered. “I, Lord Voldemort, the greatest Legilimens in the world, deceived by you? A Half-breed?”

Severina didn’t bother to respond. She cast a fleeting glance at Bellatrix’s head. She needed to extricate him from the office—time was of the essence. The circle required moments to commence the ritual. Her gaze shifted to Dumbledore’s portrait, and she offered a nod, perhaps a farewell. She wasn’t sure anymore. She was risking everything: her life, Hogwarts, and Britain itself. The ritual was untested, constructed from little more than educated guesses.

Dumbledore's expression darkened, and he raised his hand, as if it might reach beyond the frame to touch her. It lingered there, suspended in mid-air. There is an infinite sort of sadness in his eyes when he peered down at her. That was the last image she had before Voldemort, wandlessly, sent a snake-shape bulky wisp of Fiendfyre toward the closet. The flames roared to life, as though they were sentient, intent on erasing his very existence, which gave Severina a split-second's warning to escape as it quickly consumed anything and everything in its path. 

Severina soared through the window and into the yard, emerging amidst the grey mists of the Inferi. Just then, Voldemort appeared before her, gliding among the dark clouds like an avenging angel. His snake-like face contorted into a grotesque, snarling visage, a hideous shade of white.

Severina twirled her feet in a graceful half-circle, conjuring her own version of Fiendfyre that soared skyward, morphing into the shape of a dragon’s head. It charged ahead with tremendous speed, roaring as if it were alive—the bursting flames moulded with the howls of a colossal beast, startling the nearby creatures.

The fiery dragon licked the cloud-studded sky, vanishing into the heavens above just as she averted, narrowly, a curse directed at her. Then it spiralled downward with a roar, like death, launching itself toward the wood.

From the depths of the thick grey mists that coiled like a serpent along the lake’s side, the Inferis—men and women and children with sunken, sightless eyes—began to march. Their numbers swelling into hundreds, perhaps even thousands, advancing with a relentless, chilling purpose.

The horde of undead bumped into each other as shambling corpses blindly climbed over one another in an attempt to escape the fire, but the dragon had already reached them. Soundlessly, they screamed, their mouths opening in a silent cry that couldn’t be heard. Wandlessly, she redirected the blast of dragon-Fiendfyre at the back of the line, taking great care to minimise the risk of hitting anything still living. The flames sprang to devour mouthfuls of the dead, a terrifying overflow battling the approaching mists; Its undead turned to ash in a moment, swept away in a flash of muted gold.

By now, the melee was in full swing. Fellow Death Eaters, who were professors at the school, had joined Voldemort in unleashing a torrent of spells and curses against her. Reluctantly, she unleashed the Obscurus. Its power initially felt like pure anger, a dangerous emotion that often led her to make foolish choices. But soon, that anger transformed into adrenaline. The very ground seemed to quake and heave. 

The dense, sharp smell of ozone started to hold sway over the atmosphere, portending the impending storm. She was the storm.

Blast after blast bounced against shields. 

Every spell Voldemort cast, the Elder Wand tightly gripped in his hand, proved useless, even harmless. The wand's true master was far away, perhaps at Malfoy Manor, but Voldemort never realised it. The madman he was, too arrogant and lost in his own delusions to see the futility of his curses. He screamed orders to his followers, curses flying left and right at those he doubted their loyalty, completely oblivious to his own ineffectiveness.

Yet the spells he cast wandlessly—like the Fiendfyre counter-curse—were effective. The dragon-Fiendfyre extinguished, but the acrid smell of burning flesh and coal lingered in the air. The undead turned to ash, while those who survived rose to obey his commands.

The house-elves of Hogwarts swarmed from the hall, screaming and waving carving knives and cleavers, and at their head, the locket of Regulus Black bouncing on his chest, was the Blacks’ house-elf, his bullfrog’s voice audible even above this din: “Fight! Fight! Fight for my Master, defender of house-elves! Fight the Dark Lord, in the name of brave Regulus! Fight!”

"Betrayer! How could you turn against your master? You’ll pay dearly for it."

The world around her was painted in shades of grey, the earth reeking of rotting flesh. Foul odours saturated the air, reminding her of Spinner's End. Hogwarts wept for its fading glory. She fixed her gaze on him, her eyes both present and distant. Her voice, barely above a whisper, was steely, sharp, and bitter in a way only she could dare be. "I already have."

Her wand was on its last legs, fracturing further with each spell cast, unconsumed by Obscurus’ strain. 

Dark mess erupted in a shockwave, sending Voldemort's spells careening back toward the Death Eaters. Chaos ensued as they scrambled to defend themselves. In a fleeting daze, Severina watched the Obscurus whirl around her, drawing closer but never touching, waiting for her command.

For the first time, she felt its full power—the seductive allure it promised. She had surrendered to its intensity, to its promises, and to Dumbledore’s words, believing in his assertion that an Obscurial could be far stronger than a healthy wizard. Yet, it still felt like watching herself descend into a grave.

Her vision was blurred, and her body grew faint from blood loss. 

Perhaps, she mused, things might have turned out differently if I had just embraced the Obscurus when it mattered most, set aside my pride, and stopped wallowing in my own self-pity. 

The black hurricane swept across the battlefield with a vengeance. Ancient oak trees, standing tall for centuries, were yanked from the ground, their roots grasping at the soil in vain as the winds tossed them around like mere toys.

In the wake of the swirling mess, the Death Eaters didn’t stand a chance. They were yanked into the air, their terrified screams swallowed by the howling winds. Bones shattered as bodies collided, battered by flying debris. Some unfortunate souls were crushed beneath falling trees or chunks of stone from collapsed buildings. Others were impaled on jagged shards of wood or debris, left to dangle lifelessly in the chaos. The once-proud ranks of Voldemort's followers were reduced to a scattered, whimpering mess; any semblance of order was destroyed.

Even the Dark Lord himself had not anticipated such a display of wrath. His shield charm was hastily thrown up just in time—by a mere thread—but it wasn’t enough to withstand the onslaught. 

Voldemort was sent sprawling, his robes tearing apart in the chaos. He hit the ground hard, his eyes wide with shock, completely caught off guard.

Stubbornly straight-backed amid the wreckage, gushing blood, Severina’s body was immersed in a churning black veil, twisting and throbbing with a malevolent force. Scarlet blood poured from her many wounds, staining her robes an even darker hue. 

Her body was a mess of pain, and she felt warm rivulets of blood start to snake down her arms, seeping beneath her tattered clothes. It tickled, and then she laughed—a mad, hysterical sound that sent chills down their spines. The Death Eaters circled her, wide-eyed and trembling, horrified. For once, they looked at her with more terror than they did their own Dark Master.

"What is this?" one of them whispered, his voice shaking. "What is she?"

"Mad," another replied. "She's lost her wits."

At last, someone yelled, their words brimming with desperation. “Kill her!”

That snapped her out of her haze. She grinned, her lips cracked and dry, and unleashed another dark blast. As headmistress, Severina was the only one who could apparate within Hogwarts’s walls—though it seemed no one else was in a hurry to follow her lead. They were too busy squashing the rebellious House-elves or the burning forest. 

She snagged a still-breathing victim, Macnair, on her way and reappeared in front of the desk where the ashes of Bellatrix lay.

Voldemort’s Fiendfyre had turned the office and its wall-length library into nothing but blackened ashes. But the runic circle was still intact, pounding, nearly complete, rhythmic in the initial stages.

“Please, please… Snape,” Macnair begged, “No,” 

Severina wrenched her arm free from his grip and quickly stabbed his neck, yanking sideways for a swift end. 

She stood there, staring at him—watching the fresh lifeblood drain from his arteries to feed the circle. 

Blinking away the haze, she sent another Dragon-Fiendfyre spiralling from the window without even looking. A pale crimson light swirled around the body, wrapping around Severina as she lost her balance. She fell, face-planting against Macnair’s still chest.

Not-Natalia's feet glide silently over the mist-covered ground, barely touching it. Then, like icy talons creeping in, realisation begins to sink in. At first, it feels like a nightmare—a vivid, uncannily realistic one, packed with details and an overwhelming sense of touch.

Breathing in sharply, Natalia struggles to comprehend the whirlwind of thoughts crashing over her.

“Holy shit,” she mutters, stunned. But then she glances at her hand, and panic surged back in. It is thin, spindly, alien—so unfamiliar. This isn’t her hand. This isn’t her body.

Natalia inhales, and then exhales.

In. 

Out. 

Her hands—Natalia bloody Brown’s hands—should be calloused from years of fencing practice, nails well-trimmed and polished with a vibrant red tip. But these hands are bony, the nails short and blunt, marred by jagged scars from burns. They belonged to a stranger, a woman whose life is nothing like her own.

A cold dread creeps into her heart. The memories of her life as Natalia Brown, a 19-year-old college student, feel distant and hazy, like a dream slipping away. The routines of everyday life, the comfort of family and friends, all dissolve into the mist. Then, another set of memories surfaces—sharp and vivid. Inside her, the two identities collide. In her mind, Severina, the bitter, cynical adult, battles Natalia, the young, foolish student, both vying for control.

"What the hell is happening to me?" she whispers, tears brimming in her eyes. The mist surrounding her seems to mock her confusion, offering no clarity, only a chill of doubt.

Natalia, or Severina, or whoever she is now, feels a deep sense of isolation and despair. She’s no longer the person she thought she was.

She spots a misty shape starting to form as her eyes adjust to the darkness. A dark-cloaked figure kneels in the distance, either grieving or deep in prayer.

Natalia takes a cautious step closer.

The woman’s features sharpen into focus: hollow eyes like bottomless pits of blackness, set deep in a sallow, lined face half-hidden beneath lank hair. Her unnaturally white skin clung to sharp bones made by grief.

Slowly, the dark-robed figure lifts her gaze to meet Natalia’s, and her mind supplies the name—Severina Snape.

"So, you’re the other soul," Snape rasps, more to herself than to Natalia, as she studies her from head to toe. Her hollow gaze glides over Natalia, measuring her presence, and she senses a quiet caution that feels both scarred and plucked at, as if searching for something she has no hope of finding.

Startled, Natalia stammers, "What are you talking about?"

Snape makes a slow, languid gesture with her pale, thin hands. "You and I, we have become one."

"What?" A hint of fear slips into Natalia’s voice, but beneath that, a deeper part of her seems to grasp the absurdity of it all. It’s a ridiculous, incomprehensible theory, yet alarms are blaring in her head.

Snape observes her with those disturbing eyes of hers for quite a bit of time without responding. Then she rises unsteadily, her skeletal frame barely clinging to the tatters of blooded robe that hang limp upon her form. "Our souls, our minds, our memories—they have traversed the thin veil between realms and become inextricably entwined," she intones in a hollow yet urgent tone, dark eyes pleading for understanding. 

"No..." Natalia makes a strangled sound, a pitched whimper. 

A silence. 

Snape’s hollow gaze grows distant with remembrance. "The ritual I crafted—the one that allowed me to travel through time—demanded a piece of my soul as payment. But it tore me apart even more. Somehow, your soul latched onto mine after your own death, like a leech.” 

Her eyes lock onto Natalia's again, her expression unreadable. "I’m fading, absorbed by your invading soul. My body has become half-host to the meddling entity that is you."

"So one of us... disappears?" Natalia whispers, feeling a creeping stillness settle in her limbs.

A skeletal hand lifts as if to grasp Natalia, yet falls short.

"Not disappear, but assimilate. Your soul devours mine, and in time there will be only one of us left," Severina replies, a note of grim dismissal in her hollow voice. "Though I suppose for one who so carelessly gave up their own life, that should matter little."

Natalia bristles at the tasteless jab at her apparently successful suicide. "Spare me your judgment, witch," she snaps. 

"We are one being now, two souls blended into one existence. My purpose must become yours as well."

"You think you can control me so easily?" Natalia's eyes flash with defiance.

"Whether you accept it or not, our souls are now fused," Severina intones, her hollow voice carrying a note of finality. "My memories, my magic, and my very essence are intertwined with yours. My work to defeat the Dark Lord remains unfinished, and our shared soul will know no peace until he draws his last breath."

"Bollocks," Natalia mumbles thoughtlessly. "None of this is real; you're just a book character."

Snape’s lips turn down with stifling grace, expressing a disappointment that seems like a fleeting cloud and a tsunami all at once. Those cold obsidian eyes peer impassively.

When Severina speaks again, her tone is somber. "There is no undoing what has been done to merge our identities. We cannot be separated."

“Cannot, or you do not wish to?” Natalia challenges, “I hold your memories within my grasp now. If I were to end my life, your fractured soul would not survive the loss.” 

Raw emotion flickers in the depths of Severina's hollow stare—fear, perhaps, or desperation. Natalia notices, just as she is about to take a step back, that Snape is tearing up. Eyes glistening. She says, “I know you wish to live, Brown, for your memories are mine as well. Neither of us will ever be safe from him while he remains.” 

“I’m getting out of here. I didn’t ask for this.” 

The bony grasping hand clutches at the air once, twice, and then retreats. 

"None of us did," Severina says, her voice trembling slightly. "Your memories are my own, and through them, I witnessed your regret the moment you lost control of your boat."

"This is madness," Natalia replies, though less certain than before. Some small, traitorous part of her recognises the truth in Snape's words.

"It is what it is," the witch says, a note of resignation in her tone. "Tell me truly—do you wish to live?" 

Staring into Severina's endless dark eyes, Natalia finds her mind drifting to her own family—her mother (Elizabeth, not Elieen), always pushing her to do more, be more, never satisfied. She thinks of competitions—the future she had denied herself. To her surprise, Natalia realises with a sinking heart that she truly, deeply wishes to have lived. Not just existed. 

Natalia finds herself admitting in a small voice, "I do." A strange vulnerability overcomes her. This strange limbo between worlds had stripped away all defences, leaving only raw truth between the two fractured souls.

“Then let us live.” 

Natalia inhales, and then exhales.

In. 

Out. 

Hesitantly, she places her hand in Severina's grasp. Severina's thin lips curl slightly at the corners—not a smile of joy, but a predatory grin, like a wolf catching the scent of fresh prey.

Suddenly, the rush of Severina's memories floods Natalia’s mind. One moment, she’s certain she’s the fencer Natalia Brown, and the next, she's recalling the life of the spy witch Severina Snape.

Memories invade her consciousness, twisted and ambiguous. It feels like an out-of-body experience as fragmented yet connected events flash before her eyes. She can’t quite grasp her identity, lost in the fog of confusion, floating between two worlds.

She suddenly realises she’s standing in a calm meadow, the fog swirling around her. For a moment, she thinks she’s alone, until she spots movement beneath a large oak tree. A little girl lies there, lost in her own thoughts, basking in the dappled shade.

Natalia—or is it Severina?—feels her legs pulling her toward the strange child, almost against her will.

As she stands over the girl, she takes in her unsettling appearance. Beneath torn, second-hand clothes, the child’s body is horrifyingly emaciated, showing clear signs of malnutrition. Her sharp collarbone and sunken cheekbones make it seem like her bones might break through at any moment. Some might argue she looks more like a corpse than a little girl.

A tangled mess of long black hair spills across the grass. But it’s the girl’s eyes that truly capture Natalia's attention—huge and eerily vacant.

The child’s complexion is unnaturally pale, almost translucent against the inky locks beneath her, giving her a sallow appearance that feels like she’s stepped right out of a Tim Burton film.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, Natalia spots another figure—a rosy-cheeked redhead soaking up the sun, seemingly invisible until now. Lily, her mind supplies. The sunlight bathes her in a golden glow, making her hair shimmer like spun gold.

“Sev, tell me more about Hogwarts,” the redhead says with a bright smile.

In that moment, the shifting memories crystallise for Natalia, revealing two girls standing side by side—one draped in Gryffindor red and gold, the other in Slytherin's green and silver.

She watches as the younger Severina is relentlessly pushed aside and tormented by a group of boys.

Initially, Lily defended her, but suddenly she started avoiding her, clearly embarrassed. She requested secret meetups, wanting to keep their friendship under wraps. Following her new Gryffindor pals’ advice, she grew wary of Severina, scrutinising her for any sign of guilt that would fit the narrative they’d spun. Severina, by then, had become some lonely freak on the periphery of things.

The breaking point came when Potter and his crew turned Severina’s own spell, Levicorpus, against her, hoisting her into the air for the entire school to see. While Lily stood by, flirting with Potter instead of truly defending her friend, her half-hearted plea to “let her down” was drowned out by the crowd's jeers and laughter.

“You’re lucky Evans was here, Snivellus," Potter had sneered.

Severina had retaliated angrily, feeling hurt. “I don't need help from filthy little Mudbloods like her!” 

Lily’s barely-veiled grin vanished completely. She blinked, eyes wide and uncomprehending, as if the words she’d just heard were in an entirely foreign language. Then a flash of rage crossed her face.

"Then you won't get any," she spat, and after a beat of silence, her voice dropped to a low growl, "Snivellus!"

In that moment, Severina’s heart—Natalia’s heart—shattered. Regret flooded her. She apologised, but Lily remained unmoved, her face a cold mask, her eyes stripped of warmth. That day marked the end of their friendship.

The vision shifts, the world around her dissolving into a swirling vortex of shadows.

Suddenly, the Dark Lord's gaze locked onto her at the Malfoy Ball.

Back then, he wasn’t the terrifying figure of nightmares—the name that sent shivers down spines. No, this was something else entirely—younger, still human, undeniably attractive, with an alluring aura that drew eyes like moths to a flame. His well-styled, wavy hair framed a face radiating an intense charisma. Dressed in an expensive, flowing black robe, the silver detailing slithered across the fabric like a serpent.

He approached her with an unsettling authority, men parting away, riveted by his presence, while women sighed and stared at him with hungry, lecherous eyes.

His long, pale fingers brushed against her chin, a touch so light it was nearly imperceptible.

"I see potential in you, Miss Snape," he rasped, his voice a low whisper laced with something else—something that made her heart race. It wasn’t just the threat of his power, but a promise of excitement, a chance to escape the confines of her dreary life.

His eyes, like burning embers, seemed to pierce through her soul, slithering into her mind and sifting through her memories. The shame, the loneliness, the desperate need for acceptance—it was all laid bare before him.

The intensity of his gaze made her feel both exposed and oddly exhilarated.

"Potential," the Dark Lord repeated, the word rolling off his tongue like a promise, a challenge.

"You are truly brilliant," he whispered. His voice resonated with a depth she hadn’t fully grasped at the time, but now she recognised its weight. "It’s a shame you lived your life unseen, Miss Snape, but I see you. I see what you are."

His hand moved from her chin to grasp her own, sealing the moment.

The scene changes. It takes a little longer to reform this time. She then stands on a hilltop, deserted and cold in the dead of winter, with the restless wind whispering through the foliage of a few bare trees. The adult Severina was panting, turning on the spot, her wand gripped tightly in her hand, waiting for something or for someone…

Then a blinding, jagged jet of white light flew through the air. 

Dumbledore stood before Severina with his robes whipping around him, and his face was illuminated from below in the light cast by his wand.

“Well, Severina? What message does Lord Voldemort have for me?”

“No, no message—I'm here on my own account!”

Severina was wringing her hands. She looked a little mad, with her straggling black hair flying around him.

“I come with a warning—no, a request—please—”

Dumbledore flicked his wand. Though leaves and branches still flew through the night air around them, silence fell on the spot where he and Severina faced each other.

“What request could a Death Eater make of me?”

“The prophecy... the prediction... Trelawney…”

“Ah, yes,” said Dumbledore. “How much did you relay to Lord Voldemort?”

“Everything—everything I heard!” said Severina. “That is why—it is for that reason—he thinks it means Lily Evans!”

“The prophecy did not refer to a woman,” said Dumbledore. “It spoke of a boy born at the end of July.”

“You know what I mean! He thinks it means her son, he is going to hunt her down—kill them all—”

“If she means so much to you,” said Dumbledore, “surely Lord Voldemort will spare her? Could you not ask for mercy for the mother, in exchange for the son?”

“I have—I have asked hi—”

“You disgust me,” said Dumbledore. Severina seemed to shrink a little, “You do not care, then, about the deaths of her husband and child?”

Severina said nothing but merely looked up at Dumbledore.

“Hide them all, then,” she croaked. “Keep her —them—safe. Please.”

“And what will you give me in return, Severina?”

“In—in return?” Severina gaped at Dumbledore, but after a long moment she said, “Anything.”

The scene starts to change, and this time, Natalia feels her head pounding like a war drum and her nose gushing. The agony is excruciating.

“Severina, please.” Dumbledore whispered, “You must kill me.” 

Snape’s eyes were wet with hateful tears. “…alright then..”

At last, Natalia-now-Severina jolts awake, gripped by a primal terror that leaves her feeling astonishingly alive. Her muscles buzz with adrenaline as something approaches.

In that instant, the windows explode into a million shards just as she stirs. Amid the chaos, a black, formless figure darts past her, giving her a fleeting glimpse of the raw power surging inside her.

A vague but comforting memory stirs—she’s done this before, in a past she can barely grasp. Everything in Severina—her need for order, her instinct to contain, and the way suppression came easily—was born from the necessity of keeping that horrific force on a tight leash.

Natalia (or maybe it’s Severina?) inhales, and then exhales.

In. 

Out. 

She slams the Occlumency barriers back into place, a reflex honed by long-standing muscle memory, trapping the Obscurus deep in her mind and quelling the chaos.

The other patients jolt awake, their eyes wide with alarm. The medwitch rushes in, stress etched across her face. Her voice cuts through the tension, sharp with apprehension. "What in Merlin's name happened here?"

Blood drips from Severina’s nose, the metallic taste lingering on her lips. She sits up straight on the edge of the bed, panting heavily, her heart thundering against her ribs as she stares at her trembling hands.

Hot, salty tears stream down her cheeks, stinging her skin.

Everyone is too busy repairing the shattered windows and calming the frightened kids to even notice her. She glances around the hospital wing, taking in the scattered records, smashed potion jars, and bloodstains marring the once-pristine floor.

"Miss Snape," Madam Pomfrey says, gently cradling her jaw to lift her face for inspection. "You have a nosebleed."

Severina flinches away, nearly recoiling in terror at the realization. Suddenly, she breaks down, crying like a lost child.

Her body feels heavy, awkward, and foreign; instead of wailing, she holds her breath as her lungs prick painfully. Her veins throb with a burning sensation, and salt stains her throat.

Madam Pomfrey looks on in shock. The other students merely stare, but for Severina, it’s clear she’s beyond caring.

The medwitch quickly shakes off her surprise and springs into action. She pulls a screen around Severina's bed, casting a silent spell that grants them a much-needed bubble of privacy.

Gently, she takes a handkerchief and dabs it to Severina's nose, wiping away the blood that keeps flowing.

"Now, now, dear, let’s get you sorted out," Madam Pomfrey soothes, her voice warm and reassuring. "We’ll have you feeling better in no time."

Severina’s breath comes in short gasps as she fights to regain her composure.

Madam Pomfrey studies her with concern. "What seems to be the trouble, my dear?"

Waving her wand for a diagnostic spell, Pomfrey finds no obvious cause for Severina's distress. She waits patiently, giving the girl space to open up if she wants to.

Severina takes a shaky breath and replies, "It was just a nightmare." She dabs at her still-bleeding nose with the offered handkerchief.

Pomfrey studies Severina thoughtfully, sensing there’s more lurking beneath the surface. It’s alarming how quickly she raises her Occlumency barriers.

After a moment, the medwitch suggests, "Would a Dreamless Sleep potion help you get some rest tonight?"

"Yes, please."

As Madam Pomfrey turns to grab it, Severina pinches her own hand, staring numbly at the angry red marks left by her fingernails.

Suddenly, she erupts into a frantic string of "What the fuck—what the fuck—" as if she’s finally ready to surrender to her long-suppressed panic.

“Language!” Pomfrey interjects.

Chapter Text

Much more potent than anticipated, the Dreamless Sleep potion sent Severina into a grave, death-like slumber. Her ten-hour nap caused Madame Pomfrey so much anxiety that the matron thought of calling Potions Professor Slughorn to undo the effects of the potion. Not that Severina had a good night's sleep.

Severina's dreams were a nightmarish swirl of memories and 'what ifs' from both her lives, blending into incoherent thoughts, leaving her with a fractured sense of identity. At times, she was Natalia Brown, the top-ranked fencer in the nation; at other times, though, she believed she had been reincarnated as a remorseful character set up as a sacrifice to stir up reader sympathy. The notion of being disposable for another's story left a bitter taste in her mouth.

Grumptious and dazed, Severina opens her eyes gradually. She looks up at the well-lit, strangely familiar ceiling and blinks, staggering into silence. Her bed is still enclosed by the privacy curtains, so she takes a moment to study her bony, slender hands in the low light. The skin appears nearly transparent and abnormally white, with dark veins showing beneath like twisted lightning, much like the wretched hag she would ultimately become. Impulsively, she is curious about her current look. Her long black hair brushes her hips and feels unbearably greasy. She frowns as she brushes her fingers over it. 

Though it's only a fleeting thought, Natalia-maybe-Severina can't help but wonder if she, like the older, creepier version of herself from her dreams, still had that eerie, grisly Tim Burton-esque flair. Judging by her sickly, jaundiced complexion and the skeletal appearance of her hands, the answer is undoubtedly "yes." 

She inhales deeply, lets it out, takes it back, and then does it again. There are faint sounds of students shuffling around the beds or getting ready to go off; the medwitch appears to be overly preoccupied with them and the newly arrived patient. 

Morning dilutes through the privacy curtains.

She pushes away the duvet and sits up, stale. She looks down at her hands, which look so odd, so youthful, so white, and so brittle. Severina stands up slowly, trying to bring her fragile body back into balance. She opens the screen to peek outside. Her stare wanders across the width of the gothic-style aisle, which has been fitted with marble mosaics and hardwood floors.

Down the aisle, Madam Pomfrey's voice rings out, giving what-for to some clumsy blighter who had apparently taken another spectacular tumble from his broom. 

“For heaven's sake, child!” Natalia-maybe-Severina hears her cry, "Isn't once a month of landing in my ward with your head cracked open enough for you?"

One of the Quidditch lads catches her creeping up towards them and gives her a very sheepish look when she first arrives, a feeble half-grin plastered on his face. 

She shoots him a cold look, completely unimpressed by his meagre attempt at a gesture. Her eyes are laser-focused on the basket perched atop the supply trolley, its shelves overflowing with an array of clinical sundries—bandages, tinctures, sterilisers, and the like. Amidst the clutter, a glint of something catches her eye—the two shimmering silver scissors, sparkling brilliantly under the soft glow of the chandelier overhead. With a determined hand, she snatches up the coveted tool and, without a word, slips off to the bathroom, completely unnoticed.

The Hogwarts hospital bathroom is oddly comforting. One wall has more than ten shiny marble-topped sinks, and an equal number of closed stalls stand across from them.

The air is thick with the familiar scent of Hogwarts cleaning soap, a pungent blend of lavender and lemon that speaks of the house-elves' recent work. The place is spotless. 

She steps forward, her gaze sweeping over the rows of sinks. Her eyes linger absently on the intricate carvings that adorn each basin and the delicate floral designs etched into the marble. She picks up a discarded trash bin from the floor, its plastic surface smooth and cold against her fingertips, and places it carefully atop one of the sinks, the sound of the bin hitting the marble echoing in the otherwise silent room. 

Finally, she turns her attention to the mirror above the sink. Her reflection stares back at her, a stranger in a familiar face.

Her stomach sinks. Something isn't right. Something as pervasive and nuanced as the air.

Unbiddenly, she thinks of the moniker her (not) grandmother had given her: Vasilisa the Fair. Resentfully, she snorts at the memory that (isn't) hers. Natalia-maybe-Severina snorts unseemly. There is nothing fair about her looks. Natalia used to be renowned for her beauty, to the point that she would boast about it. She had a fair complexion, a head full of silken golden curls, and vibrant blue eyes. To put it gently, Severina is everything that Natalia was not. 

Her hair—Severina’s— hangs limply, a greasy, tangled black mess that reaches down to her to the middle of her back, with its ends split and noticeably damaged. 

She brushes it, the strands sticking to her fingertips like spiderwebs. A peculiar, slightly pungent, dried purple substance somewhat stained it. 

Her face is like her future counterpart, with harsh angles and empty, haunting eyes. Her complexion is deathly pale and nearly transparent, giving her an off-putting, ghastly aspect.

Her nose, slightly hooked, stands out in stark relief against her sunken cheeks. The large, dark eyes that had once been so blue and her best feature now looked unnaturally wide and prominent, swallowing up the delicate balance of her face. Their inky depths bear no resemblance to the vibrant blue irises of her Natalia.

Even her teeth, once straight and white, have become a yellowed, crooked mess. The imperfect alignment only added to the unsettling, vampiric impression she now gives off. Her lips, once vibrant and full of colour, now appear pale and dry, lacking the natural flush of life. She moistens them with a quick lick, attempting to bring some semblance of vitality back to her expression.

She grimaces, baring the uneven, stained enamel, and shudders. This isn’t the face she was accustomed to seeing in the mirror.

Her features are shadowed by dark circles surrounding her eyes, which enhance her face's hollowed-out look. Even if her face has a little feminine touch, it leans more to androgynous quality, with her cheekbones distinctively gaunt.

She reaches for a strand of her greasy hair, twirling it between her fingers to get a firm grip. With a determined expression, she brings the scissors to her tangled locks and makes a decisive cut. She tosses the severed strand into the nearby trash bin and repeats the process with the rest of her hair. Cut after cut, she trims away the length until her hair barely reaches the nape of her neck.

Only the bangs remain, dangling in front of her face. She carefully adjusts them, ensuring they are balanced and aligned with her nose. Taking a deep breath, she positions the scissors once again and slices through the hair with a swift motion. The final strands fall into place, framing her face in a new, transformed manner. 

After splashing her face with cold water, she submerges her head and harshly scrapes her scalp with her fingers until she feels no trace of the dried purple gunk that had matted her hair. Rivulets of water stream down her face and neck, drenching the collar of her hospital gown.

Everything seems real. Real enough, she supposes.

Real enough, but only just.

Natalia-maybe-Severina hesitates only a moment before returning to her bed. The stares of the other patients, two Hufflepuffs, burned into her back.

Apparently, her absence had not gone unnoticed. 

"Miss Snape!" Madam Pomfrey exclaims, her eyes widening comically as she catches sight of Severina's newly shorn locks. "What have you done?" she murmurs, shell-shocked.

Natalia-maybe-Severina simply shrugs, settling back against the stiff mattress. 

The matron purses her lips but refrains from further comment; instead, she casts a series of silencing charms around the bed. 

Once the spell has been put in place, she fixes Severina with a pointed stare.

“Do you remember your nightmares?” Madam Pomfrey makes an unclear gesture towards the room at large.

The floors had been cleaned of any evidence of broken glass from the previous evening, and all of the windows had been fixed. Even Severina's blood-stained bed sheets had been changed. 

“I apologise for last night; I didn’t mean to.” 

“I know, dear. It happens all the time with young witches. Accidental magic is quite common.”

The numbness in her brain has her protectively hunched, and the longer the medwitch keeps the silence going, the more she wants to scream, shove her way out of here, and rip up the privacy curtains. She has no energy, no idea, no sense whatsoever. 

Madam Pomfrey summons a soft towel and drapes it gently over the girl's damp head. "Professor Slughorn will be here shortly to explain everything," the healer says soothingly, giving Severina's shoulder a reassuring squeeze. 

Just then, the privacy curtain rustles as the Potions professor sweeps in. "Good morning, Poppy. And good morning, Miss Snape," he greets, pausing as his gaze falls on Severina's shorn, wet hair and drenched hospital gown. He throws a questioning glance at Madam Pomfrey before continuing, "I trust you are feeling better, my dear." 

Severina's eyes narrow, and she bites out bluntly. "I feel like shit.” 

The privacy screen parts again, and Professor McGonagall strides in, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. Severina stifles a sudden sob and turns her eyes away to not meet the concerned gazes of the professors. One memory jogs: the mutilated, torn-apart body of the old professor. Severina averts her eyes, blinks away the tears, blinks away the searing grief that is eating her chest from within.

"Miss Snape has just awakened, and I was about to hear the details of her…condition," Madam Pomfrey interjects diplomatically. She turns to Severina, her expression kind but resolute. "My dear, I think it's time we all had a proper discussion about what has happened to you."

The healer sees the blackness of the Slythrein temper. Twisted and ugly. But it brings a sense of relief, in a way, to see the impeccable Occlumency shields slip off to show the girl her real feelings. Anger, at least, is easier to understand and address. It’s better than the numbness and that baffled, starry-eyed expression she had attempted to hide. Severina scoffs tartly, “condition? I want to know exactly why I’m here. How I ended up here.”

Professor McGonagall's lips press into a thin, disapproving line as she turns her gaze to Professor Slughorn. The Potions master shifts uncomfortably under the Deputy Headmistress' stern scrutiny. 

"There were... mishaps in class," Slughorn begins, clearing his throat nervously. "One of the students, as a harmless jest, of course, decided to interfere with Miss Snape's potion." 

McGonagall's expression hardens, her eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. Even from the corner of her eye, Severina can see the sheer disapproval radiating from the formidable professor.

Suddenly, a dawning realisation strikes Severina. "Did that fat cun- " she stares, only to be sharply cut off. 

"Miss Snape!" Professor McGonagall intones sternly, her nostrils flaring. 

Undeterred, Severina presesses on, her voice dripping with venom. "Did that fat cunt and his unhinged cunts of friends try to sabotage my potion again? Эти ублюдки сделали это со мной. ¹." 

The Potions Master shifts uncomfortably, avoiding her gaze. "I'm afraid that is precisely what happened," he admits reluctantly. "The, ah, incorrect concoction the student introduced caused... some unexpected effects."

Natalia-maybe-Severina’s jaw tightens, her eyes burning with barely restrained fury. "Then tell me," she growls, "what the fuck did that potion do to me? Oh—Я собираюсь надрать ему зад².”

Professor McGonagall looks at her again, her eyes evaluating, and Severina quashes a stirring in her gut.

“You breathed in an extremely harmful potion's vapours. If Slughorn's theory is right, then it feeds extremely misleading information into the victim's mind. Hallucinations, if you will.” 

"The Nourisher of Illusions—perhaps you have heard of it," the Potions Master concedes. 

The silence is thick, but not tense.

At length, Natalia-maybe-Severina’s face relaxes. Her eyes, on the other hand, have become quite clouded. 

"Miss Snape?" Madam Pomfrey prompts gently, her eyes darting between the girl and the Potions professor.

Frustration festers like a wound under her skin, but only slowly. She stares down at her veined, fragile hands. They are thin and scarred from old burns, not the soft, calloused hands she once knew. “Вы, должно быть, шутит³”.

Severina (not Natalia) has prided herself on having nerves of steel; of that, she has been assured many times, but those people who once knew her are no longer accustomed to this aspect of her. 

Of course, she is familiar with the Nourisher of Illusions, a potent potion that could alter one's perception of reality. Natalia-maybe-Severina delves into her memory, searching for any fragments of the accident or its aftermath. All she finds is a shred of memory, a slap on the wrist for those who have wronged her and almost driven her to the brink of madness. Maybe, she muses, they've finally succeeded. 

Her mind swings back to Natalia Brown, wondering if she was real or born from her misfortune. Natalia-maybe-Severina recalls the dream of Old Severina offering her a chance to take her place and her last conversation with her own mother (Natalia's)—their last fight. In some ways, she really is Natalia Brown. But more than that, she's Severina Snape—or at least, she has inhabited the hideous husk Snape referred to as a body. She repeats more urgently. “Вы, должно быть, шутит³.”

“Miss Snape? What do you remember?”

Professor Slughorn cleared his throat, his eyes darting to Professor McGonagall for a moment before turning back to Severina. "Perhaps we should consider getting a translator. I know a fifth-year student in my house, Dolohov, who's fluent in Russian. He could help us communicate more effectively." 

“Miss Evans too. She’s her childhood friend.”  

It seems both too long and too short moment before she speaks again, stopping them. “My death,” comes the easy answer like a breeze. Everyone flinch. 

“What?”

"Is this all just a side effect of the Nourisher of Illusions potion?" Natalia-maybe-Severina wonders aloud. 

The professors exchange worried glances, but Madam Pomfrey is the first to speak. "Let's take this one step at a time, Miss Snape.” 

Severina does not say anything. Her expression darkens fleetingly. Her face is blank, rigidly so. That concerns them. 

“Miss Snape?”

Ignoring them, she drives up her Occlumency shield as high as possible. It rises around her mind like a thick fog, swollen and heavy.

The professors exchange another round of glances. She catches the gloomy, stone-faced heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor out of the corner of her eye. 

It's Professor McGonagall, however, who marches up to her first, this time with a newfound sense of urgency. Kneeling so that their eyes were level, she takes Severina's hands in her own, warm and reassuring. 

"Speak with me, Miss Snape," she requests firmly. "Recount everything you know about yourself. Start with the basics, dear." 

"Like what?" 

Professor Slughorn suggests, not unkindly, "Your name would be a good place to begin, if you please, Miss Snape.”

Underneath her mental shield, Severina's thoughts rush. Her name feels … distant, as if it belonged to someone else. 

Worst of all, she understands why. Or at least she believes so. 

“—It will help us assess your memory after this accident.”

"My name," she begins slowly, pausing to collect herself. Internally, she recites the names she knows belong to her: 'Natalya Alexandrovna Mikhailv by birth, Natalia Johnathan Brown by adoption.' But when she speaks, the words that leave her lips are, "Severina Tobiasovna Snape." 

“Very good, your father?”

Severina sniffs derisively. The answer should have been simple, but two names vies for her attention. Aleksander Mikhailov, her biological father, flashes through her mind first. But another name, John Brown, the man who had raised her, also tempted her. In the end, she settles for what seems most appropriate, at least in this setting. "Tobias Alekseivich Snape.” 

“Your mother?”

Elizabth Brown, she thinks, biting her lips. She says, “Eileen Snape.” 

Professor Slughorn exchanges a quick glance with Madam Pomfrey, noting with relief that Severina appeared to know the fundamentals of her own life.

“Continue, my dear.”

“I am a nineteen years old… witch.” 

The medwitch rectifies her thoughtlessly: "You are fourteen years old, Miss Snape. Go on."

Severina has been silent for a while. She stares at her hands on her lap, like they are a new wonder of the world. In a way, perhaps they are. Thoughtlessly, she says. “I remember — dreaming last night.” 

"Would you like to talk about it?” 

A part of her craves this, needs to rant, and then blames it on the accident. "I woke up somewhere I didn't belong." Natalia-maybe-Severina admits, in a fleeting moment of weakness, “out of place, out of time, out of hope. None of this seems real; none of you seem real.” 

The three stare at her, absorbing the statement with the utmost seriousness. 

“I don't quite follow; can you try to explain?"

Severina's focus gathers, intensifies. “You can't understand.” 

“I may surprise you, Miss Snape.” Professor McGonagall says, in careful, measured cadence, “Please try me.” 

“My whole brain's a bunch of missing pieces…I'm still alive when I certainly shouldn't—I,” she begins, and she hesitates before saying anything more. “I am not sure who I am anymore.”

I'm alive. I'm alive. I'm still alive, Natalia-maybe-Severina thinks, suddenly fully awake. I’m still alive, but in a body that isn't my own. She observes her hands stiffly, trembling. She already knows that she looks like hell—hair strung against her sweaty forehead, dark circles beneath her eyes. “bloody hell. I’m alive. какого хрена⁴—" 

The medwitch chides reflexively, although she has not particularly understood the meaning. “language.” 

Severina-maybe-Natalia frowns.

Interestingly, Professor Slughorn poses the most vital query: "What precisely do you feel like? Being alive.” 

“Weird,” Severina admits carefully, then adds, “—vaguely euphoric.” 

She shuts her eyes, rubbing her forehead. 

There is something prickling and uneasy, something that throws doubt, momentary tightening around her. 

“Go on.” 

Severina is silent for a while, and she looks about idly. 

"I am studying at Hogwarts," Natalia-now-Severina states, testing her words. She continues, a bit heatedly, "It is a blasted castle where they teach magic. I'm now the female version of a scapegoat antagonist in teen's fiction who enjoys bullying kids and believes it would be a good idea to sacrifice his life to save the brat, blast him, that his first love, blast her, had with his cunt of a bully, blast him twice over for good measure. I’m the martyr that the world would never acknowledge." 

A thick, anxious silence descends. 

"But don’t worry. If there's one thing Elizabeth Brown has taught me, aside from the fact that I will never be good enough, it's to be a mastermind.” 

“Oh my.”

“Yes.” 

“She knows the basics," Professor Slughorn points out, seemingly satisfied with his explanation. "It would be troubling if she mistook her identity, but she seems to recognise who she is, which is a good sign. We need to make her see the difference herself to understand that this is her reality. The effects of the potion will fade away slowly, but we can't force her to accept it. I fear, Miss Snape, that you'll have to sleep this off. You'll have to miss two days of classes. I'll give you a dose of Sleeping Draught."

"Make it two weeks," Severina counters, "and we have a deal."

They stare at her, alarmed.

“Great Merlin! It’s worse than what I thought.” 

“—ear Gryffindor-Slytherin Charms class has just ended. I will summon Miss Evans.” 

At the mention of Lily Evans' name, Severina recovers from her stunned state. Something clicks—a hazy agitation, an inexplicable feeling of overstimulation. At that moment, a memory bursts into her groggy consciousness, vivid enough to be viscerally horrific.  

Dumbledore had asked her, "After all this time?"

"Always," she had whispered. 

AlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlwaysAlway—

Like a vengeful ghost demanding justice, the echo never quits and never gives up. Perhaps that is exactly what it is—her executor, a vengeful ghost with red hair and green eyes and a face that never smiles. 

It had been her fault—her fault that Lily had died, that James had perished, and that their young son had been left an orphan under the mercy of vile, unpleasant individuals like Tunia and the man she had married. Their blood stained her hands, and the knowledge gnawed at her very soul.

She is left feeling drained, grief-stricken, and forsaken by the memories, and this leads her to systematically put her own security first and withdraw back into her own head, much to the healer’s dismay. Her gaze switches to its lifeless, vacant stare.  

Natalia-now-Severina breathes in, and out.

In. 

Out. 

At once, instinctively, her mind begins to calculate, strategize, and analyse the circumstances, all while simultaneously keeping her collected and pushing her grief deep inside. She needs to know if this was a poorly planned prank that went catastrophically wrong or if her dreams were real and authentic.

The bright side of her misfortune, she decides, is that her behaviour change shouldn't scare off anyone who wants to look because the iron, thankfully, is still hot. Since it's still the aftermath, she will give herself some time to fully process and absorb those memories before reacting appropriately. Natalia Brown and Severina Snape—whoever she is between the two—were many things. Above all, they were showgirls.

"Sev."

No answer.

"Sev..?" This time the voice takes on an urgent, worried note. "Sev?"

Severina—God help her, that is indeed her name—blinks, slowly emerging from the protective cocoon of her Occlumency meditation. It has been over three hours since she retreated inward, sorting through the jumbled fragments of her memories and searching for the truth amidst the illusions.

Lily. Her mind seizes on that name, clinging to it like a lifeline. Lily, her first friend, her one and only...

Severina's eyes flutter open, the world around her coming into focus. She finds herself lying in the sterile confines of the hospital wing, with the professors hovering nearby. 

"Lily?" she croaks, unsure. “Holy fuck, holy fuck.”

Seeing the redhead seated on the bed next to her, Severina straightens up. “Holy fuck, holy fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

Lily looks at her with wide eyes and lets out a half-snort, clearly alarmed, but her lips are plainly twitching into a restrained smile at her abrupt profanity-laced tirade. For a long time, she stays silent. 

“—Alright Sev?” 

For Severina, seeing Lily seated in front of her with that well-known warm, lovely smile on her face is both consoling and heartbreaking. 

This Lily—so young, untroubled by the atrocities of war and the obligations of maturity—is a bittersweet vision.

This is the Lily Severina remembered—the one from before their friendship had fallen apart, before Lily had come to sneak glances at her with these ill-masked, intangible suspicions. This Severina in her eyes, after all, is not quite the wannabe Death-Eater Lily's Gryffindor pals had in advance warned her about, whispering behind her back. Had they already begun to sow those seeds of distrust, Severina wonders idly, or was that particular wound still to come?

Lily's new circle of friends had, in many ways, shaped her mindset and her tendency to view the world in stark black-and-white terms. And the charged political climate of the time, where people's very lives hung in the balance, had only served to exacerbate this binary thinking. She had found herself caught in a quandary, torn between two vastly different paths: Severina and the principles she had inadvertently come to represent, and Potter and the Gryffindors and their self-proclaimed heroism. In the end, Lily made her choice, siding with the latter in what would prove to be the worst possible way at the worst possible time.

"I'm not really sure," Severina murmurs, her voice barely audible. Belatedly, she straightens her hospital gown and pulls the sheet up to her chest. She feels lightheaded and unsettled. 

The professors, hovering nearby like watchful gargoyles, react instantly. Their expressions twisted into forebodingly grave grimaces, their gazes roving from Severina to Lily and back before returning to themselves, clearly discussing in secret what to do next. The unspoken message is clear: this was not the right answer. 

Severina quickly backpedals. "Just sleepy, Lily-flower," she adds, forcing an artificial, strained grin. “Swigged the whole sodding bottle of Sleeping Potion, reckons my insomnia-plagued bod just needed that final prod to properly konk out.”

Hearing the familiar non-rhotic and distinct vowel of her Cockworth accent—along with a hint of the Russian pronunciation that clung to Severina's speech—the redhead blinks once, twice, her expression indecipherable. Growing up in the dirty, fog-shrouded streets of Cokeworth, Lily and Severina's desire to fit in, to blend in, had been a continuous obsession. Two girls from Cokeworth cannot melt in easily without shedding their Cokeworth fog-layered skin. So, in order to better fit in with their peers, they had progressively developed a Cockney-tinged dialect over time. The non-rhotic, meandering cadences of their native accent had been refined and mellowed so that Hogwarts' privileged ears might enjoy it better, at least in Severina’s case. 

"They say you've lost your memory, that you're unwell in the head," Lily states, her tone clipped but not unkind. The self-righteous anger on her behalf that simmered beneath the surface of Lily's gaze is not lost to Severina. After all, she knows her (once) friend better than most—or at least, the ghost memories of Lily's personality that lingered within her. 

Lily Evans was many things—hot-headed, fearless, daring, and righteous—but there were times when Lily's righteous indignation veered into shortsightedness. Generally, at least when viewed from Natalia's lens, things weren't that cut-and-dry. Severina can still recall with painful clarity the times Lily refused to forgive her for that one hateful word, a word that had slipped out in a moment of utter betrayal and despair. Lily had never been able to get over that slight, even as Severina's bullies waltzed away unscathed after publicly stripping her of her last shred of dignity. 

In Natalia’s opinion, the scales had never seemed to be in Severina’s favour, not when it mattered anyway. Her best friend had been treated unfairly, but Lily had been too focused on defending her own beliefs to see it.

And Severina, well, she had never truly been able to claim that she understood Lily, not entirely. Now, Severina realises a little shift in her perception when she glances at Lily's sweetly familiar features. 

“Sev?”

Lily is, at best, immature, and at worst, untrustworthy. It pains Severina to think this way and to view Lily through a lens so different from the rose-coloured adoration of her past self. But that girl, that innocent and adoring version of herself, was gone—lost to the potion's effects, her older self's desperation, or perhaps even Natalia's fierce determination to survive. 

Lily had been her oldest friend, her first love in so many ways. Severina had cherished that bond, that acceptance more than anything. Lily was Severina's one and only, while Severina was only Lily's first but not her only, for she had had a large circle of bold, adventurous, good-looking, and confident companions who never gave churchgoers a cause to clutch their pearls. There are tears in her eyes that blur her vision at the edges. She (or they?) isn't really sure if it's Natalia's or Severina's tears. Maybe both. Part of her wants to smile, and part of her wants to weep. 

“Sev?” 

After a brief pause, Severina murmurs, "Overexcitin', if yer ask me." 

Lily purses her lips, suspicious. "Sev, you just negotiated two weeks of sick leave. That's highly unusual for you, and you know it." 

Severina shrugs, feigning nonchalance. "'Ere, a lass's got a right to rest now an' then, ain't she?" 

But Lily is not so easily deterred. "Sev, even if your bones were shattered an' your fingers bleedin', even if you were knocking on death's door, you still wouldn't miss a lesson if it were up to thee." 

Severina repeats, unbothered. "Overexcitin', if yer ask me," 

At her side, again, Lily snorts; she reels herself in, “Bollocks.” 

She then reaches out to touch up a short strand of her still-sodden hair. Twirling it between her fingers absentmindedly, she says, "I thought you wanted to keep your hair long.”

"It's been holding me back," Severina replies. “You don’t like it?”

"I'm not saying it doesn't suit you, because it does," Lily responds, her tone tinged with a hint of disappointment. "I just wish you had mentioned it to me. I could have helped, or at least provided moral support. Who cut it?" 

"I did," is the simple admission.

Lily raises a delicate eyebrow, her curiosity piqued. "Really?" she asks, surprised. With her fingers, she carefully combs her bangs back, sliding them into place. She playfully toys with her hair, genuinely impressed. "Wow, Sev, you actually did a great job. It looks so easy to style. Where did you learn?"

"I suppose I'm naturally talented."

Lily snorts again. Her expression then becomes serious. 

"Alright then, Sev," she says, her voice low and deliberate. "Let's put that eidetic memory of yours to the test, hmm?" A slender finger taps against her chin in an exaggerated display of contemplation. "What's the name of our hometown, the place we grew up in together?"

Severina doesn’t even need to pause to consider the answer. "Cokeworth.”

Lily's nod is curt, and her eyes narrow as she continues her impromptu interrogation. "And the librarian—what was her name again?"

"Miss Hale.”

"Good, good." Lily's lips curl into a small, satisfied smile. “What is your father’s full name?”

“Tobias Alekseivich Snape.”

Lily confesses sheepishly, "I had no idea that Alekseivich was your father's middle name.”

"It's a patronymic; his father's name is Aleksei.” 

“Now, when's your birthday?" 

The 28th of March, she thinks, but she says “The 9th of January.”

"And mine?" 

"The 30th of January.”

Seemingly satisfied, Lily glances over at the nervous professors observing their exchange. "Everything seems just fine to me."

The mediwitch let out a heavy sigh of relief, wiping her brow with the back of her hand. "Thank Merlin," she breathes, her expression one of palpable exhaustion. 

Professor Mcgonagall folds her hands in front of her "I think it's reasonable, Miss Snape, to allow you two weeks of medical leave," she announced, her tone careful. "As for the students responsible, they will face detention. That, I can assure you."

"Better yet," Severina drawls, "bring them here and let me hex them until I'm satisfied. If I get satisfied.” 

The professors’ eyes widen at the suggestion, and besides her, Lily can’t help but let out a muffled giggle. 

Professor Mcgonagall raises a hand, her expression stern. "Now, Miss Snape, we don’t resort to threats and violence in this school. I will handle it in an appropriate manner.” 

“Sure.” Severina's shoulders slump, and she lets out an exasperated groan. "God-fucking-damn it," she mutters, shooting the professor a petulant glare. "They’re no fun at all."

That's okay; it's perfectly okay. She'll see to it that justice is well balanced back. They will pay. 

Soon enough, the professors depart, murmuring well wishes behind their backs. Before Lily gets a chance to say anything, Severina interrupts her stream of thought and declares, "I'm sorry for bothering you." 

"Stop being so silly." Linking their fingers together, Lily pauses and says, "I forgot you're blazed out of your mind."

“I'm not blazed out of my mind, Lily Evans.” 

“You are, Severina Snape.” 

“Okay. Maybe partly. Panic, I assume, calibrated to make people out of it” 

Lily hums, “Why panic?”

“I’m a poor soul trapped in a body that isn't mine. No one seems to give a rat’s ass about it.”

The Gryffindor giggles, “It's funny how you speak differently yet the same.” Her face then sombers, “Sev. Old Sluggy said that inhaling too much of it might induce insanity.”

Severina sneers, her mouth flicking with that familiar flare of resentment. “I have no doubt that Potter would be proud if he drove me insane, or was it Black who did it?”

“Close enough; it was Pettigrew.”

“You're a fool if you reckon a bleedin' chicken-hearted numpty like Pettigrew would even 'ave the bollocks to consider layin' a finger on me brew, not without a bit o' encouragement from 'is equally daft mates.” 

“Twats.” 

Natalia-now-Severina bites her parched lips to test the blood. She glances at Lily and cuts her off mid-sentence, saying, "I want my... bag."

Lily frowns. “Why?”

“I feel that putting everything down will help me... unwind.  I just want my journal.” 

“Is any journal fit for this task?” 

“I want my own.”

Lily sights, again blithely oblivious to her existential turmoil, “How in the blimey hell could I waltz into your bleeding dorm anyhow?" She pauses, then nods to herself, “I will ask the elves. Anything else?”

“Nope.”

While she waits for Lily to return, Severina's gaze slides inward, and her thoughts stray into the maze of her memories. She loses track of time, numb, until the sound of approaching footsteps snaps her back to the present.

Lily stands before her, a rueful grin on her face, holding Severina's rumpled leather bag aloft. "Here you go," she says, shaking her head. "Merlin knows how you put up with that annoying girl Flint. She's enough to drive a girl mad."

Severina shrugs. "I've learned to tune out her whining over the years," she says. "But I suppose you have it just as bad, being in the same house as those twits. How do you manage it?"

Lily rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Same way you do, I imagine. Tune it out and focus on the good stuff."

Severina reaches out and takes the bag, running her fingers over the worn, upside-down style that has been charmed to hold far more than its appearance suggests. It is nearly empty, its interior revealing only a handful of items.

Four well-worn books with yellowed covers and dog-eared pages sit alongside a leather-bound notebook, a pencil, a quill, several sheets of parchment, a forgotten keychain, a claw clip for holding back her hair, and a wallet. Sadly, the wallet is only half full, eliciting a snort from Severina as she tosses it back into the bag.

Lily gazes at her briefly, sporting a half-smile, before shrugging. "I'll see you later. I promised to study with Mary."

Once Lily has left, Severina reaches for her notebook and a pencil and settles into a comfortable posture.

She begins to write down everything she can remember, with one half of the page dedicated to Natalia's memories and the other half to her own. She pours over every detail, every memory, and every scrap of information she can recall. Even though the work is daunting, Severina is committed to doing it correctly.

Hour after hour has slipped by as she writes, her fingers becoming numb but her mind still clear and concentrated. Five hours later, half the notebook is stuffed with neatly organised information. 

Once she has recorded everything she can recall, Severina pauses, considering her next move. With a cautious air, she begins crossing out the legible entries, rewriting them in a fabricated Russian code that would baffle anyone who happens to stumble into it. It is a precaution, a way to protect her secrets and those of Natalia.

Finally, she outlines her latest aims and desires on the paper in the same fabricated Russian script. They cover a wide variety of topics, from the noble—avoiding unnecessary deaths and making a meaningful impact during the pre-war period—to seeking retribution for the schoolyard taunts, a response to the wrongs she has endured in both lifetimes. 

Tom sodding Riddle must die. 

As the night wears on, Severina's eyes remain wide open, her mind buzzing with questions and ideas that keep her restless. She cries until there are no tears left in her peepers, and all she can sense is this ridiculous feeling of being trapped, like some dangerous, untamed beast, mourning everything all at once. This life isn’t hers, but she's stuck here because there isn’t any Natalia Brown— not anymore. That night, sleep eludes her. Her gaze grows steely as she wipes away the tears with the back of her hand. She's got two choices: fight back or face the same fate— the multiple deaths of Severina Snape.

It isn’t something she can just back away from. It's deeply ingrained in her desperate, patched-up soul. It's indescribable, yet there's an undeniable force, strong and mysterious, tugging at her to take action.

Even though Severina Snape is gone, her spirit—merged with Natalia's—still burns bright and restless, untamed, craving, and cataclysmic. The soul of a woman who, despite paying the price, emerged victorious from countless battles with death.

At first glance, it's hard to notice the shift in Severina's behaviour unless someone is actively searching for it. Besides the fact that she has vanished from classes like a red-handed burglar, but then again, Severina is known for being antisocial, not bonding, and suspiciously craving solitude in the dungeons. 

To begin with, the Slytherin is inherently cranky, roughly 80% of the time—it's not an unusual trait for her to exhibit. She is always annoyed or irritated by something or someone. If someone really looks, though, they will be able to recognise the underlying fear and uncertainty in her eyes. But nobody does.

Soon, the fear has vanished, locked behind her hard-lined eyes and layered over with barriers, cut off from the outside world by a wall of fabricated, unreal memories. However, the uncertainty persists, appearing from time to time to anyone who happens to glance at her. Those moments of vulnerability are fleeting but noticeable for those who care to pay attention.

If one were to pinpoint the exact moment when the shift in Severina Snape begins, it is after the disastrous Potions class incident. As per usual, Black and Potter had conspired to sabotage her potion; their juvenile antics and utter disregard for safety resulted in an explosive calamity. Severina had panicked, hovering anxiously over her cauldron as it bubbled and frothed, the contents morphing into a swirling vortex of purple smoke and fumes. Before she could react, she inadvertently inhaled a lungful of the noxious vapour, the acrid scent burning her nostrils and throat. Seconds later, she crumples to the floor, unconscious.

When Severina finally awoke a day later, it was clear that something had irrevocably changed. Yet, to the casual observer, there was no discernible difference.  

For the first few days after the incident, the Marauders themselves were indisposed, either knackered or violently chundering their guts out.

It took Madam Pomfrey and Professor Slughorn nearly a week to identify the root cause and whip up a remedy. But their solution had proved only temporary, the ailment resurfacing with vengeance. 

After a thorough spell diagnosis of the Marauders' condition, the true nature of their illness was finally revealed. The analysis confirmed that they had accidentally been exposed to a semi-toxic substance, one that had caused a mild toxic shock upon inhalation. 

What followed was a meticulous investigation that spanned nearly a month and a half. Madam Pomfrey and Professor Slughorn interrogated the students, delving deeper into the possible causes of this mysterious ailment. It was a painstaking process, filled with dead ends and frustrating unanswered questions.

But just when it seemed like they would never get to the bottom of it, a crucial clue emerged. The Hogwarts house-elves, in the midst of their bimonthly bedding and pillow scrub, had stumbled upon traces of a scheduled spell—one that had released a small, colourless, and sulphurous smoke into the air shortly after midnight.

Further analysis revealed that this noxious smoke was actually a carefully brewed concoction, a mixture of unlit, burnt Tears of Lilith and Salamander blood. It wasn't outright lethal, but the potent fumes were more than enough to leave the Marauders sickly and exhausted.

And amidst all of this, Severina Snape has remained largely unnoticed. 

But in the weeks following the Potions class incident, Severina had been a flurry of activity, sequestering herself in the laboratory for hours on end. She bickered with the bold first-year students who dared to want to use the same dungeon for their homework, spitting profanities that left her fellow dungeon residents aghast. Her attention was divided between tending to no less than three off-limits potions, all the while penning a series of blunt yet pertinent letters, attaching samples of her work, and giving a blistering introduction for the unfortunate owls tasked with delivering them. Severina huddled herself by the crackling fireplace in the Room of Requirement, the space she had imagined to resemble her mother's cosy office in France. The warm, flickering glow cast a soft light across the room, highlighting the sturdy wooden desk that stood proudly in the centre. 

The desk was cluttered with an assortment of random objects; a fancy old-fashioned typewriter took centre stage, its keys heavy and satisfying as they struck the paper, leaving behind a trail of inked characters. Besides the typewriter, Severina had arranged her books, journals, parchments, and a trusty red ballpoint pen (she could never stand the finicky nature of quills).

A steaming coffee pot sat near the edge of the desk, the aroma mingling with the delicate wisps of smoke drifting up from the half-full ashtray next to it. Severina had spent the entire weekend holed up in this cosy sanctuary, meticulously transcribing and revising her work on the first and fourth-year Potions textbooks. 

With great care and attention, she pored over the potential, the possibilities, and the ramifications of every word, every formula, and every instruction. And then she reconsidered, and she reconsidered again, her brow furrowed in deep concentration. 

Natalia-maybe-Severina is terrified, yes, but isn’t that precisely the moment when one's true bravery shone through? Fueled by this determination, she typed nonstop, pausing only to refuel with a quick meal or a well-earned nap, as if the very fate of the wizarding world depended on her work. 

Severina gazed blankly at the last blank page, the one awaiting the author's name and title. She chewed nervously on the end of her ballpoint pen, unsure of what to type. Reaching for a scrap of parchment, she began to experiment with several different names, names that bore a resemblance to her own but maintained a certain level of unfamiliarity.

She needed a name that would allow her to claim recognition when the time came—something akin to her true identity but different enough to serve as an effective distraction. For now, it was absolutely imperative that the fact that Severina Snape was the true author of these revised Potions textbooks remain a closely guarded secret.

It wasn't particularly challenging for Severina to devise a suitable pseudonym. Drawing inspiration from her family heritage, she decided to combine her first name with her mother's maiden name, translate it into Russian, and incorporate her father's patronymic. 

"Vasile" seemed to be the closest equivalent to "Prince," she mused, and since she was female, she settled on "Vasilievna" as the appropriate patronymic ending. And so, with a steadying breath, Severina carefully penned down "S. Vasilievna Alekseivich" as her chosen nom de plume.

Advanced Potion-making for the Hopelessly Incompetent (1) by S. Vasilievna Alekseivich. 

Six days later, the sharp talons of the Ministry owl clattered against Severina's plate, disrupting her breakfast with a resounding thud. All eyes in the third-year part of the table around her immediately snap to the imposing brown envelope clutched in the bird's beak, the telltale crimson wax seal and official insignia glaring out against the parchment.

"Is that from the Ministry?" A voice drawls, and Severina recognises the annoying tone of Penelope Rowle from the Slytherin table. Rowle leans forward, a gleeful smirk playing about her lips as she eyes the envelope with avid interest. Severina recognises that look all too well—the gossiper had scented blood in the water, and she was poised to pounce, eager to spread the juiciest of rumours throughout the bathroom stalls and common rooms. 

Severina fights the urge to sigh, already feeling the weight of numerous curious stares upon her. Reaching out, she deftly plucks the envelope from the owl's grasp, her lips twisting in distaste as she surveys the damage to her now-ruined breakfast. "So it would seem," she mutters, brushing crumbs from the parchment.

The owl hoots insistently, clearly expecting a treat or reward for its delivery. Severina shoots it an annoyed glare. "You'll get nothing from me, you blasted bird," she snaps, swatting it away as it attempts to pilfer a piece of her toast. Severina stuffs the envelope into her robe pocket, steels herself, and goes back to eating what's left of her meal, choosing to ignore the curious looks that are directed at her.

The long-awaited Hogsmeade weekend has finally rolled around, and Severina can't help the flutter of anticipation in her chest. The best part? Her little prank has worked like a charm, landing those meddlesome Marauders in the infirmary for the foreseeable future.

Slipping into her finest thrifted clothes, Severina slings her worn leather satchel over her shoulder, the sole copy of her still-untitled book nestled safely inside. As she steps out of the dormitory, she comes across Lily first, the other girl greeting her with a warm smile and giving her a once-over.

"You don't often venture out to Hogsmeade," Lily remarks. "Do you want to join us?"

Severina notices Lily's friends pulling faces as their eyes land on her, but she keeps her expression carefully neutral, clutching her bag close to her side. It's either going to go off without a hitch or fall completely flat on its face - dealing with some sour-faced Gryffindors is the least of her concerns.

"I'm actually meeting a friend," Severina replies evenly.

"I like your hair, Snape," Marlene chimes in, sidling up to Lily's other side. Severina can't help but feel a surge of pride - the potion she's been experimenting with has done wonders, leaving her hair shinier, silkier, and far less greasy than usual.

"Thank you," she responds, brushing a stray lock behind her ear as she makes her way towards the castle's exit, anticipation building with each step.

 “Once you've finished, will you be joinin' us?” 

“Nah, probably not. Wish me luck, though. I bloody well need it.”

Severina strides with purpose into the corner café, the inviting aroma of freshly brewed coffee filling the air. There are a few students and locals milling about, either quietly speaking or just staring out the window, but it's not really busy. Severina makes her way to the first table, where a middle-aged woman with cascading dark brown hair sits, sipping her coffee and lost in thought as she gazes out at the world beyond the glass. As Severina approaches, the woman looks up, meeting her eyes inquiringly.

"Blackthorn?" Severina inquires politely.

The woman shakes her head. "No," she replies with a small, apologetic smile.

From the opposite side of the café, a man lowers his newspaper, his brow quirking up as his eyes land on Severina. "I'm Blackthorn," he announces. "And you aren't what I was expecting."

Severina shrugs nonchalantly, the ghost of a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. "Can't help it if I have a talent for catching folks off guard. It's a bit of a bad habit, I suppose."

The man's lips curl into a smile, a hint of amusement sparkling in his eyes. "Not at all. In fact, it's what keeps things interesting," he remarks. With a graceful motion, he rises from his seat and extends his hand toward Severina. "Liam Blackthorn. I represent The Wordsmith Publishing House."

Severina meets his gesture confidently, clasping his hand firmly. "Severina Snape," she says. "And I suspect I may be your next client, if you're open to accommodating my demands."

Blackthorn's amusement grows even more evident, a spark of intrigue dancing in his eyes. "Demands, Miss Snape? Well, well, you certainly are quite something," he muses.

Severina arches an eyebrow, she retorts. "I would have thought you had an inkling of what you were getting into when you decided to consider my proposal."

Blackthorn catches the waiter's attention with a languid wave of his hand, prompting the server to stride over to their table with a friendly smile. "Can you please refill my coffee?And what would you like to drink, Miss Snape?" 

"I'll have a black coffee with milk, no sugar, please," 

the waiter nods and hurries off to fulfill the order.

Once the server is out of earshot, Blackthorn's curiosity gets the better of him. "Forgive me, but how old are you?" he asks, his brow furrowing slightly as he studies her youthful features.

"I'm 14," Severina replies casually, her eyes sparkling with amusement. The waitress soon returns, placing the steaming coffee in front of Severina. She takes a sip, her expression approving as she gives a small nod to the server, who hurries off to attend to the other patrons.

Reaching into her worn leather satchel, Severina retrieves a leather-bound journal, a trusty ballpoint pen, and a stack of papers that bear the title 'S. Vasilievna Alekseivich' at the top. "I'm a student at Hogwarts," she continues. "I suspect you may have already guessed that when I suggested meeting here." 

"Honestly, when I read the addresses, I initially thought you were an assistant professor," Blackthorn admits. 

Severina lets out a soft snort. "God, no. I'm done with teaching for life.” 

Blackthorn can't help but chuckle at her vehement response. "Done tutoring first-years already, then, Miss Snape?" he probes playfully. 

"Oh. You had no idea, sir," Severina replies.

She slides the stack of papers over to the other side of the table so the man can look through them. She then folds her hands on the table, waiting.

He attentively inspects the stack of documents. Her name, "Severina Tobiasovna Snape," can be seen clearly at the top, along with an official seal from the Ministry of Magic.

Blackthorn shuffles through the papers, his eyebrows rising higher and higher. The first few pages contain a formal approval from the Ministry of Magic, stamped and signed, attesting to the exceptional effectiveness and potency of Severina's potion adjustments. He lets out an impressed whistle under his breath; this is no small feat for any potioneer, much less a fourteen-year-old student.

It's no ordinary student's work, he thinks, impressed. These are the meticulously detailed records of a true potions master—a prodigy beyond her years.

The papers detail an in-depth assessment of Severina's registered techniques and methods for chopping, slicing, dicing, and preparing potions ingredients. There are pages upon pages of carefully documented procedures, each one more intricate and precisely executed than the last.

"My goodness, Miss Snape. This is beyond anything I could have imagined." He reverently traces his fingers over the pages, "Fourteen years old and already registered more than double your age's worth of Potions Masters.” 

Severina sits back, a subtle smirk playing on her lips. She has been many things in her past life—a poisoner, a professor, a woman driven by ambition, then by circumstances. Back then, the idea of publishing her achievements would have seemed ludicrous. She had been too consumed with succumbing to her self-loathing and the weight of her secrets to care. But now, things are different. 'No more,' she vows silently, her index finger tapping an insistent rhythm on the table. “Potion-making has always been a favorite pursuit of mine, and fencing, too," she mused, a hint of nostalgia in her voice. "Though that's a conversation for another day." She refocused on the matter at hand. "So, Mr. Blackthorn, are you interested?” 

With his head tilted back, Blackthorn gives her a comprehensive look. "My dear Miss Snape," he begins, "you fascinate me. I’m all ears."

Severina wastes no time. "I want a prepaid 20,000 galleons upfront, give or take." Declaring, she taps her fingers on the stack of papers with the title 'S. Vasilievna Alekseivich'. "Here are all my improvements from the first to the fourth year's books. Starting from the classic potions.”

Blackthorn pauses for a moment, tilting his head in contemplation. He asks, "If I may ask, what house are you?"

"Slytherin," Severina responds, looking for any indication of hostility in his features but seeing none. Years of bias and presumptions have taught her to expect rejection, so she keeps her face expressionless.

"Ah. It fits you—brilliant and ambitious," Liam then continues, "even if my initial impression of you was Ravenclaw."

Severina, greatly amused, takes a sip of her coffee. "If the hat had put me there, I wouldn't mind. What about you, Mr. Blackthorn?” 

"I was Ravenclaw," Blackthorn replies, grinning. "I have a good eye for talents, and I see talents in you, Miss Snape. For that, I'm willing to take a risk and accept your offer. I'll provide the upfront 20,000 galleons you're asking for, but for three books, with the condition that the second book gets sent before the end of this semester. Additionally, I'll need an exclusive lifetime contract with you. What do you say? Do we have a deal?"

Glancing outside, Severina somberly considers her alternatives. She repeats after him, "We have a deal.” 

Chapter Text

The two souls that are inside Severina Snape's body have, in all honesty, been struggling for quite some time with their memories, their ideas, and the terrible, obvious differences between the two. Between Natalia Brown and Severina Snape. Nearly the same, even though not really. The limbo, the existence or non-existence. The distance is incomprehensible—somewhat yawning.

Every day, McGonagall's words, ‘You breathed in an extremely harmful potion's vapours. If Slughorn's theory is right, then it feeds extremely misleading information into the victim's mind. Hallucinations, if you will’, sounded to her ears less like a declaration and more like a threat.

Hallucinations. Actually, that would make sense, to be honest with herself. It's far simpler to blame all of this on hallucinations, on the potion's adverse effects than it is to accept the prospects of soul-swapping, time-travel, a fluctuating parasite magical force akin to a time-bomb ready to explode in stressful situations, and other paranormal perceptions.

But acknowledging her divided mentality had not necessarily boil down to the intellectual acceptance of it. In the weeks that followed her reacquainting herself with every nuance of Hogwarts, Severina oscillated between arrogance and blatant denial. She'd thought, on good days, that she could tame the savage Obscurus that was hibernating in her head, keep it from ripping her to pieces like the last time. On bad days, she'd come to accept that pretending everything wasn't wrong was the best course of action and that the problem only existed because she manufactured it into one. Again, just like the last time.

She'd learned long ago that she needed to follow a plan in order to keep herself collected and less agitated. One that she knows is incredibly productive and coolly calculated. She's always been an autonomous, determined girl who follows an exhaustive regimen to keep herself focused and engaged enough to tune out unwelcome thoughts. For that alone, she has been busy stocking her own modified potions—Baruffio's Brain Elixir, an altered Beautification Potion infused with essential vitamins to support her overall well-being. The positive effects are readily apparent—her body weight has slightly increased, giving her a healthier and more vibrant appearance. She also experiences a significant reduction in fatigue and stiffness, resulting in a noticeably calmer demeanor. Additionally, she has the Calming Draught, Girding Potion, Memory Potion, and, tucked in a blood-sealed chest, a highly illegal magic Core-Strengthening potion that she expertly redesigned its bottle to match the Stupid Potion's mother-of-pearl colour, in case someone happens to find it. The Core-Strengthening potion needs to rest for three months before she can consume it safely. She can wait. God knows she can. 

It's difficult not to think, though, to keep herself tied-up from letting the melancholy consume her.

Once, Natalia had it all: beauty, wealth, status, family, and a name that opened doors. Her privilege was undeniable. Every boy yearned to be with her, and every girl coveted the chance to be her. That was back then, before the miscarriage, before the argument with her mother and that sudden spike of her alcoholism tendencies that cost her herself, and perhaps most importantly, before the sudden severing of her soul and its reemergence—which is still surreal, almost inconceivable, but brutally, without a doubt, true. 

Where Natalia once basked in the fawning attention of admirers, eager to shower her with flattery and flirtation, she now finds herself all but invisible. People simply ignored her existence, as if she were nothing more than a ghost passing through their daily affairs. And when she did get their attention, it was only to be met with scorn and mockery. She can’t help but feel as if she were the focus of a vile sociological experiment, with her own bewilderment and uneasiness serving as the punchline. If the situation weren't causing such a deep contradiction in her, Natalia may have found it amusing in its absurdity. It bruises her ego, she admits. Not so slightly. Possibly to a level where she feels the need to change, which is probably more than she's willing to acknowledge.

Truthfully, it is still unsettling to glance in the mirror and see someone else's face. Her new face (Severina’s face) looks unhealthy, excessively pale, tired, and haggard—the sort of visage that one would likely not even glance at twice. A face that isn’t even a shell of the stunningly beautiful girl Natalia used to be. Find a Legilimen, was her first thought. The obvious thought. Clearly something was wrong with her head to imagine such a thing, such lives so in-depth and bursting with memories. But she already has gotten her details from the nitty-gritty of Hogwarts everyday life and with a bit of help from her not-memories. In summary, nobody really gives a shit about Snape and her hypothetical double life. It’s far too amusing. Far too tragic. Too much fable-like where the antagonist is forcefully coerced into a role reversal of some sort to be taught a lesson.

Severina Snape was not born in the image of a Slytherin pin-up. Far from it, in fact. Hailing from an impoverished, Half-Blood background with a Muggle upbringing, her appearance was anything but the polished, aristocratic look typically associated with her House. Her robes were often worn and ill-fitting, her hair unkempt, and her features somewhat plain and forgettable. To make matters worse, she gets ridiculed publicly by the Marauders. Their cruel taunts and pranks had chipped away at her dignity, leaving her feeling isolated and ashamed, even amongst her own Slytherin housemates, who sometimes joined in on the mockery. 

But beyond the layers of Severina Snape's persona, she tells herself, the real Natalia Brown—or at least, a large chunk of herself—still existed, undimmed, unobstructed. The strategist, the frontrunner, the ‘it girl’—that was who she fundamentally was, and she would find a way to reclaim that identity. It is her nature, her essence, to make things work, no matter the challenges.

She is, after all, Severina Snape, the only witch to have ever successfully hoodwinked the Dark Lord himself, the most talented Legilimens the wizarding world has ever seen. She was the dark sorceress who had broken through time, reason, and her own souls to be here—the Obscurial who had outlived others who were similar to her.

Progress is being made. Albeit slowly.

She examines the stack of printed and already-paid receipts from various Diagon Alley shops—the ones that have up-to-date catalogues and take orders via owl post with ease. 

Over the past three weeks, she surrendered to her tempting whim and went on an exorbitant shopping binge, spending a small fortune on a complete wardrobe overhaul. The need to start again had become insurmountable, and she was compulsively replacing every article of clothing she owned, everything that was essential and, in a sense, represented the person she was to the image she intended to portray to the outside world.

The aftermath of the flurry is reduced to a pile of flimsy invoices and letters from the tailors concerning the specially-designed alterations. This, Severina muses as she balances the documents, is something she should keep track of.

Settling down against the oak tree, Severina pulls a cigarette from her new satchel. With a quick flick of her wand, she lights the tip and takes a long, pensive drag. The sky is clear overhead, and she can't help but feel a pang of discomfort—the peaceful weather does little to mirror her turbulent mood. 

Cracking open the journal, Severina prepares to confront the reality of her recent spending. The first receipt, curling and flimsy, is from Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. She had started her transformation there, finally replacing her threadbare school skirt with a crisp, tailored boy's uniform, complete with trousers, a white button-down, and a fitted waistcoat. From Madam Malkin's, she had left with plaid skirts, a warm double-faced woollen coat, six slouchy blouses in classic white and black (plus one in a deep burgundy hue), four halter tops, a white waistcoat, and a black waistcoat. To top it all off, she had invested in two pairs of dragon skin boots, one reaching her ankles and the other extending to her knees. The total cost of this wardrobe overhaul, as detailed on the receipt, was a staggering 710 galleons. 

Severina rests the journal on her knee and smoothes the crumpled receipt with her palms as she writes down the full extent of her expenses. 

The wood around her remains silent and pale, evoking a somewhat disturbing yet strangely pleasant atmosphere. 

The next receipt Severina evaluates bears a huge smear of ink after she had hurriedly scrawled notes in the margins, covering the name of the establishment. Despite the smeared text, she still recognises that it originated from the specialised bag store. She had stumbled upon the shop's catalogue by chance in the Slytherin common room, where she found the pages open and forgotten on a table. One particular leather satchel caught her eye during that fateful browsing session. It was a classy black leather bag adorned with delicate patterns of silvery butterflies in tandem with the edges, an adjustable strap, and, according to the official description, a permanent Extension Charm.

Squinting at the faintly printed numbers, Severina manages to discern the cost: 45 galleons. She pauses, her gaze drifting towards the sleek black leather satchel resting besides her on the fallen log.

"What the fuck is wrong with me?" She mutters under her breath, feeling half-amused and half-horrified at her sudden impulsive nature. 

The next receipt is from Parry and Thrust, the widely acclaimed shop known for its exquisite duelling gear. Severina had placed an order for two custom-designed, practical, spell-reinforced leather bodices, one soft, russet-coloured and the other dark blue and grey, along with a matching pair of breeches—all designed to meet the strict sartorial standards of competitive duelling. This order, surprisingly, cost a total of 60 galleons, with delivery slated for the following week.

Severina shuffles through the scattered notes, her fingers brushing against the announcement she had torn from the Daily Prophet weeks ago. The bold headline proclaimed an upcoming duelling championship. She instinctively understands she shouldn't even entertain the idea of competing in such a tournament. Though she has been taking an alarmingly large quantity of her own scratch-made muscle-building potions and nutritional supplements on a regular basis, her body is still unfit and fragile. She began at a mere 37 kilograms and has steadily increased to a still-light 41 kilograms up to now (the aim is 55 kilograms). It has, however, started to decisively and nicely plumped out.

Rehabilitating this frail body will not happen immediately; it will be a lengthy, laborious process demanding a great deal of devotion and patience. But she is determined to see it through, no matter how daunting the journey ahead seems. 

This body of hers had been dangerously weak for the longest time, underfed and housing a slumbering Obscurus that lay like an evil surprise waiting to be unleashed. 

The original Severina hadn't even known about its existence until that fateful day in her sixth-year Care of Magical Creatures class, when she had written an extra essay on the rare and volatile creatures. The revelation had brought her to tears, a child-like weeping where she had desperately tried to deny and suppress for so long. She wanted to confide in someone, in Lily most of all, because Lily always seemed to know what to do, to have the answers Severina so desperately needed. Lily was smart, bright, and socially conscious—everything Severina secretly wished she could be. But Severina then remembered that they were no longer friends. That Lily had left her— and refused to listen to her. And so, like always, she had swallowed this terrible feeling back down, choking on the bitter taste of it. 

She wanted so desperately to be a witch—to stay a witch. The same way Natalia wanted to be a fencer. 

It’s a consuming feeling, this want. A horribly fascinating and indescribable temptation. With no limits, no bounds. Her identity dilemma has caused her once-acute fencing competencies to become bland. In other words, she is still unsure of her own strengths. On top of that, she fails to evaluate her performances in two distinct sports that only have superficial similarities. 

It’s too tempting. Too sweet. 

Perhaps it is the fragments of Natalia's soul within her, still longing for the exhilaration of getting onto the fencing line, that arrogant confidence that she would win.

Severina-maybe-Natalia misses that feeling. 

She would relive it again; she knows she will, although in stages. Based on her memories and her understanding of the original Severina's bits of information that she had from others, she comprehends from her observations that naturally maintaining a well-sculpted physique is a useful component of a dualist's process. At its foundation, duelling involved more than simply magical skill—it also required physical strength that allowed movements to be light, quick, and sure, an essential quality for the complex dance of casting, evading, and dodging spells.

She attentively folds the announcement and stuffs it back with a stick spell, refocusing on her finances. Natalia-now-Severina flicks the cigarette absently to dust off the ashes at least twice while she investigates the satchel for any more receipts. She nearly missed the last balled-up receipt, as it was stashed deep within her bag. She retrieves it and carefully flattens it out. 

The last receipt is from the dental clinic, where she had undergone extensive treatment to address the discoloration and misalignment of her teeth. She had even contemplated removing her little fangs, but ultimately decided against it to save money. The price of regrowing teeth is too high. The total cost of the dental work amounted to 95 galleons. 

She pauses, her pen hovering over the paper, as she takes in the figures she has meticulously recorded. Her eyes widen in dismay as she tallies up the receipts, the numbers blurring before her. One thousand galleons. “Merlin's saggy left testicle–“ How had it all added up so disgustingly quickly?

"Oh, well," she mutters, flipping the page with a shrug. A small price to pay, she supposes, in the grand scheme of rebuilding her image. After all, it wasn't like the Marauders had exactly painted her in the most flattering light—the laughing stock, the greasy, creepy Slytherin git. 

Just the thought of it made her want to hurl.

No, that unpleasant reputation had to go, scrubbed away until not even a trace should remain. And Severina knows just the way to do it. She’d take a page from Lord Byron’s book by being a little bit mad, bad, and dangerous to know—to be fascinating enough to make people look at her differently, to hold their breath, waiting to see what unpredictable stunt she'd pull next. 

She can't be Byronic while cosplaying like a scrawny rat. 

Severina carefully unrolls the parchment to review the detailed budget plan the Gringotts goblin had meticulously laid out for her. This document, along with the Goblin-made contract, had been the result of a rather gruelling meeting at the wizarding bank—one that Blackthorn had insisted she attend.

The publisher had been adamant that she review the contract in person at Gringotts Wizarding Bank, where a stately and severe-looking goblin had walked her through every clause with painstaking attention.

"I can't take any moral risks with an underaged witch like yourself," Blackthorn had stressed. And so, Severina found herself seated across from the imposing goblin, engaging in a rather stiff chinwag as he laid out the specifics. The goblin had spared her none of the mind-numbing details, determined to ensure she was fully educated on the terms before committing to this lifelong, exclusive contract with Wordsmith House.

The terms were unequivocal: she must deliver her next book before the end of the current semester, without exception. Fail to meet the deadline, and she would be forced to pay back 30% of the 20,000 galleon advance. Moreover, Wordsmith House would maintain a stranglehold on her potential earnings; she would be unable to publish any of her work with another company unless they received a hefty 70% cut of any future profits.

"Essentially, it's a financial investment on their end," the goblin had stated plainly, his beady eyes boring into hers. "They’re gambling on your future success, and they intend to reap the rewards."

According to the detailed budget the goblin had drawn up, she was allotted a mere 7,000 galleons to work with. 

The remaining 13,000 were to be held in reserve, a contingency fund in case the book failed to sell as expected or she failed to send the new book in time. "Better to have it and not need it, than need it and not have it," the goblin had remarked, his tone brooking no argument.

Out of the 7,000 galleons allotted to her, she had already spent a staggering 950, leaving her with a mere 6,050 remaining.

A growing sense of trepidation settles over her like a heavy cloak. One misstep, one missed deadline, and the consequences could be… unwelcome, to say the least.

According to the timeline, if she managed to complete the transcription of her works from her old notes before the next month, she would have to register the new material with the Ministry. That process alone would likely take another month, just as it did the last time.

Severina huffs in frustration, her fingers drumming anxiously against the parchment. And then there is the matter of potion recipes—a thorny issue, considering her status as an underage witch. She couldn't very well go sharing anything too advanced or potentially dangerous, lest she give anyone a reason to keep a closer eye on her.

She cannot afford for a prying Legilimen to delve into her mind, especially while it is still vulnerable and susceptible. Her head is in a muddle, so troubled and confused to the point where she is dizzy most of the time with it. Already, her new habit of sleepwalking has become an inside joke among the other housemates. 

She nibbles on her lower lip, her thoughts racing as she tries to come up with a plan. She tucks the budget plan back between the pages. 

Bloody hell, not only does she have to transcribe the entire manuscript for her next book before the end of this month, but she also has to come up with some cunning ways to get her debut work noticed by her fellow students. Should she blab to Slughorn, let the old codger take the reins in hyping up the book? Or perhaps she could simply stash a copy in the library and hope for the bloody best, crossing her fingers that word-of-mouth would do the trick.

She highlights the words 'selling drugs', which is her last option to keep with her current lifestyle. Just above it, she underlines 'private tutoring,’ but the mere idea of dealing with dim-witted brats like Neville Longbottom made her head throb with a ghost of a headache. The memories of teaching such hopeless cases were enough to dampen even her most Slytherin-esque ambitions.

Severina packs her belongings with a flippant flick of her still-annoyingly unresponsive wand, squinting her eyes half-closed at the sun. The smoke dances up into the air, twirling like spectres in the breeze. She finds a fleeting sense of peace in the eerie woods. It’s beautiful. It’s ominous. 

Just as Severina is beginning to unwind, a weak, frantic voice calls out, "Nibbles...Nibbles, where are you?"

She cracks one eye open and, in the distance, makes out the shape of a petite, blonde girl wearing a yellow-trimmed Hufflepuff robe, a scarf trailing after her. 

The girl lingers there, looking up at the sky with her shoulders bent, while Severina, exhaling a puff of smoke, observes with an instant of interest. The girl starts sobbing loosely, and Severina groans again, this time feeling annoyed and frustrated. So much for a moment of silence. 

She waits for a brief moment, followed by a longer one. Then Severina stands up when it becomes obvious that she won't cease being intentionally annoying. She silently walks up to the girl and takes a puff from her cigarette. "Hey, are you okay?" she probes. 

Startled by Severina's abrupt presence, the blonde girl lets out an indiscreet yelp. She manages not to sob any more, her lips trembling as her big, tear-soaked eyes focus on the Slytherin.

"I lost my pet.” The girl bemoans, "My hamster."

Severina looks about her, a frown on her face. Her eyes stray above, owls and crows roosting in the branches, ravenous. 

"Why'd you think to bring your sodding rat out here?" She says aloud before she can stop herself. If the blasted creature had indeed wandered into this teeming wilderness, chances were it had already met a rather grisly end. 

The Hufflepuff sniffs but holds back her emotions. "I was gathering herbs—and when I looked back, Nibbles was nowhere to be seen."

Reluctant to reveal the harsh reality—that the poor bastard had probably been snatched up by one of the predators that prowled these shadows—Severina bites her lip. 

"Okay, where exactly did you lose it? And what does this…Nibbles look like? Maybe we can retrace your steps, see if we can't find the little bugger."

"Oh, would you?" Hufflepuff girl breaths, clasping her hands together. "He has lovely orange fur, a white belly, and he's a tad chubby. I was near that old tree, just past the clearing.”

“Right, well..." Severina pauses, weighing her options. "Let's see if we can't track down your fat orange rat, hmm? An extra pair of eyes might do the trick." 

The girl's expression brightens ever so slightly, a faint glimmer of hope igniting in her gaze. "You... you'd help me?" 

"Consider it a momentary lapse in my better judgment. Lead the way.” 

Her eyes settle on the half-full basket of wildflowers, the school bag, and the woollen scarf that are all piled up in the little clearing. She steps towards the edge of the trees and surveys the area, soaking in all the details.  

"If this Nibbles of yours is as chunky as you say, I doubt he's gone far," Severina muses. "Doubt he's managed to leg it all the way over to where you're standing.” 

"I've already looked there!" 

There's a small trail of footsteps on the slippery ground, which Severina tracks with her eyes. She crouches to study the grass carefully, wiping away the blades with her fingertips. The scent of rain and damp earth hangs heavy in the air, making the atmosphere feel cold and oppressive. Her peripheral vision picks up a faint movement in a split second, rustling somewhere to her right. Under the crooked trunk of a nearby tree lies a shallow depression camouflaged by a tangle of wild, low-growing brambles and invasive grass. Severina leans down without hesitation, cautiously placing her hand into the depression, her fingers clamping around something squishy and wiggling.

"Okay—I believe I've found him," she declares, glancing up at the blonde-haired girl as she approaches. 

"Merlin! Thank you!" the girl exclaims, her face lighting up with joy.

Severina's victory, though, proved ephemeral. A split second thereafter, a sharp ache pierces her finger. She gives a yelp and quickly snatches up her hand back, freeing the little beast from her grip. "Bloody hell!" Severina curses, "ты ебаный мудак.."¹”

The Hufflepuff immediately kneels down, cooing softly as she scoops up the hamster. "Nibbles, my dearest baby! Oh, how I've missed you—never do that again, never." Presumptively unaware of its less-than-perfect state, she proceeds to bestow kisses on its fat, mud-caked cheeks.

Severina scowls, glaring at the wasted cigarette stub in her hand. "Right, okay," she mutters, shaking her head and tending to the bite on her finger with a wandless spell. It seems even the most mundane tasks were determined to test her patience today. 

"Thank you, thank you!!" the girl says, clutching the morbidly obese rat against her bosom and looking at her. 

Severina nonchalantly raises her hand in a casual two-fingered salute, the other hand casually tucked into the pocket of her robe as she spins on her heel to leave. A glimmer of confusion flashes over her face as she rotates; she feels like she is forgetting something important. Glancing around, her eyes land on the familiar brand-new leather satchel resting beneath the tree where she has spent her afternoon.

"Wait!" A voice suddenly calls out from behind her. Severina looks over her shoulder to see the Hufflepuff jogging to catch up, a journal clutched tightly in her hands. 

"Yes?” She halts her stride and waits, partially peering over her shoulder at the girl. Reaching into the inner pocket of her robes, Severina's fingers curl around the familiar pack of cigarettes, pulling one out and placing it between her lips just as the girl draws level.

With the barest flick of her wrist, Severina wordlessly summons the bag, watching as it floats lazily through the air to settle haphazardly over her shoulder. The familiar weight against her side is reassuring, even if the uncharacteristic carelessness of leaving it behind in the first place nags at the back of her mind. Her memories still seem to be skewed in some way. Her mind hasn't adjusted to the Memory Potion yet, which is why she's been a little foggy lately. 

In her haste, the girl accidentally bumps into her back, staggering momentarily as her shoes grind on the dirt. Maintaining her balance, the girl raises her head to meet Severina's bothered stare, her eyes bulging as she bounces between the Slytherin, the bag, and the journal. "How could you do that?" she asks in awe. "That's advanced, seventh-level magic. And wandless!" 

The Slytherin shrugs, using the tip of her wand to light the cigarette dangling from her lips. "Practice, I guess.”

That's when Severina notices the familiar leather cover of the journal in the girl's hands. "Oh, that's mine. Thank you for retrieving it; my carelessness is getting the better of me lately." Severina intended for her tone to come off as lighter, to quell that flare of worry, although the words don't quite fall that way in her own ear. The good news is that the other girl doesn't appear to notice. She reaches out to snatch the book back.  

The girl doesn't fight to keep the journal but instead stands staring at Severina, her eyes darting back and forth between the taller witch and the ink-stained ‘Severina T. Snape’ that has been magically stamped on the corner of the cover. Then, at that moment, the girl blurts out, "Oh, you're Snape!"

She then adds, "I can hardly recognise you. And don't get me wrong, it's not like it's a bad thing. Your hair's cute, yeah? Absolutely stunning, I think. I mean, it's not like—you look healthy? I guess? Oh, God. that sounds wrong." She pauses, taking a deep breath, before pressing on. "We used to sit next to each other in Potions, remember? I'm on the other side of the table next to yours. When my brew starts going all greenish, you tell me to chuck in the Valerian sprigs, and I'll be forever grateful 'cause Stebbins didn't do that and his cauldron went up in flames. Poor bloke had to spend the whole weekend in the hospital, he did."

The girl finally puts a stop to her rambling spiel and extends her hand. "I'm Charity Burbage."

Severina can't help but raise a single, perfectly arched brow, her lips curving into the hint of an amused smile. "Charity Burbage," she repeats after her, the name rolling off her tongue with a faint touch of playful curiosity. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance." 

A sudden shiver travels down Severina's spine as a gradual, deepening feeling of recognition grips her. The name ‘Charity Burbage’ echoes in her mind in a hateful hiss-sound, haunting her, taunting her. 

Her eyesight becomes blurry and less and less trustworthy, and her breath hitches, laboured, and uneven. Unseen images begin to groove before her eyes, whisking her back to a time long ago, to one of the sorest moments in her memory. At this moment, it feels like the world has begun to slide downward, and Severina, trying to balance perilously, wobbles before finally losing her foothold. Just as she feels herself starting to fall, the Hufflepuff girl, Charity Burbage, reacts quickly, her hands darting out to grab Severina's waist, steadying her and keeping her from collapsing. “Oh my God—wha” Her voice trails off mid-sentence and fades into the background, mingling with the sound of the wind blowing and the birds calling. 

Natalia-maybe-Severina, at first, catches a glimpse of herself—that is, the Vision-Snape, the one without any trace of Natalia in her soul, haggard and wan, donning a funeral cloak and sitting solemnly at the immediate right of the head of the ornate table among throngs of Death Eaters like a tombstone. Gradually, the vision, or rather, the memory, solidifies and gets sharper. Every aspect is frighteningly realistic and full of vivid detail.

Although their hooded robes cast shadows over their pale faces, they were not wearing their masks, considering this was an inner circle gathering. A few of those grotesque black-and-white masks were face-down in front of their wearers. Silence, like that of the grave, is shrouding what she recognises to be The Malfoy Manor’s drawing room. The room’s usual furniture had been pushed carelessly up against the walls. Illumination came from a roaring fire beneath a handsome marble mantelpiece surmounted by a gilded mirror.

Natalia-now-Severina feels like a ghost in the background, unnoticed, unnoticeable. She observes Vision-Snape, composed and elder, staring ahead with a veneer of neutral expression. 

Her eyes straddle between the throngs that look at Vision-Snape, Malfoy, whose features are waxen, rigid, and thin-lipped, and the head of the table, who is seated directly in front of the fireplace, too close to Vision-Snape, so that it was difficult, at first, for her to make out more than his silhouette. And when her eyes gradually grow accustomed to the lack of light, they are drawn upward to the strangest feature of the scene: an apparently unconscious human figure hanging upside down over the table. An invisible force held it aloft, slowly contorting in ways it shouldn't, as if being twisted by an unseen hand, reflected in the mirror and in the bare, polished surface of the table below. None of the people seated underneath this singular sight were looking at it except for a pale young man sitting almost directly below it.

He seemed unable to prevent himself from glancing upward every minute or so. At the head of the table, Voldemort’s face shone through the gloom, hairless, snakelike, with slits for nostrils and gleaming red eyes whose pupils were vertical. He was so pale that he seemed to emit a pearly glow. His red eyes fastened upon Vision-Snape’s black ones with such intensity that some of the watchers looked away, apparently fearful that they themselves would be scorched by the ferocity of the gaze. Vision-Snape, however, looked calmly back into Voldemort’s face, and, after a moment or two, Voldemort’s lipless mouth curled into something like a smile.

Voldemort raised Lucius Malfoy’s wand, pointed it directly at the slowly revolving figure suspended over the table, and gave it a tiny flick. The figure came to life with a groan and began to struggle against invisible bonds.

“Do you recognise our guest, Severina?” asked Voldemort, stroking the snake’s snout with his wand-free hand. Natalia-now-Severina tries not to look at the snake; for some reason, seeing its unflinching gaze sends an unwanted feeling down her spine. 

Vision-Snape raised her eyes to the upside-down face. All of the Death Eaters were looking up at the captive now, as though they had been given permission to show curiosity. As she revolved to face the firelight, the woman said in a cracked and terrified voice, “Severina! Help me!”

“Ah, yes,” said Vision-Snape as the prisoner turned slowly away again.

“For those of you who do not know, we are joined here tonight by Charity Burbage, who, until recently, taught at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.” 

There were small noises of comprehension around the table. A broad, hunched woman with pointed teeth cackled.

“Yes … Professor Burbage taught the children of witches and wizards all about Muggles … how they are not so different from us …”

One of the Death Eaters spat on the floor. Charity Burbage turned to face the Vision-Snape again. The woman's eyes pleaded, like a desperate prayer to an unanswerable deity. "Severina ... please ... please ... we were friends."

“Silence,” said Voldemort, with another twitch of Malfoy’s wand, and Charity fell silent as if gagged. “Not content with corrupting and polluting the minds of Wizarding children, last week Professor Burbage wrote an impassioned defence of Mudbloods in the Daily Prophet. Wizards, she says, must accept these thieves of their knowledge and magic. The dwindling ofthe purebloods is, says Professor Burbage, a most desirable circumstance… She would have us all mate with Muggles … or, no doubt, werewolves…”

It’s a memory, Natalia-now-Severina convinces herself. Tears burning her eyes, guilt smearing her from within. I had nothing to do with it. 

Nobody laughed this time. There was no mistaking the anger and contempt in Voldemort’s voice. For the third time, Charity Burbage revolved around facing Vision-Snape. Tears were pouring from her eyes into her hair. Vision-Snape looked back at her, quite impassive, as she turned slowly away from her again.

“Avada Kedavra.”

The flash of green light illuminated every corner of the room. Charity fell, with a resounding crash, onto the table below, which trembled and creaked. Several of the Death Eaters leapt back into their chairs. Draco fell out of his chair onto the floor.

“Dinner, Nagini,” said Voldemort softly, and the great snake swayed and slithered from his shoulders onto the polished wood.

The faintest hint of a subdued, closed expression—a thin layer of the barrier covering the storm of emotions brewing inside—was evident in Vision-Snape’s dark eyes. Yet she didn't look away, Natalia realises with a pang. Because the older witch owed the Charity Burbage this moment, this acknowledgement of her failure. To turn away, to avert her gaze, would be to deny the gravity of what had just transpired, the cost of Severina's choices. 

She reads her old, pasty, sunken face, trying to piece together what she might’ve been thinking and how she might’ve felt when she made her choices. From the spy's perspective, everything seemed more dismal and gloomy; truth muddled, morality merely a fragile mist that wavered even if she kept her sight fixed on it at all times.

These feelings, this persistent feeling, are the permanent vestiges of a time gone and a time not yet here. That does not, however, absolve her of wrongdoing, her sins. 

Instantaneously, Severina finds herself gazing into the exact same eyes, only younger, that had once plagued her sleepless nights as the flashback vanished in the blink of an eye. Severina's knees fail at this very time. The near-fall shakes her out of her guilt-ridden trance, and she barely manages to catch herself if not for the firm grip on her waist. 

It is Severina's turn to stutter now, "I- I, I’m sorry." The words claw out through her too-tight throat and on her too-dry tongue, barely audible above the hammering of her heart. 

“Oh my God. Hey, hey. Breath with me.” Charity Burbage says. Her grip on Severina’s waist tightens firmly as she drags her to the nearby toppled log. 

Severina looks over the petite girl's shoulder into the condemning eyes of the crows perched in the bare branches, unable to stop her spiral of mumbling. “I had no choic— it— my fault. It won’t happen, I know I will not allow it again. I’ll never –“ 

Burbage is surprisingly strong, or perhaps Severina is still too-underweight enough to be effortlessly handled by a girl who must crane her neck to be able to see her. 

Sweat beads across Severina's forehead as the wind, as if in response, gusts ferociously, darkening the sky substantially. The air becomes coated with acrid repressed magic, and there is a perceptible taste of ozone, erratically potent and pungent. A consuming force that is at once tangible and not. Burbage does not notice the birds quickly moving away, but Severina does. She takes a deep breath and exhales, engaging in the typical hyperbolic breathing exercise for stress management. With reasonable repetition, she aims to subdue the rattling beast within her before it grows too accustomed to its attempt to slam them to the ground.

Like a puppet with its strings cut, she falls into the makeshift seat and stares at her boots, which are soiled from the route that has been wet with mud. Brick by brick, she starts to erect the Occlumency’s walls, cramping her inner shame.

“Snape.” Burbage asks, opening a bottle of water and thrusting it into her hands. “Should I get someone? Here, take a sip.”

Severina hums in absentminded acknowledgement. 

Really, death shouldn't have had the kind of impact that it did on her. By now, she ought to be well-accustomed to it.

While Severina had a hand in Lily’s death, she didn’t witness it. Unlike Lily’s, Burbage’s death is something she witnessed firsthand and actually did nothing to prevent. It’s not the same. It’s so much worse. 

She hisses, “Вот чёрт.²”

When the final Occlumency brick is placed in its place, Severina winds up with an uncannily familiar feeling of numbness. No guilt. No fear. No panic. Nothing. The urge to heave her guts out is still there, albeit not quite as much as it was a few minutes before. Not yet, anyhow. 

“‘sorry about that.”

The girl stares at her. She feels her gaze heavy on her face. "Um. What is that?" She asks, making a vague hand gesture that seems to encompass the whole messy debacle. 

"Panic attack," Severina croaks, sounding about as smooth as nails on a chalkboard. "You seriously never saw one of those before? What, do you live under a rock or something?" 

The girl responds by shoving a water bottle into Severina's trembling hands. "Take a sip," she commands, as if trying to force-feed a stubborn toddler their veggies. 

When Severina hesitates, the girl snatches the bottle back and presses it right up against Severina's lips, practically dribbling water down her chin. Severina has no choice but to gulp it down begrudgingly, lest she drown in this girl's misguided attempt at first aid. The cool liquid soothes her parched throat. 

"I'm sorry about that," Severina says. Her nails dig into her knees—partly out of lingering anxiety and partly to keep from throttling her well-meaning but overbearing companion. 

She risks a glance up at the girl, silently searching for a shred of something—mockery—anything. 

The girl, Burbage, responds with a noncommittal noise that sounds suspiciously like a snort. Severina can't decide if that's a good sign or not. Does the girl think this is all some big joke? Is she silently judging Severina's inability to keep it together? 

"Does this happen often?" Burbage asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

Severina pauses, considering how to answer, her mind flashing back to the harrowing experiences that have left her with this lovely little neurological gift. The two wars hadn’t exactly been a walk in the park; she had inherited with this body, apparently, some good old-fashioned post-traumatic stress to keep her company. 

"Only on days that end in 'y'," she settles on, flashing the girl a sardonic grin.

Burbage regards her with a look that says she can't decide if Severina is joking or being brutally honest. "I'm not sure if you're being sarcastic or if you actually have panic attacks that frequently.”

Severina simply shrugs, refusing to dignify that question with a response. Instead, she begins rummaging through the pockets of her robe, searching frantically for her trusty pack of cigarettes. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, if the haystack is made of loose change and old receipts. All the while, she's fighting the urge to hurl all over Burbage's nice, clean shoes.

Sensing Severina's distress, Burbage reaches out and gives her elbow a gentle squeeze. "Snape?" she asks, her tone soft and soothing, like she's trying to coax a frightened kitten out from under the couch.

"I'm fine," Severina insists, even as her hands shake like a leaf in a hurricane.

Concerned, Burbage suddenly digs into her basket and produces a vibrant blue flower, which she unceremoniously shoves right up Severina's nose. The unexpected intrusion triggers a faint sense of recognition in Severina, though she can't quite place where she has encountered such a bloom before. 

"Keep this," Burbage instructs, "it'll do the trick for your dizziness. Does wonders for me when I'm on my period."

Severina simply murmurs a half-hearted "Hmm, thanks," as she begins to spin the delicate, fragrant flower against her nose, finding comfort in the familiar motion.

Giving up on her futile search for the cigarettes, Severina's hands instead begin to trace the delicate embroidery of her blouse, losing herself in the familiar texture.

 “What were you doing here?” 

"I've been mostly writing," she says, her gaze distant and unfocused.  

The Hufflepuff nods thoughtfully. "It is quite impressive, Snape," she says tentatively, like she's treading on thin ice. "I've always believed you were truly brilliant.”

Severina blinks in surprise, then turns to face Burbage, her brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asks, wondering what on earth could have prompted such a compliment.

Burbage, fidgeting nervously besides her, licks her lips and glances awkwardly between Severina and the book in her lap. "Uh, well, you know, publishing a book at your age? It's, like, a total achievement!" she sputters, her words tumbling out in a frantic jumble.

Severina's gaze narrows as she notices her own notebook, slightly damp, resting open in Burbage's lap. There, in her own neat, meticulously organised handwriting, are the financial records for her book’s payment. Her eyes go wide with realisation, and she snatches the notebook back. At the same moment, Burbage yelps, "I didn't mean to snoop, I swear! The book was just open, and I, um, kinda saw it by accident. I'm really, really sorry!" 

Severina stares at Burbage for a long moment, the first time she finally fully looks at her after knowing. "Right, well, let's just forget this whole thing ever happened, shall we?" 

Severina's mind is a jumbled mess of hazy, half-remembered snippets—a strange sort of cinematic déjà vu, like a movie trailer for a film she can't quite recall. And somehow, amidst the chaos, she knows that she and Charity Burbage are something akin to friends, although their relationship had always been about as deep as a puddle on a hot summer day. 

Burbage had been one of the few people who had actually shown Severina a genuine act of kindness, which is rarer than a Niffler sighting in the Gringotts vaults. Severina can practically picture them now, seated together in the library, engaging in amiable discussions without a trace of the fear, resentment, or fake smiles that usually taint her interactions with her peers.

Maybe Burbage had sensed the temptation Severina feels to fling herself off the Astronomy Tower after her fallout with Lily. She was certainly one of the only ones willing to call out James Potter's problematic behaviour, and she hadn’t held back when she labelled Sirius Black a "genuine jerk" for the obsessed way he had treated Severina. But by that point, Severina had become so wrapped up in her own misery that she had built a veritable fortress around her heart, trapping all those ravenous emotions inside to stew and rot. Any gesture of empathy from Charity had been viewed as a weapon rather than the sincere concern it is.

Charity had always considered Severina a friend of sorts, but the feeling had never really been mutual. And back then, with Charity gone (killed), Vision-Severina couldn’t help but wonder if her death had been some sort of unavoidable sacrifice—like a lamb being led to the slaughterhouse—all part of some cruel, cosmic game. Severina isn't as brave as she likes to think. She is a lamb—a lamb doomed for the chopping block, one way or another. And in the process, the elder Severina—the original Severina—somehow managed to achieve a measure of entitlement to salvation via martyrdom.

Rifling through her pockets, she searches for a packet of cigarettes, fighting back the urge to hurl. Besides her, Burbage squeezes her elbow again, a gesture that feels oddly familiar. "Snape?"

 "I'm fine," Severina mumbles. 

"You don't look fine," Burbage points out, wisely moving her shoes out of Severina's potential line of fire, just in case. 

Severina shoots her a look. "That's my natural face; it's a bit... vampiric, I've been told."

"It doesn't look that vampy..." 

Severina scoffs. 

"Okay, fine." Burbage concedes, eyeing Severina with a mix of embarrassment and amusement. "Maybe a bit unnaturally... pale."

Severina snorts, a sound that is equal parts derisive and resigned. 

The silence that follows is almost comforting, giving Severina a moment to gather her thoughts. She offers the cigarette to Burbage, who takes a long, experienced drag. "My mum's a marketing professor at Yale.” 

Severina lets out an impressed whistle.

"And I know a thing or two about marketing myself," Burbage continues, eyeing Severina with a glint. "I thought I could, you know, help you out with the whole book thing, if you'd like."

Severina pauses. "Why would you do that?" she asks, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. "What's in it for you?"

Burbage lets out an exasperated sigh, rolling her eyes in a way that suggests she was expecting such a response. "Such a Slytherin thing of you to say, Snape," she chides. "Do I necessarily have to want something in return?"

Severina blinks, caught off guard by the unexpected display of altruism. "Yes," she says firmly, crossing her arms over her chest. "What do you stand to gain from all of this?"

Burbage looks at her with an expression that Severina struggles to fully grasp—a subtle shift in her gaze, with eyebrows furrowed and a faint frown on her lips. But then her face softens, and she speaks in a voice that is almost unbearably gentle. She scoffs, "Has anyone ever done something kind for you without expecting anything in return?"

Severina is startled by the question, her mind jumping with memories of previous encounters—in both lives—when people have truly been good to her without any ulterior motives. It is a foreign concept, one that Natalia and, sadly, even Severina herself have rarely experienced.

Reclaiming the cigarette from Burbage's dainty fingers, Severina gazes at the blonde besides her, taking a long, drawn-out drag. "You see," she elucidates, blowing a small cloud of smoke, "it's ingrained in me to anticipate reciprocation when one extends a favor. It's simply the natural order of things."

Burbage stares at her, one perfectly sculpted eyebrow arched skeptically. "You don't even believe this ridiculous notion yourself," she counters, a hint of something in her voice.

Severina opens her mouth to protest, then closes it with a huff. "I do," she insists. 

"What about your, uh, aggressive kindness?" Burbage presses. "You helped find Nibbles, and you didn't have to. But you did it anyway."

Severina rolls her eyes, taking another drag of the cigarette. "Because I wanted to enjoy the silence, the silence that you and that mangy rat ruined," she grumbles. "That's the gain."

Burbage simply stares at her, unblinking, until Severina begins to fight the childish urge to squirm under the weight of her gaze. Finally, the Hufflepuff nods sagely. "Only partially," she says, her voice infuriatingly calm. "You helped because you wanted to help. There's no shame in admitting kindness, Snape." 

Severina wants to snort derisively, but the words catch in her throat. "Oh, you see through me now, do you?" she retorts. 

Burbage raises her chin, a small smile playing on her lips. "In fact, I think I do."

"I fear you're a bit delusional, then," Severina mutters, the words lacking their usual bite. They are sombre. 

“Maybe I am," Burbage concedes. "But can I still see your book now?" 

Severina stares at her for a long moment, the cigarette dangling precariously from her lips. Finally, she sighs and reaches into her bag. "Fine," she grumbles, handing it over. "Just don't drool on it, or I'll have your head. I don’t know how you could even help.”  

Burbage's face positively lights up as she hears Severina's words, her smile widening to the point that Severina half-expects to see a few Chocolate Frog cards come spilling out. "Don't you ever underestimate the might of gossip, Snape," she says, practically bouncing in her seat. "Can I get a copy of the book? I wanna have a proper idea of what I'm working on."

Severina takes her turn to rummage through her bag, retrieving the freshly printed book. The cover is a pristine white, adorned with the elegant inscription "Advanced Potion-making for the Hopelessly Incompetent (1) by S. Vasilievna Alekseivich" in sleek, black lettering. Aside from the publisher's logo on the side, there is nothing particularly remarkable about it.

"Oh, Snape," Burbage giggles. "The cover is so you."

Severina raises a single, sceptical eyebrow. "What does that even mean?"

"It's the pinnacle of Snape-osity, the most Snape-esque thing I've ever clapped my eyes on," Burbage declares, still giggling. 

Severina can't help but feel a bit amused by the girl's antics. "Well, should I get all miffed about that?"

"And why 'S. Vasilievna Alekseivich'?" Burbage asks, her curiosity piqued.

"It's just my parents' middle and last names," Severina explains, her voice taking on a hesitant edge. "I translated them to Russian and smushed them together." She pauses, fixing Burbage with a pointed stare. "I would prefer it if nobody else found out about this, Burbage."

Burbage theatrically seals her lips and pretends to toss away the key, moving closer to Severina and creating an atmosphere of secrecy and collusion. "This can be our little secret," she whispers, her tone conspiratorial. "Also, you can call me Charity."

Severina feels the corners of her lips twitch upward. "Only if you call me Severina." 

Charity's eyes light up with eager joy. "Severina," she says, giving the name a playful whirl on her tongue, grinning from ear to ear. Then she casts her gaze upon the haphazardly flipped pages, folding a few here and there and humming thoughtfully. "Right, listen here... I see your expectations are a bit unfair, but also assuming a significantly higher number would be an exaggeration as well. Let's see. I say I can sell around 300 copies to Hogwarts students only because they are easily influenced. The mid-semester exams are just around the corner, and that's a good opportunity to start spreading the word about the book. I'll drop some mentions to the firsties who usually come to me for advice. You do the same... I've got a friend who writes for Hogwarts' weekly newspaper; I reckon I can have a word put in there."

Severina's lips curl into a grin, a sight that would have once sent her students scurrying for the hills like frightened pixies. She wonders, not for the first time, if she still possesses the ability to evoke such visceral reactions. But Charity is different—unfazed, unflappable. Severina realises, as she reflects on their past encounters, that not even when she had been nothing more than a walking skeleton with deathly pale skin, unkempt greasy hair, and a decidedly unsavoury reputation, had this woman ever wavered.

And now, as Charity's smile only grows sweeter in the face of Severina's trademark grin, the Potions Mistress finds herself delightfully captivated. Isn't it marvellous, this feeling of being touched and smiled at without a hint of concealed disgust, exploitation, or mockery? No scorn, no ridicule, no fear—just a genuine warmth that Severina and, dare she say, even Natalia before her had rarely experienced.

Throwing her head back, Severina lets out a peal of laughter, the forgotten cigarette dangling precariously from her lips. It's a sound so carefree and unguarded that it likely would have sent her students into a collective state of shock, had any of them been present to witness it.

But Charity, ever the exception, simply beams, her eyes sparkling with delight. She has managed to coax out a reaction from the infamously dour dungeon bat that few have ever seen, and Severina can't help but feel a curious sense of … trust. It's a foreign emotion, to be sure, but not an unwelcome one.

Clearing her throat, Severina schools her features back into their usual impassive mask, though the faint traces of a smile still linger. "Well," she drawls, plucking the cigarette from her lips and regarding it with feigned nonchalance, "shall we get back to the matter at hand?" 

Chapter Text

Like a Dementor's whisper, the library is quiet, save for the rustle of pages and the occasional whine from Peter as Remus quietly polishes his essay. And, of course, the low murmurs of the students huddled round at a nearby table.

"You know, I never would've guessed in a million years that you've got a thing for girls who decapitate their own dolls, mate.." Says one of them.

"You just don't get it, mate. Her quirky weirdness is like...." The voice trails off, and Sirius can imagine James rolling his eyes so hard they might just pop out of his head. Then, as if struck by a bolt of Merlin-blessed inspiration, the same voice continues, this time with a touch of awkward anticipation, "..the most bloody captivating thing about her, if you know what I mean."

Sirius grimaces, contorting his usually attractive features into a look of complete, unmitigated disgust. "Blimey, Prongs," he groans, "the bloke's even worse than you were last year when you tried to serenade Evans outside the girls' dorm, eh?"

James makes a face that could curdle Acid Pops, then quickly looks over his shoulder at the older boys before returning to his homework. "Don't remind me," he mutters, as if the mere memory could summon Filch and his dreaded mop.

Sirius lets out a long, suffering sigh as he shifts in his seat, feeling the dull ache in his shoulders that has been plaguing him all day. The tightness makes it impossible to focus, and his eyes become heavy as he tunes out the older boys droning on about some fleeting fancy or another. Their voices blend together into a droning hum that floats in one ear and out the other, leaving Sirius utterly indifferent.

He casts a longing glance towards the Quidditch pitch, where a group of students clumsily fly about on their brooms. He scoffs, recognizing the green of Slytherin robes. "Those slippery eels couldn't fly to save their lives," he mutters. Despite their lack of talent, he can't help but feel a pang of envy as he watches them glide through the air with such ease.

The thrill of flying had been ripped away from him after the Marauders' last stint in the hospital wing. Madam Pomfrey had been as protective as a mother bear, forbidding them from even looking at a broom until they were fully healed. Sirius' longing for the freedom of the open sky was as unquenchable as ever. He missed the rush of wind against his skin, the weightlessness of his body, and the grounding effect it had on his chaotic mind.

But for now, he resigns himself to the task at hand, staring blankly at the notes Mary had passed along. With a weary sigh, he admits to himself how much he had missed due to their extended stay in the infirmary. 

Peter, struggling to stay awake in front of him, was a pitiful sight. Sirius couldn't help but chuckle as he watched the boy's head bob up and down, fighting the urge to succumb to sleep. Across the table, Remus has already finished his essay, re-reviewing Peter's work with a critical eye, probably mentally flagging out all the misspellings and grammar mistakes. 

"Oi, Wormtail, you're drooling on the parchment," Sirius stage-whispers, nudging the dozing boy none-too-gently. "Don't want Minnie to deduct points for that, do we?"

Peter jerks upright, blinking owlishly as he hastily wipes at the corner of his mouth. "W-what? Oh, uh, right. Sorry, Padfoot," he mumbles, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. 

Sirius grins, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the chair, earning a disapproving glare from Remus. "Really, Wormy, you'd think after all these years, you'd have learned to at least look like you're paying attention." 

"Leave him be, Sirius," Remus interjects. "Some of us are actually trying to get work done, you know." 

“Relax, Moony, I'm just having a bit of fun," Sirius drawls, flashing his friend a roguish wink. "Can't blame a bloke for trying to liven up this dreary study session, can you?" 

Remus merely rolls his eyes, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "insufferable git." 

James stares down at the long list of makeup assignments with a scowl that could have curdled milk.

“Whoever pulled this stunt really knows how to make a mess of things,” he mutters, yanking his book with enough force to send it spinning like a Quidditch ball caught in a whirlwind. Sirius lets out a low hum, his thoughts drifting back to that wicked little scheme that had landed them in the hospital wing for a whole month. Someone had brewed a spell-timed potion and slipped it into their beds, making them feel as if they’d been hit by a rogue Bludger—every single day for a blasted month!

Professor McGonagall had been absolutely horrified; her lips pinched tighter than a goblin with a bad deal. Meanwhile, the likes of Slughorn and Dumbledore had looked almost impressed, as if this were some sort of twisted academic feat rather than a full-on assault. Honestly, he almost impressed himself. If only he weren’t the victim..

He’s itching to get his hands on whoever’s behind this mess and repay them tenfold for every practice and match he’d missed. They’d pay dearly for grounding him for so long—he’d make sure of it. 

His thoughts are interrupted by the outburst of the older students gathered nearby. "—cut her hair?" one grumbles, clearly miffed about something. 

Amos Diggory's voice then chimes in, “No, of course not. I mean, she’s dismissive of most, but not Evans. Should I ask her for advice?

The mention of Evans makes James perk up instantly, like a dog hearing a snack bag rustle, twitching with interest. Sirius glances over his shoulder, morbidly fascinated by the gossip. Only a handful of girls they know have short hair and are tight with Evans—could they be talking about Marlene McKinnon? 

Diggory continues, “She really gave me a thorough thrashing at the Duelling Club the other day. 

Diggory continues, "She really gave me a thorough thrashing at the Duelling Club the other day. Bloody impressive witch."

One of the Ravenclaws looks up from his book and says, "Remind me who we're discussing."

A Hufflepuff named Smith answers with a fake grimace that doesn't quite hide his amusement. "That Snape bird from Slytherin. Y’know, deadpan stares and scathing remarks.” 

Horror washes over James and Sirius as they exchange wide-eyed looks of disbelief. Even Peter looks scandalised at the thought of Snape attracting this kind of attention.

Diggory then nudges Smith half-heartedly. 

The Marauders can only gawk, jaws dropping. Sirius is convinced Madam Pomfrey must have slipped them a Confundus Potion during their stay; there’s simply no other explanation for this madness. 

James leans in, squeezing Sirius' arm like a vice. “She’s got him under some dark spell or a love potion, that one,” he whispers, his face twisted in disgust. “Blimey, how Snivellus has the nerve to take it this far, the greasy bugger.” 

Sirius schools his expression, nodding absently while tightening his grip on his quill. He blinks down at it, then slowly relaxes, careful not to snap it like a twig. 

The blond Ravenclaw says, “Who do you reckon will win today?” 

“I dunno, Lestrange is... well, Lestrange, innit?” Smith replies, shaking his head like he’s trying to dislodge a bad memory. “He’s a proper savage, he is. And Snape’s a right skinny lass. She ain’t exactly the picture of health compared to her mates, even if her height makes her look like a giant.” 

“True enough,” the Hufflepuff agrees, “but Lestrange isn’t Snape’s real rival, is he? Nah, it’s Rosier she’s got to watch out for. He’s miles better than Lestrange when it comes to dodging and defending. Proper strategic thinker, that one. Lestrange? Just a mad dog—he’ll throw himself at you like a Bludger, but that won’t fly with Rosier, who’s got the stamina and a sharp mind to match.”

Diggory shuts the cover of his Ancient Runes textbook with a snap, then proceeds to neatly arrange the remaining books and notes that are strewn all over the library table."You know, Snape's gone and cooked up a few spells of her own," he reveals, glancing up at the big clock over the library entrance. "Heard the professor tell her to get a few of the more promising ones registered under her name at the Ministry. Reckon it's about to kick off any minute now. Fancy a friendly little bet on the side?"

Smith grins widely. "Always up for a bet. Alright, I'll take you up on it.”

"I'm betting Lestrange defeats Rosier in their match," Diggory replies. "I say Snape faces Lestrange and defeats him handily. What do you think?"

Diggory and Smith bolt out of the library, their excited chatter about bets and predictions for the Duelling Club fading into the distance as they race down the corridor.

“Merlin’s saggy left—” Sirius starts, only to be swiftly shushed by a fuming Madam Pince.

“Why are you surprised?” Remus remarks, his eyes glued to his book as he corrects a spelling mistake. “She knows, what, two hundred curses and hexes?”

At that, James scowls, not keen on revisiting that reality. About twenty-three is all he can recall, and he was still trying to master another. She’s a Slytherin—a slippery, greasy little snake who probably hangs around Death Eaters and likely picked up all three Unforgivable Curses last year. “Yeah, but the slimy git’s pretty rubbish at duelling, at best.”

“Below average, really,” Peter pipes up, smirking.

James and Sirius share a look. 

"Come on, you know we don't want to miss this!" 

The two Gryffindors then spring into action, scrambling to gather their scattered books and notes. They hastily shove scrolls of parchment into their bags without a care for wrinkling or creasing the pages within, their movements frantic and hurried.

Remus lets out an exaggerated sigh as he carefully rolls up his half-finished Charms essay. "I did say I wanted to finish this today, you know," he reminds them, his tone dripping with long-suffering patience.

"It'll still be here when we get back, Moony!" Sirius replies impatiently, already halfway to the exit.

Peter looks up at Remus with hopeful eyes, his quill still poised over his parchment. "Moony?"

Remus knows it's a lost cause when James and Sirius get an idea in their heads. He lets another tired sigh escape his lips. "Okay, go; I'll be right behind you."

And with that, the Marauders are off, practically racing each other down the corridors towards the Duelling Club. Sirius and James lead the charge, their robes billowing behind them like the sails of a mighty ship. Remus follows at a more sedate pace, muttering under his breath about irresponsible best friends, while Peter scurries along, struggling to keep up with his longer-legged companions.

The Duelling Club's cacophonous noises of spells, yells, and the occasional shriek of pain intensify as the foursome rounds the last corner.

At their very core, fencing and magical duelling share an undeniable kinship, albeit on vastly different planes. On the surface, one involves the clash of steel while the other relies on the interplay of spells, but a closer examination reveals a deeper commonality in their underlying philosophy and technique. Both arts demand a strategic distance from one's opponent, a careful calibration of footwork and positioning. Words might be exchanged in magical duels, but the true communication lies in the subtle movements—a feint to the left elicits a reactive step, a step back to draw them forward.

Precision and economy of motion hold paramount significance in both styles. Wild excess can overwhelm the inexperienced, but it will not defeat a skilled opponent. Instead, one must identify and exploit weaknesses through well-timed, disciplined maneuvers. Safety depends as much on defence as offence, on shields and parries to match attacks. And to emerge victorious, psychological factors like masking intent and gauging a rival's mindset prove just as vital as technical prowess. Whether facing a spell or a blade, the ultimate goal remains the same: to outmanoeuvre and overcome through mastery of oneself and intimate knowledge of the other. Threads of common philosophy bind these kindred activities, their substances differing but their structures and strategies forming a shared foundation.

After weeks of treatment for the pesky Memory Potion, Severina's mind now functions like a well-oiled machine, flipping from one state to the next with no subtlety whatsoever.

It is as if someone has Vanished the cobwebs from her brain, leaving it crisp, clear, and ready to tackle any challenge that comes her way.

Severina's once frail body has been whipped into shape, her muscles primed and ready to mimic the elegant fencing positions she had perfected in a previous life. The wannabe duelists of Hogwarts had learned a very painful lesson: Severina Snape is an absolute terror on the duelling platform.

Her spells—quick, unpredictable, and unnecessarily powerful—were foreign to her peers, even the Pure Blooded watchers.

At first, Severina's presence at the club was as silent as a Dementor in a graveyard; she sat and observed, her deep, keen eyes picking up on every nuance of movement, every incantation, every reaction. All the while, she scribbled furiously in her notebook, humming to herself. That was until her first match against a particularly sharp-reflexed, Muggle-born yearmate who had not seemed to take her seriously, any more than anybody else anyway. The poor sod did not know what hit him. 

Winning that bout barely raised an eyebrow, nor did the next. But by the fifth consecutive victory, the students and the two professors—Alard Faucheux, the professor of Defence Against Dark Magic for this year (he wouldn’t last), and Professor Filius Flitwick, the Charms professor—were beginning to take notice, their jaws dropping lower with each unexpectedly spectacular display of Severina's skills. In the past week, Severina has delved into a wealth of articles chronicling the sport of fencing, the history of swordsmanship, and the nuances of classical swordplay. Nostalgic, maybe. The old texts describe them as sister arts, each informing and complementing the other. And while her wand lacks the heft of a foil, it offers its own reassuring versatility. In her hand, it becomes an extension of her will, a tool to turn defence into offence or redirect incoming threats.

The thrill, the exhilaration, that is thrumming through her veins when her spells collide in a spectacular clash of magic is not unlike the rush she experiences when her blade meets her opponent's. 

She has to admit, there is a charming, nostalgic allure about winning her rounds in this Duelling Club. It brings forth a distinct sense of fulfilment, of satisfaction that envelops her very being, tangled with the sweet ache in her muscles, the fervent grip of her lungs, and the lingering veil of magic that clings to the air after the crackle of spellwork. It is difficult to put into words, really. Maybe it is because she excels at it, but it is as if there is something deeper, something beyond mere skill. A familiarity, she dares to guess. 

This is her element, her peace, and she glides within it without the slightest hint of effort.

Around her, the noisy bustle of the crowd seems to fade into the background, a mere hum that fades into insignificance. Time itself seems to slow its pace, each moment stretching out before her. In this suspended state, she is both comfortable and clear-headed. Her body and wand move instinctively, guided by years of memories and experience, by mastering the technical aspects of the games.

The duelling chamber echoes with the sounds of spellfire as Severina faces off against a fourth-year Gryffindor opponent, Frank Longbottom. They dance around one another, throwing hexes and jinxes with lightning speed. Severina's trained eyes take in every minute detail—the slight shift of weight that exposes an opening in her foe's defences, the brief moment where his balance wavers. His move, unwittingly, it seems, follows the typical Sabre tactics, targeting solely on her upper body. 

There is an old fencing proverb that states: foil is art, sabre is fun, épée is truth. She once (as Natalia) had an affinity for the latter.

With lightning-quick reflexes, she blocks the jet of red magic hurtling towards her chest. Spinning on the ball of her foot, Severina pivots gracefully out of harm's way. She steadies her breathing and focuses her mind, grasping for the right counterattack. Her wand traces intricate patterns through the air before releasing her own spell with a cry of "Expelliarmus!"

But at the last second, with barely a twitch of her wrist, Severina alters the spell under the thick layer of her Occlumency shield. Her last-second modified spell crashes against the yellow barrier, breaks it, and knocks the wind from Longbottom’s chest as it sends him crashing to the floor outside the dueling platform, rather than having his wand ripped from his grasp.

The audience lets out a collective gasp. The Gryffindor lies on his back, taken aback, his eyes glassy with surprise. Slowly, he stands to his feet, staring at Severina, then at his wand. 

After a short pause, Longbottom nods, “Good match. You performed admirably..well.”

Severina nods back equally, saying, “Thank you; you performed admirably as well.” 

He nods one last time, before turning around, his hand gingerly covering what is surely a bruised shoulder. Severina stifles a grin of delight as she tightens the gauntlets securing her forearms with her teeth, her dark fringe swaying to one side.

“Miss Snape,” It’s Professor Flitwick that speaks in his high, reedy voice. Behind him, Professor Faucheux lurks, his expression as judgmental as ever when faced with a particularly skilled Slytherin.

She turns to face her Charms professor, her expression carefully neutral. Flitwick approaches her at a relaxed pace, an appraising look in his eyes as if he’s seeing her in a new light. “May I see your wand, Miss Snape?” he asks, his tone probing yet curious.

"Of course, Professor," Severina replies, drawing her wand from its place. She holds it out to the small wizard, hilt first.

The Professor takes the wand delicately in his short, nimble fingers, rolling it between his hands as he studies it intently. He gives it an experimental flick, muttering an incantation under his breath. A shower of blue sparks issues from the tip, assessing the wand's properties.

Satisfied with his initial examination, Professor Flitwick retrieves his own wand and casts a complex analyzing spell over Severina's. He studies the results intently for several moments, his brow furrowing deeper with each passing second, before looking up at her in genuine surprise.

"Impressive magic, Miss Snape," he says, his voice carrying a rare note of awe. "My analysis reveals your last spell in the duel was wordless and wandless. Since when have you possessed such advanced nonverbal abilities?"

Severina feels her cheeks flush under the professor's probing gaze. "I have been practicing since first year, sir," she admits, her tone measured and even. 

Flitwick nods thoughtfully, his eyes twinkling with a newfound respect. "Ambitious work for one so young. However, it seems your success has come at a cost." He gestures to her wand, his expression turning contemplative. "Try the Levitation Charm. Show me 'Wingardium Leviosa.'"

Severina pauses, gripping her wand tightly in her sweat-slicked palm. It had felt sluggish in the duel, resisting her commands. She had noticed that for a while now. 

When she casts the charm, it still does the work but by a hair's breadth, unsure and unsteady.

She looks at Flitwick, apprehensive, biting her lip for a very different reason now. Doubt begins to creep into her mind as she stares at her wand more closely. What if it is rejecting her magic because it knows that she isn't truly Severina Snape? Yes, she’s Severina, but she’s also more of the inheritor of Severina’s shell, her unprocessed memories, and her unresolved thoughts. Her burden, her sins, her anger. 

The idea sends a shiver down her spine. No, she can't allow herself to dwell on such worrying thoughts. She shoves the worrisome deep into the recesses of her mind, erecting her strongest Occlumency shields to lock it away.

Flitwick speaks gently, misinterpreting her panic. "Your wand seems to be losing allegiance, my dear. This sometimes occurs when a wizard spreads themselves too thin between verbal, nonverbal, and wandless magic. I suspect you may have overtaxed the bond between yourself and your wand. It's a very dangerous thing in a duel, of course, if your wand were to refuse you in a moment of crisis. But it is also quite impressive that you were still able to duel so effectively with a wand that is not fully yours. You have remarkable magical abilities, Miss Snape; I am truly impressed."

Severina flushes, rubbing the back of her neck sheepishly. "Thank you, Professor."

"We'll need to pay an official visit to Ollivander's to have your wand checked," Flitwick muses, scribbling a note on his pad and humming thoughtfully to himself.

Severina shifts her weight to her other side, keenly aware of the captivated audience's attention. She can hear the whispers swirling around her, feeling dozens of eyes studying her every move. Some look on in awe, their expressions a mix of reverence and thinly veiled envy, while others watch more closely, their narrowed gazes searching for any sign of weakness to exploit.

A flash of vibrant red catches her eye—Lily and her friends watching enthusiastically from the stands, murmuring excitedly amongst themselves. Nearby, Charity gives an enthusiastic wave and a beaming smile, her pet rat gazing at her with its beady eyes, as always, the creature seemingly munching on something that roughly resembles the curls of the girl's hair beside her.

Severina's thoughts then turn to her next potential challenger, Evan Rosier. Through careful observation, she believes she has discovered a tell—a subtle favoring of his right leg when he grows overwhelmed. It is barely visible, but it is there, and she intends to exploit it to her advantage.

"I should speak with the Headmaster," Professor Flitwick finally says, his voice gentle yet decisive. "To arrange for you a trip to try a new wand, Miss Snape. As soon as possible, perhaps today?"

Severina's heart races with surprise at the unexpected proposal. She nervously tucks a strand of sweat-dampened bangs behind her ear, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. She nods in agreement and replies, "I would greatly appreciate that, sir. Yes—thank you, Professor."

The Charms master beams up at her, "Excellent, excellent. We shall get this sorted out post-haste. Wouldn't want your impressive talents to go to waste, now would we?"

With that, Flitwick scurries off, his robes billowing behind him as he goes in search of one of his House’s prefects.

The Duelling Chamber buzzes with an electric thrill when Sirius and the crew saunter in. It feels oddly familiar, like the build-up before a Quidditch match. 

Sirius scans the packed benches, searching for a spot amidst the restless crowd, all eyes glued to the duelist who had just sent Frank Longbottom soaring across the room. There he is—Regulus, nestled near the middle, deep in conversation with his Slytherin mates. Yet, like everyone else, his gaze is locked on the action in the arena.

“Over here!” James calls, waving to an open seat. Peter and Remus trail behind, their curiosity piquing as they lean in to catch snippets of hushed conversations.

“Fourteen wins; that’s got to be a record…”  

“I still can’t believe she took down Longbottom; he was unbeatable!”  

“I wonder how long she can keep this up against Lestrange…”

In the centre, the professor is speaking to the duelist. She shifts awkwardly on the platform—a clear sign of nerves. Sirius can almost picture her expression, although he has yet to see her face: eyes half-cowering, half-defiant but with a feigned neutral demeanour, lips pressed tight, eyebrows slightly furrowed. Maybe it’s the infuriatingly familiar body language that he has yet to actually identify. 

“Do you think Frank’s alright?” Remus asks, concern creeping into his voice, breaking the group’s focus. 

James tears his eyes away, glancing at him. “Madame Pomfrey will patch him up in a jiffy,” he reassures. “Besides, he walked off on his own.”

Drifting his focus back to the centre, James adds, "That's some impressive trick, though. I don't recognise her. What year she's in?”

He is fascinated by the perplexing lightness and fluidity of her footfalls and the relaxed ease of her demeanour during the duel. She came and departed as a shadow.

Clad in fawn-coloured breeches that almost mirror the boys' uniforms, she wears no robe and bears no indication of her House. A flowy, long-sleeved blouse dripped over a black form-fitting shirt that highlights her lithe figure. 

Her hair, a dark shade of raven-black, is cut short, reaching the nape of her pale neck, except for the bangs that fall across her face like a curtain. Under the glow of the chandeliers, her hair shimmers enchantingly, partially concealing her features. Then, in a moment that seems to stretch in time, a pale hand delicately brushes the curtain of bangs aside. It is a hand Sirius knows so well—pale, slender, and agile. He finally catches sight of her face—the familiar curve of Sniv's nostrils, the duskiness beneath her eyes that is, strangely, not as deep as it used to be.

She has even lost the peculiar, sickly sallowness aspect she had on her face; it is still exotic and sharp, but it is healthier, with pink warming her once-thin cheeks. 

Besides him, James takes a moment, then makes an incredulous sound. “Bloody hell. That's Snivy." 

Sirius can’t believe it—Sniv had actually chopped off her greasy mop. That wild mess of hair had been a constant source of amusement for him and the lads—a never-ending source of inspiration for their jokes. 

It's odd she'd get rid of it now. Despite himself, Sirius has to admit that Snivellus is stubborn and strong-headed, not just a crybaby. He remembers a time when Evans had said to one of her mates, "Severina loves her long hair since it always grows out fast," and Sirius, who had been eavesdropping after picking up her name, quipped, "loved it enough to never wash it?" Sure, Evans didn't find it funny, but the rest of the common room was rolling with laughter. 

Long-haired and greasy crybaby is how he identified the Slytherin. It all started in their second year when Severina had the nerve to ignore one of his jibes in the corridor. At the time, he was fuming—who did she think she was, ignoring him like he was nothing? But that snub only fuelled his frustration, as Snivellus never seemed to truly acknowledge him. And that just wouldn't do.

In a fit of reckless anger, he had yanked a handful of Severina's hair from behind. The reaction was instantaneous—her tears flowed like a dam breaking.

And there he stood, frozen in place, mind racing. Her hair had felt softer than he ever could have imagined. It was a revelation that left him feeling uneasy, something he didn't want to confront.

Soft. Ridiculously soft.

To this day, Sirius swears he could still feel the phantom of those dark locks beneath his fingers, branded into his memory. When Snape let out a quiet sob, it twisted something deep within his gut—shame, guilt, and a feeling he couldn't name. To drown it out, he lashed out with cruel words, "shut it...Snivellus."

And in a way, it worked. Her tears ceased, replaced by shock and a steely glare. From that moment on, "Snivellus" became their go-to nickname, sticking like glue every time they crossed paths with the Slytherin. After that moment, Snape never cried in their presence again.

Sirius watches her intently from the stands, her pale skin now flushed with a rosy hue from the thrill of victory. Sweat gleams on her forehead, and damp strands clung to the nape of her neck. When the professor finally dismisses her with a nod, she turns to face the crowd—but her eyes sweep right over him, as if he were nothing more than a ghost.

A twinge of disappointment shoots through him. He’d half-hoped she’d lock onto his gaze, that familiar scowl ready to greet him. Instead, she glides off the platform, her steps light and graceful, like a dancer. It is a stark contrast to the clumsy, twitchy strides he'd come to expect from the Slytherin that recalled a spider. 

“Blimey,” Peter murmured, nudging Sirius in the ribs. 

He merely grunts in response.

A towel sails through the air, and she snatches it effortlessly, like a Seeker plucking a golden Snitch from the sky. Un-Snape-like, he muses, with this whole instinctive agility.

Snape draps the soft cloth over her face, wiping away the evidence of her easy victory before casually tossing it over one shoulder, making her way towards the unfamiliar blonde Hufflepuff who has thrown her the towel.

But then another figure steps into her path, silver hair glinting enticingly in the flickering torchlight. Lucius Malfoy smirks down at her, his lips curling in that infuriating way. From his spot, Sirius can’t quite catch the posh Slytherin’s words, but to his utter shock, Snivellus actually smiles back, her cheeks still faintly flushed from the thrill of the duel.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sirius spots Regulus rising from the Slytherin section, his expression unusually focused as he strides purposefully towards the pair. Sirius feels his grip tighten on the bench, every muscle tensing as he rises to follow instinctively—he can’t miss a second of what might unfold between those three.

Severina blinks, and just like that, a memory springs to life in her mind, as bright as a neon sign. Her eyesight became blurry and finally dark, showing her nothing but stifling darkness. The memory itself takes shape, becoming clearer and more vivid, like a movie coming into focus. It's a dizzying burst of realism, chock-full of intricate details. A déjà vu, but far more intense.

These memories are a bit hazy, more like premonitions of a not-yet-happened future that she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to revisit but must anyway. 

And she finds it uncomfortable that when she has these flashes, her body suddenly freezes up; it just shuts down briefly, no matter how brief, to allow her mind to adjust. It's always so sudden, without any warning, with no regard whatsoever for the ocean or time. One moment, she's standing in front of Lucius, who's about to say something. The next, she's in this "observer role," forced to watch whatever memory decides to pop up. 

Today, it’s the headmaster's office; it has a sombre and introspective atmosphere. The portraits of old headmasters line the walls, their eyes fastened on the lone figure seated before the fireplace. Their stare bears a weight of grave silence, stormy and wrathful without being blatantly condemning. 

Seated in front of the fireplace is none other than Vision-Severina, most likely in her late forties, her features marred with fatigue and the plain signs of her deteriorating condition. The inky marks from the Obscurus had worked their way through her veins, the blue-green yielding to the Obscurus-blackness, staining the unusually white skin of her arms and chest. Besides her, the portrait of Dumbledore sits in a chair too large to fit properly, yet he still manages to gaze at her eye-to-eye. His expression is one of concern as he addresses Vision-Severina in a not-unkind tone. "You are dying."

Vision-Severina raised her hand, the blackness of the Obscurus pulsing through her fingertips. 

"I have about a week left, but I should be able to activate the seal before that. Tonight, I need to prepare the seal, and tomorrow, I will try."

Portrait-Dumbledore said, "It is a hazardous path you tread, Severina. I truly hope it is not your self-destructive impulses or the blaze of your self-loathing that is fuelling this behaviour." 

"Do you mind refraining from your attempts at psychoanalysis? I find little amusement in the fact that your peculiar good mood seems to have persisted beyond your mortal coil.” 

Vision-Severina raised from her chair, the creaking of the old wood floor the only sound breaking the heavy silence. She moved with a tired, measured gait to the towering window, her gaze fixed resolutely on the turbulent world beyond the castle's walls. 

The old witch stood there, motionless, at parade rest; the thunder struck louder. The storm started to rage outside, with lightning crackling across the sky and thunder booming with increasing ferocity.. 

After a long, pensive moment, she spoke, her voice tinged with a weary resignation. "Killing him now isn't enough. The damage he's already inflicted, the other nations left wary and angry—there's no point in cutting him down when his ideas continue to thrive, not while those who were willing to fight back have been so utterly broken."

Before she could continue, one of the portraits interrupted, the occupant's voice cutting through the oppressive silence. "Lord Malfoy is here, Headmistress."

Vision-Severina's shoulders stiffened at the announcement, her jaw tightening with a flicker of barely contained distaste. Reluctantly, she quickly flicked her wand, hiding Dumbledore's portrait in a nearby closet, shutting with a soft thud. The paper soon followed, tucked away under the desk’s pile of papers. 

The other portraits assumed their positions, watching with thinly veiled disgust as she granted the gargoyles permission to open the door for Lord Malfoy. 

On the other side of the door, a sliver of a man could be seen—a man with long greying silver hair tied up neatly behind his head. 

Tall but withering, Lucius lingered for a moment on the threshold. Slowly, his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, and he finally made out more than Vision-Severina’s silhouette in front of the window. 

“Why, Lucius, what a pleasant surprise.” 

“Severina,” he said in a strained whisper. 

“Come in.” 

The door closed with a snap behind him. The carpeted floor muffled the sound of the man’s footsteps. 

Lucius Malfoy's gaze swept across the cluttered interior of the headmaster's office. The walls were almost entirely covered in towering bookshelves, the volumes bound in aged black and brown leather. An impressive, if somewhat concerning, collection—a testament to Vision-Severina's expertise and fascination with the arcane arts—without fear of being questioned about the nature of her studies. Natalia-now-Severina takes a moment to gaze over the titles

The furniture within the office reflected the same gothic-revival aesthetic: high-backed armchairs upholstered in worn velvet, clustered around a heavy oak table in a pool of warm firelight. Despite the grandeur of the space, there was an unmistakable air of neglect, as if this sanctum was seldom occupied these days.

Vision-Severina gestured for Lucius Malfoy to take a seat in the ornate, high-backed armchair that had previously held the portrait of Albus Dumbledore. The worn velvet fabric creaked softly as the older wizard settled into its plush cushions, his imposing presence filling the space.

Before anyone could speak, a House-Elf materialised with a silver tray bearing two crystal glasses and a decanter of deep, ruby-red wine. The elf placed the tray on the small table between them, then swiftly retrieved Vision-Severina's half-empty glass, disappearing with a quiet pop. 

With measured movements, Vision-Severina took her seat across from Lucius, her expression unreadable. She poured out two generous servings of the wine, the liquid catching the flickering firelight as she handed one of the glasses to her guest.

"Thank you," Lucius murmured, his fingers curling around the delicate stem. There was a look in his eyes that Vision-Severina recognised all too well—a shadow of the same haunted, weary resignation that had taken root in her own gaze.

"The Dark Lord," Vision-Severina stated as she raised her glass and drained it in one fluid motion, never breaking eye contact with the older wizard. 

Lucius paused, the barest hint of hesitation flickering across his features, before he mirrored her action, the dark wine vanishing down his throat. The headmistress's glare bore into him, daring him to falter, until at last he had matched her display of grim determination. She refilled their glasses.

Lucius’s gaze drifted across the cluttered expanse of the headmaster's desk, his brow furrowing with an unspoken critique. "The place hardly resembles itself," he commented, his tone laced with a hint of distaste.

Vision-Severina inclined her head in a slight nod of acknowledgment. "Gibbon had stripped it of most of its personal artefacts," she clarified in a drawn-out, monotonous tone. "I had asked our lord..."—she paused, savouring the way the word 'our' caused the briefest flicker of displeasure to cross Lucius's features—"and he had agreed, of course. But I sorted them away regardless, to make space for the new books."

Lucius's fingers drummed contemplatively against the arm. "You didn't come to the celebration last week. I heard you were ill." 

"I am," Vision-Severina replied, the words flat and devoid of emotion. 

Lucius's attention was drawn to the inky blackness that had crept along the skin of her hand. Leaning forward, he extended a hand, silently requesting permission to examine the afflicted flesh more closely.

With a resigned sigh, Vision-Severina relented, allowing him to gently take her hand in his own. "A blood curse?" he murmured, his fingers tracing the discoloured skin with a practiced eye. “But the Prince line has no history of Blood Curses.” 

Vision-Severina's lips tightened into a pained grimace as she gently freed her hand from Lucius' touch. "It's more my father's side of the family that's to blame, if anything," she admitted, the words seeming to cost her great effort. "Although I think it's hardly fair to say that."

Tilting her head, Vision-Severina fixed Lucius with a piercing stare. "I know you, Lucius Malfoy. Speak."

Lucius remained silent for a moment, his gaze averted as if he could not bring himself to meet her eyes. Finally, in a tone that he tried to make sound casual, he began, "At the celebration, our Lord announced that, starting from the end of the year, there would be raids on Muggle-designed areas to wipe out the Mudbloods whose magic had manifested." He flattened his hand against the arm of the chair, the gesture weighted with unspoken guilt. "He's designated Draco to lead the operations."

A mocking, humourless smile tugged at the corner of Vision-Severina's lips as she raised her glass in a sardonic toast. "Here, here." 

Lucius, missing the underlying derision in her tone, mirrored the gesture with a weary blindness. 

Vision-Severina let out a heavy sigh, letting the glass slip from her fingers and spill the blood-red wine across the polished surface of the table. Lucius flinched at the sound, and she raised her chin, pinning him with a penetrating stare. "You blame yourself, don't you?"

Lucius flinched visibly, then echoed her words. "Blame myself?"

But Vision-Severina forestalled any further response, her voice soft yet unyielding. "Yes, blame yourself for all the deaths your Lord and you have caused. I see it in your eyes." Her gaze narrowed, piercing him. "I bet you can't even bear to look your wife in the eye anymore. I bet you even sleep in separate beds. Even Draco told me that he cannot stand yo–“ 

Lucius' expression contorted into a snarl, the lines on his face deepening with barely contained fury. "You forget yourself!"

"Believe me when I say I haven't," she replied coldly, her composure unwavering. "Sit down before you do something you'll regret."

Lucius' mouth twisted, as if he had taken an unpleasant dose of medicine. "You wretched hypocritical Mudbloo," he began, but Vision-Severina cut him off. “Yes yes! Mudblood.”

With a snap of her magic, empowered by the Obscurus she had been training under Dumbledore's guidance, Lucius' body was forced back into the armchair, stunned. The portraits of previous headmasters, who had been silently observing, hastily retreated from their frames.

"You speak of treason!" Lucius said, with gritted teeth. 

"I'm already a traitor, you bloody fool," Vision-Severina retorted. She snatched his glass and took deep gulps of the wine, choked on it, some of it spilling down her chin and her neck. She kept drinking, gulping it down until the glass was empty; her mouth smeared red. Wiping the back of her hand across her lips, Vision-Severina leant back in her chair, her expression suddenly heavy with resignation. "And I'm dying," she admitted quietly.

He peered at her warily, cautiously, as if she were delectating treachery, either because she was intoxicated, spiteful, or just wallowing in her fury. 

"So it's true, you were already a spy!" he accused, his words laced with a tinge of disbelief.

Vision-Severina ignored his statement; her impatience palpable. But then a sharp, ugly smile spread across her lips. "I'm a spy, you know. Harry Potter wouldn't have lived that long without me—not Dumbledore, not The Order, not the bloody useless Minister, but me! I did it."

Lucius faltered, shaking his head. "But Harry Potter is dead; you are mad–“ 

Again, Vision-Severina brushed aside his words, her anger seemingly spiralling out of control. "I did what was expected of me, but he failed me.” she snarled, before breaking into a loud, manic laugh.

Abruptly, she fixed Lucius with an intense stare, her legs crossed as she adopted a deceptively casual posture. "Be honest for once in your life, Lucius," she half-snarled, half-laughed. "Just give me this." Her tone turned bored, yet an undercurrent of desperation simmered beneath the surface. "I'm already reading your mind, and I have no doubt that our Lord is doing the same. He's toying with you because he's enjoying your pain, enjoying seeing you grovel beneath his feet knowing that your son doesn't even talk to you anymore, that your wife is blaming you..." She leant forward, her eyes narrowing. "Don't you see? Say it! Say you regret following him—"

"You are out of your mind," Lucius uttered. The swell-headed fool. Even at the place where the only witnesses were the dead and a festering woman, he was terrified.

Vision-Severina's lips curled into a humourless smile. "I bloody well am," she mused, her words tinged with a mocking lilt. "And even a mad woman can see that our lord and saviour, Tom, sodding Riddle, after everything you have done to him—although forced to do it, I might add—can't trust you with anything more complicated than polishing his own boots."

She paused, the merriment fading from her expression, and then she snorted in a most unbecoming manner. "But he doesn't wear boots, we are serving a barefoot madman in rugs."

And then, to Vision-Lucius's utter bewilderment, she bursted into laughter—a harsh, grating sound that echoed through the chamber. She laughed and laughed, and the portraits who dared to peek at them shake their heads in dismay, while the thunder beyond the windows strikes the room with its very intensity. Yet Vision-Severina never faltered; her laughter rang out unrestrained.

Lucius could no longer contain himself. He surged to his feet, the chair clattering to the floor behind him as he roared, "I regretted it! I regret taking that man's word for granted; I regret listening to my father about him!" He took a sharp, shuddering breath, and then collapsed back into his chair, his gaze fixed upon the ceiling, dead-eyed and soulless.

Vision-Severina's laughter finally subsided, leaving a charged silence in its wake. She regarded Lucius with a cool, appraising gaze, her lips curling into a cold smile. "And what, exactly, did you expect, Lucius?" she murmured, tired. "Did you truly believe that our esteemed Lord would treat us as anything more than disposable pawns in his demented game?"

Vision-Severina stood and walked back to the window. 

Natalia-maybe-Severina blinks, her eyes refocusing as the fog of the flashback dissipates, leaving her standing in the chamber with Real-Lucius' hand steadying her elbow. "Are you quite alright?" he asks. Young, ambitious, and faultless, Lucius looks at her. His hair is now shorter than the older version of him, neatly trimmed, and his robe is impeccably tailored.

As she realizes she's lost her train of thought once more, a flush rushes across her cheeks. Later on, she will need to reassess the memories, unpack the unpacked, layer by layer. 

"Y-yes.” Severina manages, trying to sound casual. 

Lucius studies her face and says, "You almost blacked out just now. Are you sure you're well?" 

"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she replies, standing on her own and rubbing her neck sheepishly. These lapses are becoming more frequent, and she makes a mental note to document the symptoms: the smudges of flashbacks, the sleepwalking, her wand’s reluctance. 

Lucius watches her for a moment longer, then seems to decide she's reasonably fine. "You never told me you have a talent for duelling," he remarks, smoothly changing the subject.

When Severina turns to glances at the crowd, Lily is observing them with an equal amount of fear and annoyance at Lucius's presence. But the other girl makes no move to interfere, so Severina turns her attention back to him. 

"I’m full of surprises,” she replies, hoping to divert him from her moment of weakness. "And I want to try something with my time other than experimenting with potions.”

Lucius gracefully accepts her answer. "Nonetheless, it's quite an impressive accomplishment," he says, glancing towards a bench where older Gryffindors are gathered, whispering amongst themselves and casting wary glances in her direction. "Defeating Longbottom in a duel is no small feat."

Severina's pride swells at the compliment. "Oh, he’s very talented.” After all, it took her two attempts of disarming him without really hurting him to win the match. 

Lucius pauses, contemplative, and states, "I've never seen this side of you, Severina. It's as if you're an entirely different person.”

At that, Severina glances at him, and throws her head back giggling. "Oh, you have no idea."

Thankfully, someone interrupts their conversation, saving Severina from having to explain her earlier slip of the tongue. Her laughter subsides as she notices a vaguely familiar second-year Slytherin student standing before them. He is fair-skinned, with curly black hair that falls over his forehead in a slightly too-perfect manner. He is undeniably good-looking; his features are sharp, aristocratic, and too familiar. But it is his eyes—those pools of molten steel—that hold her attention. They stare at her with an intensity. They are so familiar and vigilant, yet she can't place them. 

Lucius looks at the young Slytherin, but before he can say anything, the boy speaks up, "How did you do it?" he demands.

Severina blinks, momentarily caught off guard by the abrupt question. "Do what?" 

The younger Slytherin student doesn't back down, his posture stiff and his tone bordering on accusatory. "That spell you used in the duel against Longbottom. It wasn't a simple Disarming Charm; it sent him flying across the room. How did you manage that?”

“I’m sorry, who are you?”

The boy, flabbergasted, bristles at the words. Her admission has even stupefied Lucius, who quickly intervenes, so something must be obvious on her face—a tinge of confusion or apprehension. “Severina, allow me to reintroduce you," he says, his tone diplomatic and pointed. "This is Regulus, of the Most Noble House of Black." 

At the mention of his name, the boy's expression shifts, his features momentarily betraying a flash of offence that she really had not immediately recognised him. But he quickly composes himself, straightening his posture and giving Severina a curt nod. From behind him, a Ravenclaw—a tall, lanky boy with a sneer permanently etched on his face—snort-laughs, though no one pays him any mind. 

Lucius continues, "Regulus. This is Severina Snape. I’m sure you remember her; I've mentioned her to you before, back in your first year. Severina is exceptionally skilled in potions and, it would seem, in spell-crafting as well."

"Well met again, Snape," Regulus says, his tone slightly aloof, as if he were merely fulfilling a social obligation.

"Well met, Black," Severina nods in return. "I apologise if I have offended you; I had an unpleasant accident that left my memory a bit... dusty."

“Are you well?”

“Oh, I’m.” She assures Lucius. “Better than before, honestly.”

Regulus blinks at her, seemingly unsure of how to respond. Then, undeterred, he asks, "How did you do it?"

Before Severina can respond to Regulus' question, a smooth, drawling voice suddenly interrupts them. "Dark magic, I assume."

At once, Regulus's head springs up, and he spins around to see his elder brother lounging carelessly on a wooden seat nearby. Sirius's stunning features are breaking into a roguish smirk. But his grey eyes, as pale as a gloomy winter sky or dry ice, gleam with that familiar spark of challenge and excitement, setting Severina firmly in her place. She too slowly turns to look at the older Black sibling.

All of a sudden, Severina gets seized with a flurry of memories that she had been fighting so hard to suppress just a month ago. They are fleeting, strange, and make little sense at first. Unwillingly, her mind's eye morphed his physical appearance, ageing him and making him appear gaunt. Post-Azkaban Sirius Black. Angry. Intoxicated. On the brink of madness and despair.

She blinks, then blinks again, only to see this vision of him—his gaunt frame dressed in outdated clothing, the all-too familiar stench of cheap alcohol emanating from him as he spouted incomprehensible, vulgar ramblings. "Blimey, you fiendish blighter! How on earth did some bloody higher power decide to curse me with an insatiable desire for a bitter woman like you, you bloody awful hag?"

But it was his eyes that haunted her—wild, unhinged, and filled with a primal, insatiable hunger. There was no explanation for how this whole mess began, only the damage it had caused—a cracked cauldron with its contents split out, which Black dismissed with a careless laugh and a wave of his hand.

His lips had been ruthless—dry and unforgiving—as his tongue invaded her mouth in a long, passionate kiss. 

It was the first. Of many. 

He kissed her knitted brows, her hollowed cheeks, her parted lips, deeply and hungrily and intensely, and then gently and lovingly. Breathing became impossible as noses pressed together, and they adjusted their angle to deepen the kiss, their arms moving apart from one another. He kissed her over and over, deeper and harder, forcing her to respond, and she kissed him back soberly and brokenly. 

"Aye, always wanted this I have," Vision-Black confessed, fervent and earnest in his honesty, "ever since we were nippers. When I first tried to save you, a poor, big-eyed muggle girl, from the clutches of those cunning, silver-tongued Slytherins. You, who never wanted to be saved. Fearless, sharp-tongued, and brimming with pride. And I was a fool then, and I'm still a fool now."

By itself, this unceremoniously breaks her out of her walk-down memory lane and separates her from the metaphorical shelves of dusty, unpacked piles of wrapped-up memories she must eventually unpack. 

“Чёрт! Твою мать!^2"Severina murmures under her breath.

"Well?" Black prompts, his insufferable gaze boring into Severina, who finds herself petrified. "What do you have to say for yourself?"

"I am, in no way, answerable to you." She informs him matter-of-factly. 

The crowd falls into a hush, their eyes crawling over her like a swarm of carrion beetles, judging, whispering the vile rumours that her victories are the result of some form of dark sorcery rather than her own hard-earned skill. Severina curls her lip in contempt; she refuses to give them the satisfaction of seeing her anger or fear. Never again. Her eyes dart throughout the throng, focussing briefly on one face in particular. Lily watches with a small frown, her hands twisting anxiously in her lap. There is a glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes that cuts Severina deeper than any petty insult. 

Black strolls forward, his hands casually shoved into the pockets of his robe. That perpetually unruly mane of black hair falls rakishly into his eyes, and Severina fights the sudden urge to hex it into oblivion. "Now, now, Snivellius," he drawls, the infuriating moniker rolling off his tongue with practiced ease. "No need for that constipated look. We all know you have a habit of dabbling in the Dark Arts when you think no one's watching." He waggles his eyebrows in a gesture of nonchalant smugness. "Can't pull the wool over my eyes, you know."

"Your eyes, Black, are clearly as clouded by your own arrogance as the rest of your pathetic existence. I would suggest you focus your meagre faculties on matters more befitting your limited intellectual capacity."

With a subtle flick of her wand, still half-holstered at her side, Severina casts a silent, Muffliato charm. The spell blankets the area in an indistinguishable hum, ensuring their conversation would remain private and out of prying ears. It was her own little twist on the Imperturbable Charm—not that she planned to share the secret with the Hogwarts masses again. Severina rather liked keeping this one for herself.

Instantly, the din around them dies down, and Black falls silent, a look of bewilderment etching its way across his obnoxious features. "What the—"

"So, how was your little trip to the hospital wing? I do hope you enjoyed the accommodations."

Severina watches with no small measure of satisfaction as realisation slowly dawns on Black's face. Yes, it is wrong. Childish, even, to outright admitting to having a hand in their misfortune so arrogantly. But what was the point of exacting revenge if she couldn't take a little credit for it?

"It was you," Black growls, his eyes flashing with a surge of rage. It was not an accusation, but a statement - a recognition of the truth. “You poisoned us.” 

Severina’s expression morphs into one of mocking innocence, she pouts her lips in an exaggerated display. "I don't know what you're talking about," she simpers, her voice sickeningly saccharine. "I would never!" She giggles then, a high-pitched, grating sound, as she takes a deliberate step backwards, grinning impishly at the sight of Black's threatening posture, at his face frothing with confusion then back to anger.

"Батюшки³, man," she titters to twist the knife just a little deeper. "What is wrong with you?"

Both the young Black and Malfoy stare mutely, utterly lost without the context of the now-silenced conversation, like everyone else. They observe the interaction, witnessing Sirius' mounting rage and Severina's faux theatrics. Every move Severina makes was distinctively stylish. 

Then, just as quickly as the theatrics have begun, Severina stops, her tone turning cold as ice and her eyes hardening with naked contempt. "You didn't think I would simply allow you to walk scot-free after you ruined me and sent me to the hospital wing for days, did you?" she hisses. "Even you aren't this stupidly naive.”

Sirius whips out his wand, his reflexes faster than usual, fuelled by anger. But in the blink of an eye, everything goes sideways. His eyes flay open wide, gaping at his now embarrassingly empty hand—his wand having vanished into thin air.

Before him, Severina twirls the very same wand between her long fingers while she examines it with a pretentious, feigned wonder. She’s purposefully putting on a show. Her own wand, still tucked securely in her side, in all the self-assured smugness of someone who had already won the fight. 

Sirius can’t help but wonder—when had this witch managed to pull off such a dazzling sleight of hand?

From the corner of his eyes, Sirius catches sight of his friends, their jaws hanging open in stunned disbelief. Wormy mouths the words "How did she do that?" to a thoroughly bewildered-looking Remus, who was hunched on the bench, blinking rapidly as if to comprehend what just happened. 

Even Regulus and Malfoy, those two paragons of Slytherin poise, seem genuinely caught off guard, their usual aloof expressions replaced by looks of pure surprise.

Severina chooses that moment to lift the Silencing Spell, basking in Sirius' stunned silence. 

"Give me back my wand," he finally manages, taking a threatening step forward. 

"Tsk, tsk," Severina tutts, her gaze drifting to where James is frantically vaulting over benches and shoving past students, no doubt in a valiant effort to rescue his hapless friend. She shakes her head, a boyish grin spreading across her face. "I'd say it's not very Gryffindor of you to attack a poor, defenceless gal. But then again, chivalry has never exactly been your strong suit, has it? You can't even throw a decent punch without your ragtag gang of self-righteous, half-witted imbeciles to back you up. And even then, you lot can barely manage a victory worth writing home about."

Sirius bristles, his face turning an impressive shade of scarlet, but Severina merely tightens her grip on his wand, her knuckles turning white. 

"The next time you seek to cross me," she murmurs; her voice is no more than a whisper. "I can assure you that the consequences will be far more severe than a mere trip to the hospital wing."

Regulus glances between the three appraisingly. Then Lucius drawls, "If you start something here, I'm afraid I'll have to take points from Gryffindor. Do try to curb that impulsiveness, won't you?"

Despite Black's angry attitude, his eyes flare like molten silver, cold. “She’s a big girl now; I’m sure Sniv already outgrew slithering behind your robe seeking protection.”

Severina waves him off again dismissively; she takes the opportunity to turn her attention to Regulus, who is watching the proceedings with rapt attention. 

“I used the Expelliarmus spell as a way to throw Longbottom off the scent. He braced himself for something that wouldn’t come.”

Regulus’ stare turns analytical, he counters, "But you did say the spell. How could the intention behind it be anything other than the spell itself?" 

"It is merely deception. Requires a bit of intuition and the ability to weave magic beyond the simple 'swish and flick' nonsense." 

At that moment, a blond Hufflepuff seated behind Regulus leans forward, peeking out from behind the younger Slythrien. "But what about the wand movements, Professor?" The boy pipes up. "You did the whole wand-waving thing and all.” 

Severina brushes her bangs behind her ear, regarding the Hufflepuff with a faint snort at the honorific title. "You see, if you cast a spell without genuine intention, the outcome is bound to be a right mess. It's not just swishes and flicks—it's all about what's going on in your head. My wand-waving was just for show, to lead Longbottom astray. And I did, didn't I?"

She then offers the younger Black his fuming brother’s wand, handle-first, making the most of the element of thoughtfulness to get rid of it. 

“Essentially wandless and wordless magic.” Regulus regards her, accepting the wand without missing a beat, while Lucius studies her with a deep, probing gaze, as if searching for something. 

"I see now why Lucius always speaks most highly of you, Snape,” he says, to which she replies, "Lucius is too kind."

But Regulus is unfaltering. "He's not," he says, "believe me."

Lucius smirks, a bit thoughtful. "That's true," he admits.

The commotion has gone off without a hitch, Severina thinks, all things considered. She bids the two Slytherins farewell with a nod and makes her way to the bench where Charity sat, seemingly indifferent to the accusation that had just been levelled at her. But that's what Charity was to her—truthful, sympathetic, and capable of spouting the most baffling opinions at times. And aside from that, Severina secretly aspired to be like her. A good friend.

The blonde grins up at her. "Nicely done, Severina.”

"Why. Thank you," Severina replies grimly. She then notices the Hufflepuff’s rat still nibbling at some poor clueless girl's hair. With a quick flick of her wand, Severina sweeps the rat away from the girl and shoves at Charity. "If you don't keep an eye on this толстая мышь⁴ of yours, honest to God, someone might challenge you to a duel just to put its head on a spike.”

Charity smiles sweetly, batting her eyes as she gives her a bottle of water, "Lucky for us then that I have you as our champion, isn’t this great, Nibbles?”

Amused, Severina takes a long swig from her water bottle, wiping her mouth with the towel slung over one shoulder. She deadpans, although fondly “Your battles are yours to fight, beside I won’t mind seeing Nibby beheaded.” 

“So cruel.” Charity covers her pet’s ears dramatically, “ignore this mean grumpy Slytherin my love. She’s just a grumpy pet-less harby.” 

 The back of Severina’s neck prickles with the sense that she had been watched. She spreads her glance across those who are looking at her. There, where she delays to look at first, is Lily, who is still watching her. Their gazes momentarily lock, with Severina averting her gaze first.

She sits at the bench, crossing her ankles in front of her.

"Tell me," she says to Charity, "I thought spectating violence wasn't your thing. So why are you really here?"

Charity pauses, a sly smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Why, to see you, of course." She then glances over to where a young Ravenclaw was stretching. "Though, I won't deny, watching that insufferable know-it-all get knocked down a peg or two, well, it's a delightful bonus."

Severina follows Charity's gaze, and there is none other than a fresh-faced, pre-glamour Gilderoy Lockhart. The first-year Ravenclaw must have felt their eyes upon him, for he glances over nervously and then shudders.

Turning back to Charity, Severina asks. "Whatever did the pompous fraud do to you?" 

Charity raises an eyebrow. "Fraud? That's a rather strange term, don't you think?"

Sometimes, Severina forgets that her foreknowledge isn't something she shared with everyone else. She'd slip in these little prophetic nuggets, only to be met with blank stares from those around her. "Um—fraud-to-be?"

“What on earth are you talking about—“

"Let's just say the 'fraud' part is still a work in progress.”

“…” 

“Okay. Useless fop, then?” 

Charity pauses, mulling over the new description. After a moment, she gives a sage nod. "Yes, that does capture his essence quite nicely. Merlin's beard, the way he just prattles on about himself during our study group, rather than actually sharing with us anything useful. It's enough to make me violent, if I’m being honest.”

Just then, someone calls out, "Snape, you're up again!" 

Charity raises an eyebrow, “That was fast.”

“Alright, everyone, gather ‘round!” one of the Prewett twins — Gideon, she thinks, or maybe it’s the other one — hollers from his lofty perch on a bench, gesturing like a mad man. “Prepare yourselves for the duel of the century! The ultimate showdown between the most legendary archenemies!”

Severina gives it a half-hearted glance, only to do a double take. There’s Potter, having just bulldozed two first-years aside like they were practice dummies, standing in the middle of the dueling chamber with all the grace of a peacock on parade. Her jaw drops as he flashes her a sadistic grin, one that is so familiar, that promises a payback. 

She blinks, caught between disbelief and the urge to burst into laughter. This was the same Potter, now a young man but still a constant thorn in her side, who had made her life a never-ending circus act. That self-righteous, arrogant sod who had the nerve to look down on her—her!—even from beyond the grave through the misfortune of his spawn.

James Potter who had practically staged a humiliation show that nearly sent her into a spiral — wants to duel? It’s too good to be true. 

She grins. 

The other twin — Fabian — joins in, adding a dramatic sweep of his arm for extra effect, "In one corner, we've got the up-and-coming Gryffindor superstar chaser, our resident prankster, none other than James Potter!" The crowd roars in approval.

"And in the other corner, we have Slytherin's most fearsome battsy, the reason why first-years never dare to venture downstairs without adult supervision — Severina Snape!" More hoots and hollers sound.

Severina leans over to Charity, and mutters, "Those cheeky bastards."

Charity looks on, horror-stricken, at the spectacle unfolding before them.

"The long-awaited showdown!" the other twin bellows at the top of his lungs, as if trying to summon a professor. "Who are you placing your bets on?"

The crowd erupts into a frenzy, people throwing money into the air and scrambling to place their bets. The twins skillfully collect the currency, one of them using a self-inking quill and notepad to keep track of the wagers, ensuring that the chaos is organized, at least to some extent.

“— I hate to say it, but Potter is pure-blood and his uncle is an Auror, maybe it’s -“ 

“—five sickles one of them going to the hospital wing overnight - “ 

“— like Frank? You miscalculated him— and you are miscalculating her.”

She ignores the raucous murmurs, a bit miffed that some still thought that Potter—who never hexed anyone without Black's backing—has a chance against her. She's a bloody Olympic gold medallist six times over in fencing¹; not that they knew what that meant anyway.

Severina stretches and twists her shoulder, working out the lingering soreness. Repeating the motions, she manipulates the joint until the sweet pain eases. Excitement courses through her veins, tinged with anger—at him, at herself, but mostly for herself. 

Lily sidles up to her on the bench. "Sev, please don't do this. Playing his game will only make things worse," she pleads. "He only wants to humiliate you." 

Charity nods, wary. Historically, Severina has frequently been on the losing, humiliated side in their dispute. "Severina, this has gone too far."

"I'm taking it farther," Severina growls, tightening the leather straps of her gauntlet with her teeth. "I'm gonna wipe that smug look off of Potter's face. He'll regret ever daring to cross me."

Lily looks taken aback by her friend's venomous tone, and Charity shares her alarm. Rising from the bench, Severina locks eyes with Potter across the chamber, a wild gleam in her eye. She hesitates for a moment, glancing at Lily one last time. With a deep breath, she turns and walks away without a backward glance.

She stalks towards Potter, ignoring the whispers and stares that follow her through the crowded benches. Her wand remains tucked securely in her dragonskin boots, easily accessible but out of sight. Lily had tried to get her a new wand holster, assuming her old one was lost, but Severina prefers her wand tucked away in her boots.

Lily and Charity watch from the sidelines, hearts in their throats, as Severina comes to a stop before Potter, her thin smile lacking its usual mirth. 

"Snivellus," James says, sneering. "You've truly stooped low this time, haven't you? Resorting to underhanded methods rather than facing us fairly. A touch cowardly, don't you think?"

Severina can’t help but let out a snort of derision. "I'm sorry, I can't keep a straight face hearing you speak of cowardice when you only ever face me when the odds are stacked in your favor. It's in your very nature to hide behind numbers, knowing full well you would lose otherwise."

Potter's face turns a shade of red to match his tie as he bristles at her words. "You insufferable know-it-all, Sniv. You're nothing but a slimy Death Eater in training, mark my words." When her eyes flicker, he takes the opportunity to add with a scornful wink, "And congratulations, by the way, I see you've finally learnt the charm to remove grease. Shame it did nothing for that slimy personality of yours."

James flashes Black a grin, and for a moment, Black looks stunned. But then Sirius breaks into a tight grin, and his demeanour relaxes. Leaning on the bench, he watches intently with his steely grey eyes, clearly amused.

Beside him, their rat-mate Pettigrew waves his arms about like a madman. "Teach Snivellus a lesson about respecting her betters, Prongs!"

With a smirk on his lips, James pulls out his wand. He turns to face Severina, and, with a flourish that would be out of place in a formal duel, he bows down, clearly intending to belittle her. Severina barely manages to keep herself from rolling her eyes, but she forces herself to bow her head briefly in return, though she feels no respect for Potter. ("It was just a nod!" Lily later would say with an unseemly giggle.)

With a flick of her wrist, she draws her wand from within her boot in a splatter of wind. 

"Ready?" Fabian yells, "Go!"

The two opponents begin to circle each other, wands raised defensively. The crowd around the chamber falls silent, eagerly awaiting the first spell.

"How'd you get all that past McGonagall, Snivelly?" James sneers, glancing at her clothes and boots.

While Severina's expression stays indifferent, her mind is constantly replaying unpleasant flashbacks like an ever-churning Pensieve and analysing James's every action to predict when he would strike first.

It sprints at her, but she repels it and slaps it aside, diverting it into a stone wall nearby with a loud rattling. 

The spells chime together, once, twice—a testing. After then, the real duel starts. She backs off a step. The Gryfindor comes after, with a shimmering yellow-tinged shield in front of him. 

He tries to slash, but Severina jerks back, just out of touch, and the red spell only splashes the air. Severina circles to her right. James turns to pursue her, keeping his shield up between them. 

He sounds impatient. "Did you start stealing Galleons from first-years?"

A burning, corrosive rage rises in Snape's chest, hot and acidic. Straightening her Occlumency barrier to block the unwelcome glimpse of her worst memories helped her regain her sense of control. A faint smile playing over her lips in response, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of a visible reaction. "Yeah, of course, that's your first assumption. Classist, entitled, and to top it all, a spineless coward. Choose a struggle, why don't you?"

James glares at her, his countenance darkening and his hazel eyes hardening. “You have some nerve, you scrawny little git. Don't you dare lecture me about morals and righteousness when you're the one cowering in the dirt like a pathetic worm." 

Severina rotates to the left, gracefully dodging the shimmering shield and closing in on Potter's vulnerable flank. With a smirk, she taunts, "Never speak of me again before washing your filthy mouth." A swift flick of her wand unleashes a wordless "Scourgify," mirroring his once-offence.

Pink soap bubbles immediately gush from James's mouth as the cleansing spell takes hold. He gags and chokes on the frothy tide, hands clawing at his throat in desperation for breath. A fleeting glint of satisfaction dances in Snape's eyes at his discomfort, though it fades quickly.

"Miss Snape," Professor Faucheux interjects sharply, "duel with honour or stand down."

She shoots him a disdainful look. "Where's the dishonour in a cleaning charm?" 

"For every charm, its proper use," the Defence Against the Dark Arts professor retorts haughtily.

"And who decides that, pray tell?" Severina challenges. 

Faucheux stumbles over his words, momentarily dummied up, as the audience murmurs in response, switching between schadenfreude at Potter’s misery and excitement at the sight of the professor tongue-tied by a student. 

Yet Potter is quick to counter the spell, stopping the argument before it gets heated and dispelling the bubbles with practiced ease, though a lingering cough betrays the effects of her retaliation.

The professor just folds his arms over his chest, regaining his confidence. "Consider this your final warning, Snape. Duel with honour."

But Severina isn’t about to dance around with this git anyway. She stands her ground, looking straight at the furious Potter, still hunched over. "How does it feel?" she says, her voice low. "To be at someone else's mercy?" 

James lunges forward, his wand slicing through the air with a victorious backhand cut. A stream of jinxes and spells follows, most of them childish, just the kind of pranks and humiliation that Potter would pull. But Severina knows from experience that if he wants to, he can turn to the darkest magic. He had cast Engorgio Skullus on Bertram Aubrey, after all. The bloke is vain, reckless, and hot-tempered.

She jumps back, parrying, but he follows, pressing the attack. Spells crash together, flare, and splinter apart.

Right, left, backslash, swinging so forcefully that sparks fly as the spells collide with bone-jarring clangs, upswing, sideslash, overhand, evaluates, continually attacking, advancing towards him, evaluates, step and riposte, step and riposte, step and evaluates, step and riposte, riposting, riposting, faster, faster, faster.

Spells ring and sing, scream and spark, scrape and clash.

She’s alive; she’s alive; she’s alive.

Gasping for air, James pulls away, allowing the tip of his wand to hit the floor, providing Severina with a brief moment of respite.

"How do you live with yourself, Potter?" she asks, her voice barely above a whisper. She wants only him to hear. Her gaze bores into his, searching for any sign of remorse or shame. But she knows better than to expect any from him.

She sees his distress, his disbelief, his anger, but not his remorse. Perhaps she will never see that in him.

The dance, nevertheless, continues. To the professor's chagrin at witnessing her toy with his favourite student, she pins him and then releases him only to see him staggering around. Potter starts grunting like a pig at every crash. He pants heavily, sweat beading on his brow. 

Severina moves with grace, cat-quick, dodging Potter's attacks like a shadow in the night. She drives him back, unbothered, firing spell after spell into him while he barely slaps them away. One shot strikes a sixth-year girl, prompting those around her to raise their shields.

Potter is staggering and aching from a dozen stinging spells.

"Yield," she has called, more than once, but he shakes his head and fights on, grim-faced.

Boredom has set in, and she decides to take matters into her own hands. She casts Levicorpus, her own creation, the spell that had once made her the laughing stock of Hogwarts. James lets out an unmanly yelp as his feet fly upwards as he is hoisted into the air by his ankles, hanging upside-down in a matter of seconds. To completely dominate him, she follows it up with Petrificus Totalus, rendering his entire body immobile and utterly helpless. The roar of the crowd eventually breaks through the haze of her victory, and even Professor Flitwick, who has come running from his office, can't hide his astonishment at her well-earned triumph.

Severina stands tall, victory in her grasp, and savours the moment.

Faintly, she smirks and levitates Potter's unmoving form until they are nearly nose to nose, eye to eye, separated by mere inches.

"Pathetic, truly" she says, derisively patting his now bruised face. She glances at her hand, moistened with his sweat, and makes a face.

Potter's face is flushed with fury, and he spits out, "You bitch. Release me now."

She looks at him coolly and says, "I'll ask you again, Potter. We all have to believe we're decent, even if it's just a little. How can you live with yourself after everything you've put me through? How does it feel to hide behind your own self-righteousness and hypocrisy?"

Potter stares back at her, clearly caught off guard by her direct questioning in front of their captive audience. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. The usual arrogance that he wears like a shield has faded, replaced by something closer to shock. For once, he has no witty remarks or smug smiles to hide behind.

She flicks her wand, and he collapses to the floor in a heap.

With a swagger, Severina walks off the duelling stage, leaving a trail of stunned students in her wake. They erupt into applause, slapping her on the back and shoulders as she passes through the crowd. The echoes of whistles and cheers continue to reverberate through the chamber long after she has left.

Slipping into the quiet hallway, the noises from the duel grow more muffled. It is only then, alone with her thoughts, that the adrenaline begins to fade and she feels her legs begin to shake. Leaning against the cold stone wall for support, she slowly slides down until she is seated on the floor, breath heaving. Her vision blurs, and in an instant, Severina collapses.

The last thing she hears is a muffled, “Oi, Snape?”

Chapter Text

In the depths of her dream, she becomes acutely aware of them—the whispering souls, drifting like shadows through the fog of her mind. Some voices rise above the others, nothing more than mish-mash of sounds, hauntingly distant, trapped in this weird panorama of long-forgotten memories. 

Natalia understood—better, perhaps, than she had ever. The necessity of it all. She should be terrified, honestly; it’s downright foolish not to be. But there’s that ridiculous little part of her that’s just too stubborn to back down. 

Once more, Natalia finds herself in that out-of-body state, floating around like a balloon—free and weightless in a void where time holds no sway. It's the same uncanny sense of life-like déjà vu. A maddeningly familiar pattern that's becoming all too common lately. The problem with all these dreams and memories, she muses, is that all of them are random fragments like rollercoaster roulette—sometimes they have context that makes sense, and other times they don't. 

It all starts slowly, as it always does. At first, there’s nothing—just a blank canvas, like the start of a really boring painting. But then, piece by piece, things begin to line up, like a jigsaw puzzle. Suddenly, the memory pops into focus, sharp and lifelike in all its unexpected burst of realism. This time, she’s floating mid-air within what she recognises as a grand church in her ghost-like form. Hovering near the ceiling, she had a bird's-eye view of it all. The thick clouds of fragrant incense wafted up from golden censors, filling the air with a pleasing haze. 

Her eyes took in the ornate decor—from the towering iconostasis adorned with intricately carved Byzantine designs to the sanctuary walls covered in painted saints gazing down from arched alcoves. The embroidered vestments and hanging oil lamps added to the splendour. Down below, the long benches are filled with parishioners, dressed warmly in furs and heavy winter coats. 

They were gathered here to celebrate the Christmas liturgy¹, her mind supplies distantly. Outside, the stained-glass windows along the sides show the shadows of falling snow drifting by—it's snowing heavily on this night. 

In a dizzy state, she wanders around. Her body begins to descend gently and slowly towards the crowd. Naturally, no one noticed; after all, they were just memories and illusions. Just to test the waters, she waves her hand in front of an old man, then tries to pop his nose. Her hand went right through his face in all of her attempts. The old chap hasn't even flinched, completely absorbed in whatever riveting sermon the priests were dishing out. 

With a soundless thud, she lands in the centre of the hall, her back to the priests and facing the parishioners. Something incomprehensible pulls at her, nudging her through the throng. Her gaze settles on a towering figure, fingers clasped before him. He feels achingly familiar. Her heart aches. It beats and beats and beats but it also aches. ’My father,’ a voice echoes in the back of her mind, insistent and fervent, as though it’s a truth she was meant to grasp all along. 

The sting of unshed tears prickles her eyes, and she’s baffled by the depth of this ache. Why does it hurt so profoundly when she’s not even Severina Snape? Well, not entirely, anyway. Sure, she’s Severina in the sense that she inherited this body, but deep down, she’s more than that—she’s Natalia, through and through. It’s like wearing a borrowed coat that’s two sizes too big; it might fit in some places, but it never quite feels like home. 

Tobias, her father, whom Severina once stopped calling "Father" or "Da" and insisted on calling "Toby" instead—almost spitefully, as if to pull him away from his own misery and make him feel guilty. He ceased to be a father in her eyes, and she found no reason to pretend anymore. So, he became simply "Toby." 

Yet, he’s still her father. She loved him deeply. 

The man before her, this familiar stranger, is dressed in a thick, knee-length woollen coat that smells of smoke and forest. His formal trousers have melted snow at the bottom, and his bulky boots would surely thud loudly against the ground with each step. His deep blue eyes are fixed straight ahead, unfocused, and his hair—brown with a hint of golden undertones—is covered by a melted snow-leaven shapka*. He is clean-shaven, with a rugged, harsh handsomeness about him and a natural faint scowl on his lips. His nose flaunted the recognisable curvature of her nostrils, which he had seemingly passed down to her. 

Standing beside Tobias is a young woman, dressed in a navy-coloured coat with fur trim. A glimpse of a fine, pale purple dress peeks out from beneath the coat. Her boots, equally robust, patter softly on the granite floor as she watches the scene with mild interest. 

Like every other woman in the church, she covers her head with a light-coloured shawl, but her silky black hair spills over the edge, catching the attention of those around her. Candlelight dances across her glistening tresses, and a few steal sideways glances, momentarily distracted before refocusing on the sermon. Her eyes, so similar to Severina's—deep and black as a stone-still pool—remain unaffected by the flickering candlelight. Her face is pale and unassuming, neither strikingly beautiful nor notably plain. However, her eyes and thick eyebrows and hair are undoubtedly her best features. 

Eileen Prince, Tobias Snape's wife, the mother of the original occupant of this body—and therefore, Natalia's theoretical mother in this life. Finally, just like when she first woke up in this body, her gaze lands on a small figure she immediately recognizes as Vision-Severina—seemingly about five years old, doll-like and fawn-eyed. 

Her eyes are a deep, dark pool that does not reflect light, and her hair is the same color - black and silky like her mother's, but shoulder-length under the makeshift shawl she created from her red scarf. Her nose has a softer curve than her father's. With half-closed eyelids, the child is pressed up against her father's side, appearing indifferent to the whole scene, sleepy, much like him. 

Vision-Severina, so little, so young, is struggling to stay awake as her father idly brushes her hair - a soothing gesture that only serves to make her more drowsy. She leans into him heavily, fighting a losing battle against her tired eyelids. Just as Tobias nudged Eileen to look at their dozing child with amusement, the church doors bang closed suddenly, due to sudden gusts of wind. 

The sound echoed off the stone walls like a clap of thunder, causing everyone, including the priests who had been leading prayers, to turn in surprise. But none are more startled than Vision-Severina, who lets out a frightened yelp. Her magic, still unbridled at her tender age, reacts furiously, the rhythm of her heart beating with panic. The candles lining the altar flare to life, their flames shooting upwards and licking at the high ceilings. Oil lamps blaze brighter than the sun, casting an eerie glow throughout the church. People cry out in alarm and begin scrambling away from the growing fire.

Hot, stinging tears stream down her cheeks—mirthless, hopeless, and lifeless. Hesitantly, Natalia touches her face, staring at her wet fingers. Then Natalia pauses, blinking in surprise, wondering why on earth she’s actually crying. 

Smoke began to fill the church as panicked parishioners jumped into action, rushing to douse the blaze with buckets of water. Tobias looked on in shock, then locked eyes with Eileen’s wide eyes. Without a word, he scooped Severina into his arms, thrusted her towards her mother, and jumped into the fray to help. Eileen took the trembling girl and gazed deeply into her eyes. With a gentle touch of her own magic, she nudged against her daughter's callow mind, sending a wave of calm and soothing thoughts. “Hush now, dear one; calm yourself. All will be well, Rina. My Rina, please,” she whispered frantically, her voice laced with urgency as she tries to ease the girl's panic and regain control over her burgeoning magic.

 Slowly, the girl began to settle. And with a casual flick of her wrist, Eileen casted a basic but effective wandless water-conjuring spell to put out the flames. The chaos didn't  start to fade until the final flames sizzled out. 

It should be fine, she thinks. But then, out of the corner of her eye, Natalia catches sight of someone who had been hovering at the edge, unnoticed until now—a figure in a brown woollen coat, staring at her. Just for a second. Then he disappears. After the priest squeezed in some hurried final blessings and dismissed the congregation with a cheerful wave, the crowd started to relax, reuniting with loved ones. Kisses and congratulations fly around as everyone begins to disperse. That's when a man of lofty stature, though slightly hunched with age, approaches Eileen and Severina. He’s clad in an iron-grey fur greatcoat, wielding a heavy cane, and wearing a shapka. Although there was undoubtedly strain in his relationship with his son, she remembers him as being compassionate and gentle. 

Tobias calls him "old man," Eileen refers to him as "father," and to young Severina, he’s "Dedushka² Alyosha³"—the grandfather who would sneak her far-too-sweet candy, read her short humorous novels by Gogol and Turgenev, and wedge a bunch of unbearably Mimosa⁴ in between those books' yellowed pages. It was a plant she had grown with his help. 

Aleksie Snape leaned down to place a wet kiss on Eileen's cheek as a greeting before scooping Severina into his arms. "Oh, Severochka⁵, my dear Severochka," he cooed in his charmingly poor accented English, trying to include Eileen. "Do not be afraid. Merry Christmas, little one." She watches them with a wistfulness that feels out of place—a longing tinged with envy for something that isn’t hers. 

Before Natalia can stop herself, her slightly tremoring hand reaches out toward their retreating backs, fingers curling inward like a claw, as if trying to grasp something precious slipping away. It stunned her. Above all, it scared her. She can feel the physical feather-like weight of the mascara blistering as it melts across her face. Silent, her tears haven't stopped. 

Natalia hisses, "Why am I crying?" as she wipes away her tears in frustration. Helplessly, the question lingers in the air, unanswered, and she swallows it down with a dry rasping sob. 

Outside in the quaint snow-covered churchyard, several groups of families and friends gathered, preparing to make their way down the cold woods to their houses, or, in her folks’s case, the grand feast awaiting them at the Snape's. 

She tails after them, unrelieved grief—the loss of a family that is no longer with her—weighing heavily on her heart. Natalia-now-Severina mourns silently for the things she should have but will never have, for her family she lost in a previous life, and for the ones she knows and misses in this one. 

A small, wary part of her stirs with wonder—it has teeth. What has she gotten herself into? She longs for her mom, for her life, for everything to be normal and safe: her dad with his beers, her mom and brother bickering over trivial things just for the sake of it, Lily dragging her into the woods with a stolen whisky from her father's cabin. 

She wants home. But what is home? The shitty rundown place in Spinner’s End? Or the upscale penthouse in London? What is family? Tobias Snape, with his jumbled Black/Russian accent that even his wife listens to with a look that seems to ask for divine intervention to decipher his ramblings and crude humor? Or is it John Brown, with his golf cart, smiling like the sun—bright but absent? Or Eileen Prince, the witch, the mind-reader burdened by depression and haunted by ghosts? Or perhaps it’s Elizabeth Brown, with her customised Dior suit and unending demands, her high standards that never seem to satisfy? Memories and dreams were a muddled mess in her mind, getting shuffled like a deck of cards. Her self-destructive subconscious must've dived into her jumbled yet vivid memory, whipping up a double—or even triple!—life: a secret-agent witch or a fencing champion with overachieving tendencies. Severina Snape or Natalia Brown—she can't say for certain who she is any longer. 

Bitterness coated her tongue. She had once laid down on the wire for Dumbledore, for Lily, for Harry—why would she want to do that again? Why let go of everything when she could have it all back? 

Natalia wipes her tears again, her gaze following the four figures among the churchgoers. Tobias and Eileen were accompanied by a familiar presence: Uncle Dimitri, Severina's godfather and a childhood friend of her father, both having served together in the military. He holded Severina, and he watched her play with the glistening coin necklaces draped around his neck. Captivated by the patterns and images, she lifted them up and flipped them over repeatedly. Every so often, Dimitri presses a gentle kiss to the top of her head, making Severina giggle with delight. But it seemed another had caught her interest now. "I want to say hi to Anastasia," Severina insisted, wriggling in Dimitri's grasp to crane her neck and search the crowd milled about the road. 

Dimitri chuckled softly at her impatience. "Very well, Severochka. But we must be careful not to slip on this snow, da?" 

He set her down gently on her feet, keeping a steadying hand on her shoulder until she found her balance. 

The adults watched with amusement as Severina took off on a waddling run. They kept their eyes on her small form as she weaved through the village folks until she disappeared into the throng of bodies. Only then did Tobias offer Dimitri a cigarette from a pack, and the men fell into relaxed conversation. 

Natalia glances at them before she too floats through these ghostly bodies, drawn ever deeper until she reaches the side of Vision-Severina. The girl hesitated at the river's edge, her small boots sinking into the faint blankets of snow. On the other side, she could just make out Anastasia's red cloak disappearing into the forest with her family. 

The same man clad in the brown coat walked towards them, and Natalia tenses. “Do you need help to cross the river, little Severina Tobiasovna?”

Uncertain, Severina looked back at the riverbank, then toward the road where her guardian's silhouettes had almost vanished into the snowy woods. Turning back to the man, she noticed for the first time the bulging sack in his other hand. "What's in there?" she asked, curiosity momentarily overcoming her doubts. 

The man followed her gaze to the sack. "Just some things to do a bit of fishing," he replied smoothly. At her puzzled frown, he elaborated, "The ice is too thick for the fish to see the lure. We need to make some holes for them." 

His explanation made sense to Severina's young mind. “Okay, yes, please help me, sir.” So she placed her tiny boots on the frozen surface, testing its strength. 

At first, it held firm, like the thick ice she had seen others cross. But as the man led her farther out, dragging his heavy bag, faint cracks began to web out with each footfall. The old man paused in his work. Slowly, he turned to face her, that twisted smile never leaving his pallid face. 

"The fish, little one," he repeated in a whispery rasp. "Would you not like to see what lies below?" 

From his sack, he withdrew a large rock, weighing it contemplatively in his palm. Severina watched, transfixed, as he wound up and hurled it with force at the ice below. 

There was a cracking boom, and a jagged hole appeared, with frigid water bubbling up. 

The man smiled down at Vision-Severina, but it did not reach his empty eyes. "There's their spot. Want to see if any fish come?" 

She took an uncertain step back. Something was not right here. Little Severina peered down at the jagged hole that had appeared in the ice. She leaned forward for a closer look, then took a step back, her instincts screaming danger. But it was too late. The man lunged forward and grabbed her arm in an iron grip. Despite her stifled screams and struggles, he lifted her tiny body over the opening. "Say goodbye, little witch," was the last thing she heard before he threw her into the pit. 

He turned and fled into the shadows. Natalia leans over and jumps into the hole after the child. She can't feel the cold, but she knows it must be freezing, watching shards of broken ice swirl around her like feathers. 

Under the ice, Severina thrashed helplessly in the frigid water. The cold pierced her like knives, soaking through her clothes, and her lips were already turning blue. Though small, she was strong-willed and determined to survive—Natalia can give her that much. 

Cold. Darkness. There’s nothing here but the strange whiplash of something black and misty from Severina’s body. At first, Natalia thinks nothing of it, too busy watching for the help that will no doubt arrive to snatch Severina out of the water. Because of course she survived this, or how else did she live to reach her 50 years in her past life? Then Natalia senses another presence. Slender fingers brushed Severina’s back. 

She feels, not sees, the creatures gently surrounding them, her eyes still unaccustomed to the darkness. Their hypnotic voices rang in her ears as they debated her fate. Others laughed—high, chilling giggles that carried even in the water's muffled world. Some grasped Severina's arms, dragging her ever deeper into the murky depths. She struggled against their grip, her lungs burning, but their strength was supernatural. Others clawed at her legs, trying in vain to pull her up through the hole that seemed so far above. 

Natalia swims among them, spellbound and half-charmed by the creatures’ ethereal beauty. Their skins shone so whitely that they might have had a light within their blood, dark hair swirling around their heads, and eyes that were eerily pupless. 

The nymphs—Rusalka, judging by their luminous skin and the lingering knowledge from Care of Magical Creatures classes—appeared truly otherworldly. 

“What the fuck," Natalia murmurs, her grief gone. Panic sets in Natalia as the rusalka's chaotic dance spun Vision-Severina between opposing forces. Just when everything seemed lost, the same black misty whiplash pierced the water, swelling with putridly suppressed magic, banishing the shadows with its sheer intensity. At that moment, Natalia vaguely realises this is when the Obscurus started to manifest in Severina's body and take control to defend its host. It's vicious, thick, and black, freshly putrid. Just from memory, she can almost taste it—like that eerie flavour of after-rain lingering in her mouth. 

The rusalka shrieked and recoiled from its coldness. One rusalka still clung tightly to Vision-Severina's ankle, long nails piercing her skin. But another had suddenly changed—its claw-like hands grasped her shoulders, shoving her upwards instead of pulling her down. 

Through the murky water, Natalia glimpses the rusalka's face. 

"Go now, little one, while you can. My sisters only want to play, but their games always end in death. I have spared you for today." 

She swims upwards, following Severina. Only to see Elieen, who crashed through the tree line at the riverbank just in time to see a tiny hand touching the ice. Without hesitation, Dimitri flung himself onto the cracking ice, jumping through the ice blocks over the once fully-frozen river. Half-unconscious, the kid floated. Pale as fresh snow. Weakly turning, she peered down into the depths. 

The rusalkas swirled in the dark, claws extended, but the one who helped her hovered at the edge, dark hair floating eerily. Their eyes locked again just before Dimitri's strong hands gripped her small waist and pulled her from the dark-rippled water. The memories fade, leaving only the echoes of voices shouting in the distance. 

After that, general details came together, failing in the blanks—although fragile and incomplete— revealed that her family's life had taken a drastic turn following the same event. Russian Aurors arrived, shouting commands and trying unsuccessfully to restore order. They had underestimated the full scope of the situation. Thinking the unusual overpowered brust of magic was just the harmless antics of water spirits, they had been mistaken. In reality, Severina's abilities had merged with the nymphs' when they tried to pull her into the depths with them and accidently sent mixed signals. Under normal circumstances, such powerful magic in a Muggle-designated area would have set off alarms. They used Memory Charms to wipe out the memories of everyone who had been involved. That should be the end of it, only it wasn’t. 

In hindsight, her parents realized they ought to have told Aleksie the truth sooner. They sat him down one evening to explain. 

The confrontation left the family fractured beyond repair.

With a jolt, Severina wakes up, drenched in a cold sweat. She tosses aside the infirmary sheets and sits up abruptly, panting heavily. "Bloody hell," she mutters. Magic wafts in the air, splatters with a mild Ozone-laden scent. 

“Miss Snape!" Madam Pomfrey's stern voice breaks through her panic. The nurse stands at her bedside with a disapproving scowl. "Languages, please!" 

Severina takes a few deep breaths and lies back down, her gaze fixed on the ceiling as she struggles to gather her thoughts. 

Under Madam Pomfrey's reticent gaze, she clings tightly to her defences, wrapping herself in the familiar layers of Occlumency. Those layers remain untouched by her grief, keeping the Obscurus at bay. Allayed, it feels as if her own being is a lake, and she has pulled the Obscurus down by its leg and buried it in a watery tomb.

Severina grunts, blinking away the haze. She ignores the fussing nurse, who has undoubtedly noticed the ozone-laden magic lingering in the air, trusting that she'll pass it off as the accidental magic of a clumsy, foolish little witch.

She had taken Potter down right in front of the whole school, including Lily and his merry band of fools—every sneering son of a bitch who looked down on her. It was a crossed-out sin from his long list of misdeeds, and definitely not the last. 

That had to mean something, right? Yet, there’s no joy in it, especially when an empty, family-shaped void yawns in her heart, wide open, because she thinks about memories of her family. 

Everything suddenly feels so trivial.

Severina decides she should write to her mother. Having someone to confirm her memories and fill in the gaps that her unreliable mind overlooks would help. 

She can’t shake the nagging feeling that she’s forgotten something important, lingering just out of reach in the back of her mind. She schools her expression into one of somberness. 

Her hand clenches into fists at her side as rage simmers just below the surface. 

Madam Pomfrey clicks her tongue reproachfully. "What were you thinking when you chose to overburden yourself, foolish child?" 

Severina lets out a frustrated sigh, her raven bangs veiling her pale face as she sinks back against the crisp linen pillows. Every fiber of her magic still aches with exhaustion. The healer's wards strangely remind her of her fencing trainer, Mr. Madison, who, instead of applauding her achievements, would nitpick more. Pouting, she refuses to back down. "I didn't push myself too hard. I'm well aware of my capabilities." 

“My diagnostic spell says otherwise.”

“Must be broken then.”

“You were also spotted sleepwalking more than once outside of your dormitory after curfew—“ 

“—Only twice!”

“There’s a visible shift in your behaviour; you become more prone to violence.”

“Puberty!?”

“— to black out mid-activity and conversations.” 

“Yes, out of boredom. No one is interesting enough nowadays.” 

“You’ve become a bit flaky, especially with major details like your timetable.”

“In my defense, I accidentally mixed last year’s with this year’s.” 

Madam Pomfrey drags her stool closer to Severina's bedside and sits down with a weary sigh. She takes in the girl's appearance - pale face drawn with tension, eyes ringed with dark circles. She knows that the girl is an exceptional potioner, maybe the greatest of her generation. Slughorn made the suggestion that they let her work in the lab for a while to replenish the hospital's supplies. Her decision to take matters into her own hands and create remedies to rebuild her body—which had been stunted by malnutrition as a child—was pleasantly surprising. Her once-gaunt face is redder, rounder, and prettier now that she's taken her Nourishing Potion, which recipe, while marvellously productive, would not have worked on anybody else because it was designed to meet her body's demands. It was a very challenging undertaking requiring in-depth understanding of pharmaceuticals, hurbs, and the detrimental consequences of overdosing.

If it hadn’t been for the girl’s evident struggle, she would have asked for help long ago. But that can wait until she figures out the root cause. 

"My dear, Whyever would you not let me know about the symptoms? whyever did you agree to a duel that you knew would overwhelm you so?” 

Severina's hands twitch involuntarily, itching for the hidden pack of cigarettes she always keeps tucked in her bra for moments of duress. But Madam Pomfrey would surely scold her for attempting to light up in the infirmary. Or even having it in the first place. 

Reluctantly, she folds her hands in her lap instead, meeting the matron's patient gaze “Spite, mostly.” 

Madam Pomfrey raises an unimpressed eyebrow, “spite?” 

Unabashedly, Severina reiterates, "Spite." 

The older witch, visibly disappointed, looks at Severina with a blank face, as though she had clearly expected something different. “Spite made you lie here for the third time this month? Really, Miss Snape? I believed you were above these petty squabbles.”

“You should have known better then,” Severina snorts, “Forgive me. Life in Hogwarts, overall, and especially in Slytherin, is, as my father used to say, and pardon my French, a knob-measuring contest. No—don’t look at me like that. Ever since that bloody cunt Potter set his sights on me and decided to make me his chew toy, he had relegated me to the lowest rung of the sodding social hierarchy. I'm the one to blame for giving him the chance to take the piss. But it's on me, and now I'm sorting it out. I daresay you should prepare to see either of us daily in the foreseeable future til he fixes his attitude. I advise you to ask for a raise, Lord knows you deserve it.”

Someone snorts at her side.

Madam Pomfrey stares at her, amusingly unbothered by her colourful language, and Severina’s hand tingles again to take the cigarette.

"I will have strong words with Professor McGonagall about this. Their behaviour cannot be allowed to continue." The matron pauses, meeting the Slythrien’s gaze, “This isn't right, my dear. You shouldn't have to endure such cruelty within the very walls that are meant to protect you.”

"It's not your fault," Severina insists, though inside she wonders if things might have been different had any adult taken a stronger stand against them years ago. 

The medwitch stares at her with a pained expression. 

"That's alright, really," Severina says, suddenly pondering if she's allowed to smoke in public now that they're bonding over the school's spectacularly incompetent staff. She shakes her head vigorously. "Please, don't mention this to Professor McGonagall. It’ll just complicate things. Only weak bitches snitch. I can handle this myself!" 

Madam Pomfrey pauses, then she muses thoughtfully, “I should be allowed to give detention.” 

Severina grins. “How long have I been out?”

“Five minutes,” comes a voice from her side. She tenses and turns to see a blond boy with an amused smile that highlights his dimples. His robe is trimmed in green—a Slytherin. “You passed out just outside the dueling chamber. By the way, amazing duel! That ankle-hanging spell? Pure genius! I never thought of you as cruel, Snape. You didn’t even give him a chance to fight back.” 

“Should I have?” she challenges him. 

His smile widens, sharp and boyish. “He had it coming, I say.” 

Severina matches his grin with a cocky smirk. “Damn right.”

With boyish good looks, he has golden flaxen ringlets that hang loosely, and his grin is charmingly crooked. She digs in her mind to recall anything about him, but all she manages is a fleeting image of his daylight-like smile and the fact that he’s surprisingly popular for a Slytherin. A boy of sulks and smiles. 

“Mr. Wilkes, please don’t encourage her,” Madam Pomfrey interjects, though the shadow of a smile betrays her amusement. She turns to Severina. “Mr. Wilkes brought you here.”

It’s an obvious pitiful attempt to help her make friends, though it’s kind of sweet that the older woman cares. Touching and a bit sad and pathetic, really, making Severina stifle her shameless self-pitying snort.

“My thanks to him,” Severina replies. 

Wilkes, Wilkes, Wilkes.

Suddenly, she remembers him—Wilhelm Wilkes, who died at 17 during a Death Eater raid.  

“I’m afraid that you have to limit your…fun time, at least until I can observe your progress. Your magical core became destabilized. Professor Felix believes using a wand not fully bonded to you caused backlash, especially after you overexerted yourself in the duel.” She pauses, as if thinking to herself, then she murmurs, “Though that doesn’t explain the unusual stretching…Changing your wand is necessary, I’m afraid. Anyway, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to Mr. Potter. His injuries are… unnecessarily severe, I must say.” 

She cast a pointed Look at the Slytherin. 

Without an ounce of shame, Severina echoes Wilkes's words: “The bitch had it coming.” 

Wilkes nods sagely. The picture of innocence. “Potter’s scum.” 

“A total cunt,” Severina corrects him, stone-faced. 

Madam Pomfrey seems to regret trying to find a friend for Severina, glancing at the ceiling as if seeking help that won’t arrive. “No, that stops here. No more vulgarity, Miss Snape. Please show some respect.” 

Wilkes challenges her, his smile impossibly wide. “But did she lie, though?”

The old witch just sighs, and Severina feels a flicker of satisfaction at her fond suffering. Serves her right for trying to make her make friends.

She watches as the nurse leaves, her gaze following her to a privacy curtain where she catches a glimpse of Potter, half-reclining with a blotchy expression of indignation. He doesn’t seem to notice her, but Lupin does, staring at her without blinking. She raises an imaginary toast to him, tilting her head, and his eyes widen before Madam Pomfrey closes the privacy curtain again.

Wilkes flashes her a lopsided grin. “You’re less intimidating than you think, especially with black rivers running down your cheeks and your eyes all bloodshot and tearful.”

“Aww, why didn’t you tell me?” Severina whines. “I was just having a moment!”

Wilkes snorts, unable to hide his amusement, and hands her a bag. “Here.”

Severina murmurs a soft “thanks” as she rummages through it, pulling out a mirror and a napkin. Looking at her reflection, she realizes Wilkes wasn’t exaggerating—she really does have black rivers streaking down her cheeks from the mascara. Her face looks pale and tired, and while her eyes are bloodshot, they aren’t as tearful as he claimed. However, the dried tears do give her an almost annoyingly fragile appearance. 

A moment later, she hears Black unleashing a delightful stream of curses, blissfully unaware that she’s just two beds away behind a half-closed privacy curtain. Not that it would stop him from calling her ‘that smug slimeball, sniveling bitch—who does she think she is?’ Madam Pomfrey had given him a right tongue-lashing before booting him out.

She shares a glance with Wilkes, stifling a childlike giggle behind her hand.

“What happened to you, Snape?” Wilkes asks, watching her dab at her eyes to wipe away the mascara.

She hums in response, feigning apathy. “What happened to me?”

“Yeah, I don’t know you well, but I’m pretty sure you weren’t always a violent dog." he pauses, probably thinking of one of her previous encounters, her anger, her yelling. He back tracks then, "No. You’ve never shown this much composure before. I must admit, I’m fascinated.”

“Here’s where you’re mistaken, Wilkes. I’m a violent dog, as fearsome as they come. I just decided there’s no point in wasting time waiting for someone to save me.”

she’s done. Completely done. 

He stares at her, searching for something, but says nothing.

Later, she's sitting at her desk, penning a letter to her mother with a pen and paper. 

“Dear Mother,”

she begins,

“I trust this finds you and Father well. I, too, am managing—perhaps better than I have in some time. I must confess that I experienced a rather unfortunate accident several months ago, one that has resulted in certain... memory complications. I remember some things, but there are a lot of memories that just don’t add up. Like that Christmas liturgy night at the church, the lake, and the water nymphs. I sincerely hope I am not conjuring fantasies. It’s important for me to figure out what’s real and what’s just my imagination. I must stress that I’m completely fine—just a bit confused. I hope you’ll write back soon to shed some light on my little dilemma.”

At the end of the letter, she pauses and thinks for a while. Egotistically, selfishly, and entirely unreasonably, she wants their approval to plug the psychological family-shaped void in her heart. It doesn't take her long to think about it. She then writes,

“I have recently published my first potion book. While it may not be a grand achievement, I find it somewhat enjoyable. I get to call people idiots without facing repercussions; my publisher has deemed me a ‘natural comedian’—his words, not mine.

Additionally, I must request that you establish an account for me at Gringotts. This would undoubtedly simplify matters, allowing you to manage it as you see fit to assist in our household. I wish to support you and Father, Mother; now that I am able to contribute, let me do so. I await your response with anticipation.

Yours sincerely,

S. S

Chapter Text

Severina stands under the warm spray of the shower, letting the water work its magic on her tired muscles. She glances down at her toes, watching rivulets of water race down her pale skin. Thankfully, her roommates are MIA—probably off plotting their next social event or gossiping about her. The hot water has melted away the knots in her joints, especially in her legs, which are feeling the consequences of her footwork during all the duels.

All too soon, she turns off the water and wraps herself in a fluffy towel, taking a moment to gather her thoughts in the steam-filled bathroom. Her hair clings to her neck in damp tendrils, and the soothing scents of lavender and vanilla are doing wonders for her frazzled nerves. 

Once dressed, she conducts a quick inventory of her situation. Not having a bank account means her Galleons is still sitting in her trunk, charmingly stashed away. Her wallet is charmed to hold exactly 50 Galleons coins and 50 Sickles coins. Not the most brilliant financial strategy, but at least it’s semi-convenient. She’ll need to budget carefully, as always. 

After using a charm she picked up from one of her roommates to blow-dry her hair, Severina decides against reapplying her makeup. Her skin is already flushed from the hot water and has that glossy pink tint thanks to a the everyday supplements potion. 

Stepping into the dimly lit common room, she’s relieved to find it nearly empty. Just one figure awaits by the exit—diminutive yet distinguished in his professorial robes. “Professor Flitwick,” she greets with a polite nod.

“My dear, I’m glad to see you unharmed after today’s little adventure,” the Charms master replies, his beady eyes scanning her appearance like a hawk. “That was quite impressive spellcasting. You have a rare gift, Miss Snape—one I hope you’ll continue to hone.”

“You flatter me, sir. I have much still to learn.” 

Severina and Professor Flitwick stroll out of the dungeon in silence, punctuated only by the occasional comment about dueling. Soon, the familiar, well-lit corridor comes into view, along with a chorus of whispers from students muttering. 

Flitwick offers his hand with a kind smile. “Ready, Miss Snape?”

“Yes, sir,” she replies, taking it gratefully. With a twist and a pop, he Apparates them straight to Diagon Alley. The familiar dizzying sensation swirls around her until her feet land on the cobblestone street, finally steady.

The Alley is alive with hustle and bustle, and Severina pauses to take in the mayhem of rushing shoppers and pedestrians. 

"I have some business at Gringotts Bank," Flitwick tells her. "Why don’t we get your wand from Ollivander’s, then treat ourselves to some ice cream while you wait for me? It shouldn't take long at all."

“Thank you, Professor, but if it’s all the same, I think I’ll browse the library instead. If you don’t mind.” 

Flitwick nods. "Of course, the library it is. But first, let’s get you sorted at Ollivander’s!" He leads the way to the shop, opening the door with a flourish that sends the bell above tinkling happily.

“Coming!” calls the wandmaker from the back. Moments later, Ollivander appears, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as he sizes up his new customers. “Ah, Professor Flitwick!” he greets, before turning his attention to Severina. “And who might you be?”

“Snape,” she replies, trying to sound as dignified as possible. “Severina Snape.”

“Miss Snape’s wand doesn’t seem to be responding to her,” Professor Flitwick explains to Ollivander, his tone serious. “We were hoping you could lend your expertise.”

“Strange indeed!” Ollivander says, peering at Severina. Her heart races—could it be that the wand is revealing her secret identity? What if the old man can tell? 

He extends his hand expectantly. Severina smoothly withdraws her wand from its holster in her boot and hands it over, keeping her face as composed as a statue. 

Ollivander flicks the wand between his fingers in a passive manner. He gives it a good once-over. His eyes squint in concentration. A bit later, he murmurs, “Ah, yes! My grandfather crafted this wand ages ago. A fine piece of craftsmanship indeed—ebony, thirteen inches, with a dragon heartstring core. A Prince family heirloom, if I'm not mistaken. Ebony's renowned for its affinity for intricate incantations.” 

He pauses, giving it a second flick. “Now, this wand's been passed down, yes? Found a new home, if I had to wager.“

“Indeed, sir. Since my first year at Hogwarts.” 

Ollivander takes a moment to ponder,stroking his beard thoughtfully. “Curious, very curious. It seems the wand has found a new master, but its first allegiance may still lie with your mother—or perhaps someone else has laid claim. Generally, this type of wand usually doesn’t have a wobbly loyalty. Now, let’s see if we can find something more fitting.”

Severina keeps her face natural.  

The Wandmaker retrieves a selection of dark woods from the shelves: ebony, blackthorn, and oak. “You’ll find dragon heartstrings are quite popular among the Prince lineage. Go on, give them a wave!”

One by one, all of the wands Severina tries snap in half or burst into flames, sending splinters, smoke, and sparks flying. An ever-expanding graveyard of broken wands accumulates at her feet. 

“Merlin's beard!” 

There is an unblinking observation from the professor again. 

“Maybe I should just reclaim my old wand?” She suggests sheepishly. She grimces. Being underprotected is hardly an ideal situation, though.

“Nonsense!” Ollivander retorts, feverish-eyed. “A tricky customer, are we? Don’t worry; we’ll find the perfect match—eventually!”

Severina shoots the professor an apologetic look, and he gives her a soft smile. Ollivander’s expression shifts to one of seriousness. “Your magic must be, let’s say, robust, Miss Snape. Not exactly common, but we do offer wand simulations for your…unique brand of magic.”

With that, he dives behind the towering shelves, and the sounds of boxes scraping and lids popping echo. When he finally re-emerges, he’s balancing an even larger tower of boxes that he lays before Severina. “Let us try something new, shall we? You are left-handed, right-handed? Show me your handwand.” 

“Left-handed.” Severina offers her hand as Ollivander takes the measurement. 

”Your old wand is for those who are right-handers; no wonder it disobeyed you.” Ollivander points out. 

Severina noncommentarily hums. 

Ollivander sifts through the dusty pile of wands, eventually fishing out a simple black box from the bottom. It's dark and covered in dust. With an expert touch, he opens it to reveal a wand buried beneath the velvet lining. The wand is constructed of a dark, sleek wood that appears almost alive within its frame. At this distance, she can make out the shape.

"This one," Ollivander says slowly, "is remarkably flexible, designed to manage…volatile magic by being variable. It's incredibly light, made from ancient yew wood, and carries protective runes." He presents the wand to Severina, raising it up to the sunlight pouring in from the windows. The light dances across the surface.

”hmm?”

"A unique specimen indeed," Ollivander continues. "Thirteen and a half inches, with a core of thestral tail hair. A powerful combination, perfect for those with... let's say, unpredictable magic."

Severina lifts up the wand, using her fingertips to trace the slick, sinuous wood. An ancient symbol—a dragon's ouroboros—is painstakingly engraved with superb craftsmanship all the way around the handle. It snakes about itself, a representation of death and rebirth that Severina acknowledges and contemplates somberly.

That alone, in retrospect, should have been enough to stop her from touching the wand altogether, but she flicks it out of sheer impulse. A shimmering trail of ethereal dust spills into the air, glittering softly in the dusk-like light. Soft and balanced, the magic flows through seamlessly. 

Professor Flitwick claps his hands in delight at the sight. Even Ollivander smiles broadly, clearly pleased. "Excellent! It seems the wand has chosen the witch.” 

Then, with a scratchy voice and focus locked on the ouroboros cryptically, he says, “Yew is suited for those with great destiny. Those wielding these wands are high achievers—never quite satisfied. Know that you’ll excel, not because you crave success, but because you fear failure, Miss Snape. And while that’s not a bad thing, it’s not exactly good, either. Just remember: don’t let your ambition consume you.”

“Can’t make any promises there—I’m a Slytherin through and through,” she quips, a tight smile playing on her lips.

“Excellent!” Professor Flitwick chimes in, completely oblivious to the underlying tone. 

After paying a whopping eight gallons for her new wand, Professor Flitwick bids her farewell outside the shop and departs to attend to her own affairs. 

Severina carefully stows her new wand alongside her old one in her boot, determined to send the latter back to her mother with the letter once she returns to Hogwarts. 

At Flourish and Blotts, the air is thick with the scent of aged parchment and leather-bound tomes. Wooden tables sprawl across the spacious room, each one groaning under the weight of a mountain of scholarly manuals, journals, and texts. 

Advanced Potion-Making for the Hopelessly Incompetent (1) by S. Vasilievna Alekseivich sits proudly on the front desk, nestled among the bestselling titles. Looks like her first book is doing pretty well, and she can’t help but feel a bit smug about it. An elderly wizard is flipping through the pages, his expression bouncing between amusement and sheer curiosity. He suddenly lets out a snort before adding her book to his cart, and Severina can’t help but smile. Years ago, after the first war, when she was a professor and utterly fed up with that dunderhead Borage and his woefully outdated textbook, she decided to write her own. She’d poured everything into that potion book, simplifying the most complex formulas and showcasing her undeniable expertise. She checked and double-checked, meticulously navigating all the paperwork to register her life's work with the Ministry. 

All for nothing.

She knocked on every publisher's door, only to face rejection after rejection—either because of her past as a former Death Eater or because other potion masters couldn’t handle the fact that she was the youngest potion master in centuries. They’d wasted her time on purpose, just to put her in her place and spite her. 

She heads to the medical section, her fingers gliding over the high-quality spines of the books like she’s greeting old friends. 

In her medical researches, Severina had crafted a plan to rebalance her Obscurus-ridden magical core, with many scholars insisting that mithridatism was the way to go. But by 2000, the study had all but vanished—its sponsors were either six feet under or trapped in one of The Dark Lord’s latest whims. Despite her best efforts to charm him into reviving the funding or allow the rest of the experts to resume their research, he remained stubbornly unwilling. 

She picks up Mithridatism and Immunotherapy by Aesop Sharp, savouring the comforting weight in her hand. Even if her Obscurus study weren’t on the table, she’d dive into mithridatism as a potion master eventually. Tackling the potential threat of Nagini at its roots—yeah, that was just a cherry on top. One problem at a time; she’d methodically snuff out every threat before it could even think about growing up. 

Sure, she’s feeling a little wobbly about jumping into the fray, but the least she can do is gear up for whatever’s lurking around the corner. Time to renew those searches and track down answers because if she wants a permanent solution beyond just maintaining her delicate balance with Occlumency, she’s got to go all in. The future still promises a cure; she just has to grab it by the horns.

Trudging down the aisles, she stops by the Muggle publications section. Maybe it’s nostalgia pulling at her heartstrings, a wistful longing for a home that was never truly hers. She hangs out in the literature section, scanning the shelves, and she’s disappointed to find that none of her childhood favourites—Gogol and Turgenev—are nowhere to be found. Instead, she finds a parade of Tolstoy, Shakespeare, and even Fitzgerald, not to mention some poetry collections by Dickinson and a few others. Ultimately, she can’t help but snag a copy of Akhmatova’s The White Flock—a nostalgic nod to one of her all-time favourite poetry collections. 

It’s like picking up an old gadget that still sparks joy, even if it’s a bit dusty. 

With her freshly bought books tucked snugly under one arm, Severina strides down Diagon Alley. She’s got just enough time to hit the meeting point with the professor. As she steps onto the bustling cobblestone main street, she can’t help but marvel at the chaos around her. Witches and wizards are crammed everywhere, checking out shop windows, making impulse buys, and chatting. 

Up ahead, a family is parked outside the Magical Menagerie. A young boy, probably no older than seven, is practically begging his parents to go inside. “Please, can I get a dog?” he pleads, his eyes as wide as Galleons as he presses his nose against the window, mesmerised by a litter of puppies tumbling over each other. 

Severina can’t help but smile at his infectious enthusiasm. She stops to peek into the window herself. As she gets closer, her mind drifts to her own pet situation. Sure, the school owls are handy for sending letters home, but let’s be real—they’re not exactly stealthy. Anyone with half a brain can spot a Hogwarts owl soaring overhead and guess its source. If she had her own owl, she could send messages without the possibility of being tracked down easily. 

She weighs the pros and cons for a moment, then with a casual shrug mutters to herself, “meh—Why not?” With that, she follows the eager kid and his parents deeper into the shop. The tinkling bells above the door fade away, swallowed by the delightful chaos of hoots, squeaks, and chirps filling the air. 

She takes a moment to soak it all in, scanning the aisles. To her left, fluffy Kneazles are piled high, while crates of darting garden snakes slither around. Straight ahead, vibrant tropical fish glide gracefully behind enchanted glass tanks. To her right, rows of caged owls hoot softly, and a collection of poisonous arachnids skitters around in their enclosures. 

She checks out the prices for the snowy, barn, and tawny owls on display. Just as she’s mulling it over, a sharp caw cuts through the air. She whirls around to find a cosy little seating area tucked away. 

There, at the far corner, crows huddled together on a spell-bound wire at the end, overshadowed by the majestic eagles and hawks preening their feathers like they owned the place. Eerily still, they stand in the dim back corner, their night-black feathers blending seamlessly into the shadows. 

That's when a lightbulb goes off—blood magic. 

She recalls texts about wizards who bond with their familiars. Most witches and wizards just let their owls or cats become familiar over time through sheer proximity. 

But she’s thinking of something bigger. Why not tap into a more powerful and direct ritual to seal the bond? 

During her time at Malfoy Manor, she dove into her mother's family history—the Princes—a lineage of dragon raiders and curse breakers. She then stumbled upon an ancient spell from the Romanian dragon riders, one that links the minds of dragon and rider for flawless communication and coordination in battle against goblin armies. 

Of course, that kind of magic is considered way too dangerous these days. The Ministry has deemed the spell, especially for dragons, too perilous. Over the years, miscommunications have led bonded dragon-riders to grow disillusioned with the governments and even turn against their former allies. While open conflict had been avoided, the risk of such powerful creatures being turned to darker purposes makes the spell understandably restricted.

But she thinks, Why not tweak that spell for carrion crows? 

These birds are incredibly intelligent and could make excellent spies and scouts. Plus, the Forbidden Forest is the perfect hideout for them.

Severina leans in close to the crow, taking in its gleaming black feathers and beady eyes that seem to pierce right into her soul. There’s a spark of intelligence in its gaze that captivates her. This particular crow sports a darker bluish tint, setting it apart from its all-black companions. 

Six of them. 

At 10 galleons each, the price for a single crow seems reasonable.

“You and your brothers wouldn’t mind such an arrangement, would you?” She asks softly. The crow caws in response, as if weighing her proposal.

“You and I shall be as one,” she declares softly. 

Just then, the shopkeeper strolls over, interrupting her moment. “Can I help you, miss?” he asks, standing beside Severina as she interacts with the crows.

“Yes,” she replies. Pointing from one side of the cage to the other, she declares, “I want all six crows.”

Nodding to herself, she considers the challenges ahead. Her memory of the binding spells is still fresh, but the edges of the incantations aren’t quite sharp yet. Attempting that magic without some serious precautions could be risky. Still, with focus and a bit of practice, she knows she can tackle whatever comes her way.

In mid-air, she attempts to write the runes, not just for practice but to cement them in her memory. Half-circle, Hagalaz, Uruz, Raidho, Raidho, Fehu. Then the underline—three Eithwaz, sandwiched between two Uruz. A sharp line to close the circle, and then repeats the process five more times to form a final circle.

She knows she would need a natural space rich in potent magic. Luckily, Hogwarts grounds are steeped in ancient magic—dark and deep, like the shadows of the forest. Her general memories of the events might be a bit shaky, but the massive, encyclopaedic knowledge she's packed away is locked and loaded, ready to be called up at a moment's notice.

She snaps out of her haze, realising she’s been absentmindedly drawing runes in midair while the shopkeeper looks on, puzzled. She halts her hand and shoves it into her pocket with a huff. “Will one cage be enough to transport them?” she asks the shopkeeper. “I’d like to charm it myself, if you don’t mind, to make the journey a bit more comfortable.” 

The shopkeeper grabs a cage and sets it down in front of her. “It’s already charmed,” he tells her. 

Severina pulls out her new wand anyway, feeling the surge of power coursing through it. She starts casting spells to prepare for the journey home with her new familiars, beginning with a Silencing Charm, then a Featherlight Charm to make the cage easy to carry. 

They carefully transfer each of the six crows into the charmed cage. She handles them with the utmost care, ensuring the magical birds stay calm and relaxed.

When it’s time for the last crow, Severina lifts the blue-tinged bird and holds it close to her face. She gently runs her fingers along its head and down its feathers, feeling a jolt of energy pass between them. “Vlad shall be your name,” she says softly, locking eyes with the crow’s sharp gaze. 

Vlad—just like her stallion from another life. My sweet boy, she thinks with a pang. She’ll never see him again; she’ll never ride him or feel the wind whipping through her hair as he gallops through the air.

Vlad quorks in response, and Severina can’t help but smile somberly. “A strong name for a strong familiar. As the oldest of the flock, you deserve nothing less. You’ll be my closest companion, Vlad—my main sidekick. Don’t disappoint me.” 

Vlad caws again. 

Severina then names the other crows: Lilith, Lenore, Edgar, Carmilla, and Dante. Once she settles on the names, she drapes a dark cloth over the cage to muffle the voices of her new familiars, wanting to keep the noise from disrupting her focus as she preps their supplies. 

She pays the shopkeeper for sacks of nuts to use in Vlad and the others' training. While most will eventually learn to hunt in the Forbidden Forest—it's in their nature—Vlad will stay by Severina’s side as a permanent resident in her dorm.

The Professor doesn’t say a word about Severina’s charmed cage as they stroll through the alley. Instead, he treats her to ice cream—just like he promised—while they dive into a passionate discussion about competitive dueling and its roots in the art of fencing with equal amounts of passion. Once they finish their treats, he Apparates them right by the school grounds. Classes have wrapped up for the day. Behind them, the forest is quiet and infused with magic. She can feel it. Now, more than ever. 

Severina thanks the professor for his help before heading into the trees with her familiars. She slips by a sodden hill and walks deeper towards some unknown destination that Severina wonders after. She follows the run of a nearby river. The sky is a softer tint, the trees tower like giants above her, and the air is crisper. With each step she takes further into the Forbidden Forest, the magic she can taste in the air swells stronger. Waxing, waning, like a tide invisible to all but it. Old, like peaks splitting the far-off sky. 

Soon, she discovers a secluded clearing by the river, distant from where she first met Charity and further away from Hogwarts itself, yet still rich with its magic.

After setting down the feather-light cage, Severina savours the last bites of her ice cream while scanning the area. Before diving into the ritual, she starts redefining the runes in her notebook, sketching, crossing things out, and repeating the process until she feels ready. It’s oddly therapeutic to know exactly what to do and to feel that smug certainty wash over her. Sometimes, though, she can’t help but wonder about her shaky memories—the nagging possibility that this whole dream is just that—a dream. What if Natalia Brown isn’t real? What if she’s not some time traveler from a doomed future trying to fix her screw-ups? 

Having that solid knowledge and assurance of magic is pure comfort.

She starts rearranging the stones covered in yellow-green moss from her chosen spot, drawing a large circle on the forest floor with her foot. Inside, she etches intricate runes for each crow mid-air, this time using her wand and infusing it with magic. The circle shimmers over the dirt in a hazy dark red. 

With her teeth, she pricks her palm, allowing her blood to drip into the centre freely. Then she plucks feathers from each crow, placing them atop their designated symbols. Satisfied that she’s met all the requirements, Severina settles cross-legged in the centre and she opens the cage. One by one, the crows take flight, their wings clawing at the heavens, rising higher and higher.

In a low, muffled tone, she begins chanting the binding incantation: "Oscuram Ligans Fidelis." 

The feathers and blood start to glow with an otherworldly light, magic swirling and intensifying within the confined space. Suddenly, the wind shifts, and Severina chokes on a mouthful of air. 

The shimmering runes soon dance, glowing like the northern lights, rising into the heavens in ribbons of red that snake around each crow and wrap around her, weaving into her heart and her fractured magical core. It throbs painfully with thick magic, making it hard to breathe. She strains to keep her focus, grappling with the unfamiliar rhythm of the spell. Sweat beads on her brow as the ritual intensifies. Blood boils in her veins. Above her, the crows cry out, their voices mingling with the howling wind. Twisting mini-tornadoes of red bleak mist and luminous glyphs flow around the circle, bringing dirt with them.

Her eyes remain tightly shut until, after what feels like an eternity, the spell levels out—steady and firm, yet still wraithy pulsating. 

And then it stops.

The ritual is complete; she’s officially bound to a murder of crows. In theory, she’s one of them now, spellbound by ancient magic. Soon enough, she’ll dig into all the nuances firsthand. 

Sure, the actual spell is research-based and has been proven time and again, but her last-second tweaks to the runic design? Faith-driven but half-baked at best—impulsive and flimsy at worst. 

The goal is simple: adjust the runic design of the binding spell to make room for more than one creature all at once. She has added a bit of a sharing runic design to push her own magic—flaws and all—into theirs. If this goes south, she’ll have to buy more crows, more test subjects. It’s a notion that feels unusually cruel and, strangely enough, reasonable in her book. The mere idea feels like a stain on her honour.

A blood-curdling pain slices through Severina’s skull as the spell connects her magic—every pent-up rotting fragment of it. The sheer power rumbles in her gut, deep and dark, beckoning to the crows. Her vision blurs, fading to black, and then she passes out.

When she finally opens her eyes again, dry-mouthed, hours have slipped by—the sun has set, and a silver half moon is casting its ghostly glow. 

She breathes in, wet and ragged, and tries to calm her mind. The ritual has completely drained her, leaving her utterly ill and unfocused in both body and mind. A surge of unusual nausea washes over her. Panic spills over her gut, fleetingly. 

Between her lethargic thoughts, there is a persistent beat that seems to be pumping, rhythmic, like breathing. At first, it feels like Legilimency pushing against her boundaries, a mind trying to invade her thoughts. Currently, though, it feels as though something is gradually but steadily stitching itself into her skull—a dense, flowing pounding that is so idyllic and thrilling, causing hooves to dance on the edges of her brain, waiting for something. 

Overhead, in their bone-white trees, the crows' black shapes are barely visible against the purple sky, flitting from tree to tree.

Slipping fully into another’s mind outside of Legilimency is beyond her—but she can, clearly, to a degree, detect a presence at the edge of her consciousness. They are urging her, those crows. She also thinks that she can understand them, if not exactly, then at least virtually.

Like extending a hand in friendship, she reaches out, metaphysically. 

The closest presence, metaphysically, takes her hand.

In that moment, the world shifts again, and Severina finds herself perched atop a tree. Confused, she cranes her head downward to look beneath the drab branches and sees that her own body is within the runic circle still. 

Wait. 

Suddenly, it dawns on her that she has slipped into the body of a crow, seeing the world through its sharp eye. In that instant, she is neither Severina Snape, the guilt-ridden witch, nor Natalia Brown, the restless fencer. She is simply the crow, perched atop a bone-white tree, wings as dark as the night sky.

The smells fill her senses, at once vibrant and tantalising; the lush, rotting green beneath the crow's feet combines with the earthy, muddy perfume of the river, hinting at decomposition. Lying on the short turf of a clearing inside the runic circle, she can even smell herself: a faint whiff of cigarettes, mellowed by the sweet scents of lavender and vanilla from her hair conditioner. 

Cicadas add their constant razzing to the sounds that fill the cold air—the noise of a thousand unseen voices rising from the undergrowth.

Severina cranes her neck—the crow’s neck—again, to the left. There, she sees Vlad beside her, looking at her with shrewd red eyes, tilts its head, and gives a quork. 

She opens her mouth, and the sound that comes out is a sharper quork. She leaps and flaps her wings. 

For the first time in this life, Severina soars into the skies. Five crows caw behind her, their voices echoing in the air. Vlad, the largest with his bluish feathers, outpaces her, closely followed by Dante and Lenore. She spots another crow trailing behind—Edgar—which signals that she’s now in the body of Carmilla.

Together, they whirl, scuttling with the wind, skimming the streams, through the maze of the forest, turning now to right and now to left, outpacing the night birds, down long alleys of undergrowth, shadowy and chill. Fly fast, fly hard, she urges mentally, and they respond with a chorus of quorks.

Severina turns, laughter bubbling up, but all that escapes is a loud, high-pitched caw. She lands beside her human form, and in an instant, she’s no longer the crow gazing at the girl through one eye; she is the girl looking at the crow with both eyes. One of her eyes—her left eye—is blurry but slowly coming into focus, stinging a bit. Probably, and hopefully, just a fleeting side effect. 

She strokes the crow’s feather.

“That was great,” she tells the crow, which caws softly in response. It seems unharmed and unbothered by the fact that Severina just slipped into its body.

The moonlight is pale and distan.

"Oh, shit," Severina breathes, suddenly aware of how late it must be.

She struggles to her feet, her limbs trembling like they just ran a marathon. With a flick of her wand, she shrinks the cage and stows everything away in her bag. Vlad flutters up to perch on her shoulder, a feathered comfort in the dark. The rest of the crows remain behind, flitting from tree to tree, quorking. “Don’t get yourself killed, lads.” 

Leaning heavily, she starts the long trek back to the castle grounds. Her head spins from hunger and fatigue, every muscle protesting with each laboured step. In the back of her mind, she knows she’s definitely missed curfew by now. 

It was worth it, she decides. 

Finally breaking free from the treeline, the castle lights flicker into view like a welcome beacon. She staggers toward the side entrance, praying to dodge any lurking prefects. Her stomach twists painfully with hunger, pushing her forward despite her waning strength.

Bursting through the kitchen door, flinching under the light, and plopping down onto the nearest table with a groan, luxuriating in the delicious warmth. "Can I get anything to eat, please?" 

In a flash, one of the elves appears at her side, ears twitching. "Of course, mistress, Mini will feed mistress," he promises earnestly.

Severina manages a tired smile. "Thank you, Mini. I appreciate it.” 

As she dives into her meal, garlic breadstick, like it’s the last supper, a familiar voice calls from the doorway. "Sev!" 

Severina fights the urge to groan. Damn it. Glancing over her shoulder, she spots Lily rushing into the kitchen. Red hair glowing in the charmed torchlight. 

Under her breath, she curses—she had planned to put off this confrontation until morning. 

Severina’s avoidant tactics, subtle as they may be, weren’t going to escape Lily’s sharp gaze, who is hot-tempered and keenly aware, making her easily offended and prideful.

In truth, Severina isn’t avoiding her just to create distance where she can unwind; it’s a tangled mess, deeper than she realizes. She has no idea how to interact with Lily anymore.

The crux of the issue Severina isn’t really herself anymore. Most of her traits have been swallowed up by Natalia, and that’s the heart of the mess. Natalia’s part of her soul is defiant and unapologetically wilful, something everyone’s pointed out at least once in her past life. 

The old dynamic, where Severina bent over backward to win Lily over, is firmly out of the question now, leaving her concerned about the implications for their friendship and how well Lily will adapt to the changes.

Mini dutifully refills her plate silently just as Lily reaches the table. "Where have you been?" the Gryffindor exclaims. 

At first, Severina doesn’t respond, slowly chewing her food as it turns tasteless, like dirt in her mouth—like ashes. She keeps shovelling it into her mouth, chewing and swallowing on autopilot.

"The professor took me shopping for a new wand because mine flat-out refused to cooperate." Severina stretches her leg out from under the table to reveal a pair of wands tucked inside her boot. 

“At midnight?” Lily arches an eyebrow, clearly skeptical. “He took you shopping at midnight?”

“Yup,” Severina replies, exaggerating the ‘P’, enticingly adding, “I just went for a walk and overslept in the forest.”

Lily pinches the bridge of her nose, dumbstruck, nearly forgetting her annoyance that Severina has been ignoring her for weeks now. She repeats incredulously, unamused, “You overslept in the forest? The same Forbidden Forest that has ‘forbidden’ in its name for a reason?”

“Yup.” 

The Gryffindor only stares at her. Lips pressed in a thin line. 

“Lily. Vlad, my sidekick." Severina introduces her to the crow, then introduces the crow to her. “Vlad. Lily, my best friend.” 

The bird stirs; it lets out a high-pitched caw. 

“Your sidekick,” Lily repeats, caught between awe and a flicker of concern, completely dumbfounded. Wrong-footed, she hadn’t expected to see the not-so-hidden tension in Severina’s shoulders at all, confirming that, yes, she wasn’t just imagining things—Severina was really avoiding her. “So, you’ve got yourself a crow familiar now.”

Slowly, Lily extends a hand, hesitating as she glances between Severina and the crow. After a moment, she finally stretches it out. “Vlad,” she tries, testing the waters. 

The crow nudges her finger with its beak, and she can’t help but smile. “Nicely done, by the way.” She glances at Severina, who’s still wolfing down her meal with dry leaves tangled in her hair—definite proof of her woodland adventures. “I mean your duels, every single one of ‘em. I’ll admit, at first I couldn’t bear to watch, but you pulled it off and won like it was a cakewalk. After that, I was glued to the scene. I definitely underestimated you.”

Severina drawls, mocking “I appreciate the vote of confidence.” 

Lily defends herself, feeling like her words got twisted. “You know what I’m sayin’… Lestrange, Frank, and Potter—half the school. You duelled them all and actually won. The Prewett twins even set up a betting pool 'cause of you..”

“I know. Sadly,” Severina shrugs, brushing off her worries. “I don’t take no offense to the truth. Here, have this lovely breadstick.” She shoves it into Lily’s hand, and the crow takes a quick peck at it. 

There’s an awkward silence for a while. 

Finally, The redhead cracks first. Lily’s voice is calm, deceptively so. “Why the bloody hell are you avoiding me? I’m not blind.”

Severina’s patience wears thin. The headache that gnaws at her left eye is a distraction. She takes a breath, then looks unfazed at her childhood friend. “What do them wankers have that makes yow and everyone else buy into their nonsense? I’m your childhood mate; we grew up together; yow know me, and yow owe me your trust more than anyone else.”

“No, you don’t get to say that to me,” Lily whispers, her anger flaring up. She grinds her teeth. “Yow've been avoidin' me for weeks, just givin' me a few words, hidin' out in your dorm, or Merlin knows where. Yow can’t say that. How am I s'posed to trust yow when I know yow're hidin' somethin'? Yow're pullin' away without sayin' a word, leavin' me behind. Yow're dressin' different, talkin' like them pushy Snakes, yow stop bein' with me in public, and then yow've got the nerve to blame me? I don’t even know who yow are anymore.”

Her last sentence cracks her. Severina’s demeanour crumbles, revealing an equal amount of desperation and vulnerability. “I don’t know who I am either,” she murmurs, looking at her food. Then, she buries her face in her palms, fingers digging in her scalp as she stifles a sob that shouldn’t escape, one that has no reason to exist at all. 

Why is she crying? Why is there a part of her battling her anger, transforming it into something that shouldn’t even be there?

She feels a jolt of surprise as the reality hits her—she's completely overwhelmed. Overwhelmed by the sight of Lily, alive, solid, and touchable; overwhelmed by the total absence of remorse for being the reason she died, leaving her son an orphan at such a young age; overwhelmed by the fact that she is neither Severina Snape nor Natalia Brown anymore, but a Frankensteinian blend of the two, and they’re both battling within her for control. 

Maybe she’s crying because she feels so lost, with no identity or sense of self, stuck in a time and place where she doesn’t belong. She’s alone, scared, and unstable, with no family or support. It’s all too much—hesitant about everything, all at once.

“I’m sorry,” Severina whispers, teeth clenched, tears held back, and a headache pounding in rhythm with her heartbeat—ruthless and relentless. But before she can say another word, Lily wraps her arms around her, gently prying her fingers from her hair to stop the self-inflicted pain. In response, Severina just slings her arm around Lily’s waist, burying her face in her stomach. “I’m sorry for not bein' what yow need me to be. I’m sorry, I ain't meself anymore.”

“Sev, don’t say that. What’s up? Spill it. Are yow in trouble? Is it one of them—the—” Her words trail off, clearly trying to skirt around the Slytherins without just calling them Death Eaters. 

Severina takes a breath, inhaling that sweet vanilla scent that is Lily. She pulls back and tugs Lily down beside her. “It’s not about them, not really.”

It’s the hedgehog’s dilemma at its finest, she thinks absently, tucked away in a corner of her mind—wanting to be close but fearing the fallout, the inevitable hurt and betrayal from both sides. She and Lily are doomed by the narrative. Sure, they share a background in name only, but they’ve been shaped by completely different circumstances, made from different fabric. That’s their tragedy.

Lily had smiled while Severina hung upside down—an image that would remain etched in her mind, unchanging in nightmares or memories alike.

It’s ridiculous to equate schoolyard drama with adult problems. Natalia-maybe-Severin should know better by now. An honest mistake is still a mistake, after all. But thanks to some cosmic joke, forgiveness isn’t exactly in Natalia’s playbook. She won’t let Potter wrong her, and she sure as hell won’t stand for Lily siding with her abusers against her. And she’ll be damned if she becomes the reason Lily dies years later. That much is certain.

Lily hasn’t truly wronged her—not yet, not in this life. For that alone, Natalia—or maybe Severina—owes her a little slack.

But devotion? That’s off the table—no one gets that anymore.

Digging through her bag, Severina pulls out a packet of cigarettes—one for herself and one for Lily, who picked up the habit with McKinnon but will ditch it firmly later in fifth year, if memory serves. 

Lily takes the cigarette with a grimace, her gaze lingering on Severina's fingers‘ beds, searching for any signs of her usual habit of tearing them to shreds when she’s stressed. But surprisingly, her fingers are bloodlessly healthy, even sporting French tips. She blinks in surprise but recovers quickly. “We really ought to quit smokin’. Me mum’ll have my head.”  

“Mine wouldn’t bat an eye, but she’d definitely give me that disapprovin' look. Toby’d just laugh and say it’s in the family genes.”

After a moment of comfortable silence, Lily breaks it. “Is this about the potions incident?” She taps her cigarette, sending ashes flying.

“Not really an accident if someone stirred up the chaos on purpose, wouldn’t yow agree??” Severina arches an eyebrow, throwing down the challenge.

Too savvy to pick that fight, Lily doesn’t take the bait. Instead, she assumes that distinctive probing expression—the one she gets when deciphering seventh-level glyphs or tinkering with charms that shouldn’t even be in the same room. That’s Lily for you: as stubborn as they come and determined to a fault, like a hound catching the scent of blood and cornering its prey. 

And Severina? She finds it oddly endearing. For that, she admires her. Strangely enough, Natalia sees why.

“No, I suppose not,” Lily replies evenly. “What a bunch of muppets. But they ain’t the real issue here, Sev. You’re angry with me, and that anger seems to have spiked ever since the accident—when yow started to... change. Is it a 'allucination again?—About being a book character.” 

Severina scoffs. “Don’t use that word.” It hits too close to home, skirting around her fear that everything might just be hallucinations from the side effects of the bloody Nourisher of Illusions potion.

Lily’s eyes drill into the side of her face while Severina takes another drag, belatedly realizing her hand is shaking from leftover adrenaline as she weighs her options.

In theory, she knows Lily would help her out—she can trust her on that. But getting there requires a delicate balance of honesty; too much, and it’ll trigger Lily’s hero complex. That would only drag them into unnecessary trouble. So, she won’t spill about the souls splitting or the blasted price of time travel, but she can at least share the basics about the potion. After all, there’s still a chance this is all just an illusion.

“I reckon that potion’s gettin' into me head—that’s me theory. I don’t feel like Severina Snape, not really, not entirely.” Severina starts, and Lily stares at her, completely dumbfounded.

Lily gasps, wide-eyed. “The Nourisher of Illusions potion!”

“Well, I know exactly why it’s called that. Got first-hand experience, I 'ave. Honestly, it's easier to tell meself this is all just some illusion from that bloody potion. I keep thinkin' I'll wake up back home, or in Moscow at me childhood place, or even in Spinner’s End. I miss home, but I don’t even know what home means anymore.”

Lily listens in silence, the atmosphere both welcoming and tense as Severina fumbles through the half-truths and half-lies of her two lives, avoiding names. She shares her feelings of detachment, her longing, the memories of Elizabeth and John, Toby and Eileen, Moscow, and Vlad the horse and his namesake Vlad the crow. She recounts the future-past Lake’s accident, where Potter used her own spell against her—the one she’d used to hang him upside down—while Lily laughed along with everyone else. 

Severina is honest about it all, even admitting that in a fit of anger, she called Lily the M-word, how she apologized but never got forgiveness in return. 

Lily just presses her lips together, silent, while Severina keeps going.

Shame swallows her, dragging her down, but she swims back to the surface. It’s downright therapeutic to spill everything out, to lay bare her past grudges, fears, feelings, and thoughts without worrying about judgment. No filter to hold her back, just cataloging memory—Snape’s adult life colliding with her teenage years.

Severina lets out a sigh and runs a hand through her tangled hair. She pauses, breathes out, and contemplates some more. “I don’t remember most random stuff, to be fair; I’m just guessin’ at this point. My memory’s sharp when it comes to book smarts, but it’s the events I struggle with—I’m tryin’ to remember or make a connection, y’know what I mean? I can read ancient runes faster than yow can say ‘abracadabra.’ And when it comes to potions? I wrote the book on it—literally. My understandin' of magic, all kinds of it, could fill a library—twice over. Remember a few months back when Professor McGonagall had me fixin' a broken glass over and over just to teach me not to push my magic too far? That said, I can’t recall why my roommate was so mad at me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Lily exclaims with no small degree of exasperation, hands on her hips. "Oh, for Merlin’s sake! Why didn’t yow just leg it to Madame Pomfrey? Severina, this is serious! Yow've been wanderin' around like a lost house-elf for months—this is—”

“I don’t want anyone pokin' around in my head, thank yow very much! No one can know about this, Lily. Not a soul.”

“But—”

“Not a soul.”

“Bloody hell… yow're proper annoyin' and reckless, makin' me feel like I’m bein’ irresponsible for not tellin' someone to get yow some help, which, I’ll say it again, is the right thing to do.”  

“Yow're all the help I need, Lily.”

Lily points out, unimpressed, “Flattery won’t get you anywhere.” 

Severina doesn’t respond. They sit in silence for a bit, holding hands, soaking in everything that’s been said and left unsaid. “You’re not mad—about me calling you Mud…the M-word,” Severina says, crushing a cigarette butt between her fingers, feeling only numbness where the pain should be.

Lily blinks at her for a moment, then offers a hesitant smile. “Honestly? I’ve got no right to judge you for what goes on in your dreams, Severina.”  

“I’m sorry anyway.”  

“I’m sorry too, for laughing—I mean.” Lily then snatches Severina’s bag, rummaging through it until she digs out a notebook and a pen. Since you ain’t exactly bein’ responsible, you need to do some research. Gotta keep track of things, right? Nice bag, by the way.” 

“Sounds good,” Severina replies, flashing a proud grin. “I got it with me first paycheck.”

Lily’s eyebrows shoot up. “You’re working?”

“I said I’ve put a book out, didn’t I? Were you not listenin’? I’ll sign your first copy for you, just wait!.” 

Lily stares at her, unsure, scanning for any sign that she’s hallucinating again. When Severina raises an amused eyebrow, Lily’s jaw drops. “Really? — no way, Sev! This is… I dunno, brilliant! Why didn’t you let on? How'd you pull it off?! Oh, hold on, forget that. It’s just mint. I’m dead proud of ya!.” 

“Oh, that explains—” Lily adds, waving the pen at Severina’s high-quality clothes. She pauses for a second, then adds, “Are you wearin’ the lad’s uniform as a fashion thing, or is it ‘cause of your memory of Potter and the lake?”  

“Both, actually. Plus, me legs look proper fit, and I’m a fan of the waistcoat.”

Gobsmacked, Lily blinks in disbelief. “Oh my god, I never thought I’d hear you say summat like that. I’m proper freakin’ out! This is so not you, but to be honest, I don’t mind this girly side of ya. I love it! Am I a bad person for feelin’ that way?”

Severina huffs. Vlad lets out a soft caw.

James sits on his bed, gingerly rubbing the back of his neck. The dull ache from Snape's jinxes is a constant reminder of how easily she had taken him down—right in front of the whole school, and Lily, no less. His half-finished Potions essay sits forgotten on his knee as he broods, staring at the wall.

Across the room, Sirius sprawls on his own four-poster, absentmindedly squeezing a small ball. Their uncharacteristic silence hangs in the air, unnerving, and it's enough to make anyone uneasy.

Remus watches them both with concern, taking in the tense set of Sirius’s jaw and the the emotions on James’s battered face—disbelief, fury, and something else he can’t quite pin down. He meets Sirius’s gaze with a sympathetic look before turning back to James.

“I know you don’t want to hear this, but I have to say it: Snape has a point. We really should steer clear of her—she’s clearly mental and way too…powerful.”

Sirius squeezes the ball tighter, leaving deep impressions from his fingers. “Oh great, a lecture from slimy Snivellus is all it takes to cloud your judgment. Let me remind you, she poisoned us.” 

Remus purses his lips at the reminder. “Look, leave the insults aside, can you honestly say there’s no truth in what she said? He called her a Death Eater in front of the whole school—that’s a pretty serious accusation, innit?” He shoots James an apologetic glance before continuing, “She proper took him down in that duel, didn’t she? She was toying with him—he didn’t land a single hit! She’s a right menace..” 

James’s jaw clenches audibly. He bristles at the thought of backing down from a fight.

Sirius scoffs. “So, are we meant to be scared of Snivelly and let that stop us from getting back at her? Come on, we all know she came to Hogwarts knowing more curses than most seventh years. That slimy snake’s been messing about with the dark arts since first year. Merlin knows what other dodgy spells are hiding in that greasy head of hers.”

“How did she do it?” Peter suddenly chimes in. “How did she smuggle the potion into our rooms without anyone noticing?”

They exchange a glance, and it’s clear none of them has an answer. Sirius has a thought brewing in his mind, but he knows James wouldn’t want to hear it. “She has a friend.” 

James snaps his eyes at him. Before anyone can say anything Peter, munching on some pumpkin pasties and clutching the Map, lets out a surprised squeak. “Blimey, what’s happened to the map?” 

Sirius bloats upright from his bed. “What is it, Wormtail?” 

He leans over Peter’s shoulder, scanning the parchment. At first glance, everything looks normal within the castle walls, but then Peter starts pointing excitedly at a spot near the side entrance of the school.

“Look, Snape's name… it’s flickering!” 

Sure enough, the dot labeled ‘Severina Snape’ is wavering, briefly showing ‘Natalia Brown’ before snapping back. The others crowd in for a better look.

Remus snatches the map away, scrutinizing it closely. “But it’s been locked down with us at the hospital for weeks! No one’s messed with it. How can her name be changing?”

Peter furrows his brow in confusion. “Do you think she’s… polyjuiced?”

James shakes his head. “No way. Polyjuice doesn’t affect the map, remember? We made it detect students by their magical signatures, not just their looks.”

Remus ponders this, his long fingers tapping his chin thoughtfully. “And the map has been safely tucked in Peter’s bag this whole time. No one could’ve tampered with the enchantments.”

Suddenly, Peter gasps, his doughy face turning pale. “You don’t think… Snape is possessed, do you?”

As realization hits James, his eyes widen behind his glasses. “The map detects magical signatures to identify each person. Could possession actually change someone’s innate signature?”

“In theory…” Remus replies slowly, the idea sounding ridiculous but a sense of dread creeping in. “If another entity took control of Severus’s body, her magical core might manifest differently… or maybe it’s a really skilled shapeshifter? No—that doesn't make sense.” 

Sirius stares off into the distance, his tone flat and rigid. “Someone’s wearing Snape’s skin like a coat…”

Remus corrects him, “Altering the magical core is impossible, let alone mimicking someone else’s.”

James furrows his brow, mulling it over. “Now that you mention it, this ‘Snape’ has been acting really strange lately. Her speech and movements seem off. Wasn’t she always in those long, drab skirts before?”

Remus nods slowly, connecting the dots. “But now she’s switched to the boys’ uniform. And I remember Lily saying once that Snape was fond of her long hair because of her mum.”

Sirius looks away at that.

Peter squeaks in alarm. “S-so if this isn’t the real Snape, where is she? Who’s wearing her like a disguise?”

“Looks like we’ve got an imposter on our hands, lads. Time to get to the bottom of this—“ James pauses mid-sentence, and then pales as he spots Snape’s dot moving swiftly across the map. “Merlin’s beard! Evans is heading straight for the imposter! Let’s move.”

The boys slip stealthily through the secret passages, narrowly dodging Mrs. Norris as they hustle toward the kitchens. When they arrive, Remus cautiously peeks around the tapestry entrance.

Evans is sitting with ‘Snape’ at one of the tables. The possible impostor is shoveling food down while ranting in a thick Northern accent that’s a far cry from Snape’s usual seemingly watered-down tone.

Remus exchanges a pointed look with his friends—surely Lily would notice the change? But to their surprise, she seems completely unfazed by the impostor’s bizarre behavior.

“She actually kinda reminds me of you,” not-Snape says in a heavy Russian accent, giggling.

Evans raises an eyebrow. “How so?”

The group sneaks closer, skillfully navigating around the table until they’re face-to-face with the two girls, close enough to finally get a clear view of the table. There's a bag, an open notebook, empty plates, and a handful of used cigarette butts.

Snape, with her boyish hair obscuring her eyes, sports a lopsided grin. She leisurely extends her hand, offering a piece of fruit to the menacing crow with a decidedly unfriendly demeanour perched nearby. “Here, Vlad!” she whispers.

Suddenly, The Slythrien lifts her gaze, and the four boys beneath the invisibility cloak freeze in apprehensiveness. Snape’s eye—almost white but flickering like a flame—draws them in, mirroring the ever-shifting name on the map. The other eye is heavy with teardrops, giving off the impression of being allergic despite her seemingly carefree demeanor.

“I dunno, Charity reminds me of a rabbit with a knife—you get what I mean? Cute but deadly.” Snape gives a half-smile. “Honestly, I reckon you two would make great mates. Your time with her would be way more enjoyable than mine with your lot. I can guarantee that.”

Evans protests, slipping into a northern accent—though it lacks Snape's Russian flair. “What’s that s'posed to mean, then? Me mates were nice to you!”  

Snape snorts, “I’d love to agree, but I don’t want to be wrong, yow silly goose.”

“Aye, maybe Mary ain't too keen on yow, but Marlene definitely ’as a soft spot for yow.” Evans shoots back, embarrassed.

Snape gives her an unimpressed look. “Yow know it’d be like the devil’s own bonfire freezin' over before I’d beg for Mary Macdonald’s approval. Cut me some slack, Lily. Have a bit of mercy on me weary soul, will ya?” 

As their conversation drags on in a sea of nonsense, Sirius can’t help but fixate on Snape. He uses the moment to really take her in. Her hair, usually tied back in a greasy ponytail, is a chaotic mess now—grass and leaves snagged in those inky black strands, like she’s been rolling around outside. And she doesn’t seem to care one bit about how windblown she looks. Her face, normally sharp and gaunt, is surprisingly round and almost delightful in a weird way. One eye is a strange lighter shade, while dark circles hint at too many late nights. But somehow, she looks healthier—there’s actual flesh on her bones now. 

His gaze drifts to her neck, where five beauty marks catch his attention—three beneath her chin and two close together—like little badges of distinction on an otherwise unassuming canvas.

He fights the impulse to swagger over and yank those annoying leaves from her dreadfully short hair—just to bring back that less-than-perfect shine. But more than anything, this strange, uneasy feeling is messing with his head. It’s wrong on so many levels. He’s thinking about Snivellus— that slippery, stuffy Slytherin who treats him like he’s nothing more than the grime on her well-worn shoes, and it’s infuriating.

Sirius scoffs at himself, just like he has a million times before when this annoying thought creeps in. Remus shoots him a puzzled look, but Sirius brushes it off, refusing to dive into whatever madness is swirling around in his brain.

The crow’s shrewd eyes dart toward them, wearing a hilariously puzzled expression—if that’s even possible—staring right at their spot and seeing absolutely nothing.

Evans changes her position to saddle the bench and reaches out to cup Snape’s face in her hands. Her thumb gently brushes away the tears that have pooled beneath that weird discolored eye as she studies it. “What happened to your eye?”

Snape sighs, clearly worn out. “I swear, it’s just a side effect from this advanced spell I’m tryin’ out,” she replies, avoiding Lily’s gaze. Instead, she starts shoving her book into her bag with some force. 

The crow, Vlad, caws softly, almost in agreement.

Evans frowns, meticulously picking out stray leaves and debris from Snape’s silky dark hair. “Come on, yow can’t expect me to buy that, can yow? What kind of spell could do summat like this?” she presses.

Snape’s shoulders tenses a fraction. “Bloody hell, Lily, do yow 'ave to keep grillin' me? Can’t a girl learn from 'er own mistakes, for God’s sake?”  

“You know why I can’t let yow do things freely,” Lily waves a folded paper, “not with this—Can't bloody believe ya, Sev. Are you going to the hospital wing, in't it?"

“It shouldn't be owt serious. Honestly, it just a tad sensitive to the light.” 

The big black crow ruffles its feathers and hops onto Snape's shoulder, eyeing Lily with a mix of curiosity and disdain. Snape pushes herself off the bench and stretches her arms above her head, revealing a sliver of pale stomach beneath her loose shirt.

“I’m off to my kip,” Snape declares with a tired sigh. “This spell is absolutely knackering me..”

Chapter Text

At the breakfast table, she fights the urge to light a cigarette. Her head's been a mess of awful on-and-off migraines since she woke up, pounding in her brain like a bad rock concert. Her eye is still functional, but it’s definitely light-sensitive now. 

Warmth spreads through Severina's weary body as she chugs the rest of the coffee. 

She pinches the bridge of her nose, eyes squeezed shut, annoyed by the flood of light pouring in through the windows and the relentless stares—both open and furtive—coming from everyone around her. She’s become some sort of fascinating enigma after absolutely wiping the floor with Potter in that duel.

Isn’t that what she wanted? To have enough of that Byronic flair to make everyone forget the sorry old version of herself? She’s definitely on the path to being 'mad, bad, and dangerous to know'—the kind of Byronic figure people admire but also keep their distance from.

Their eyes are darting around—curious, suspicious—swinging between her and Potter, just itching for some juicy gossip. Even Professor Faucheux is watching, sharp-eyed, on the hunt for any slip-up to get back at her for refusing to back down when he tried to put her in her place. She brushed off his words as biased, and now he’s just biding his time, ready to pounce at the first hint of weakness.

While Severina’s a showgirl at heart, amused, she’s not exactly thrilled about putting on a performance with this headache. Vlad lets out a soft, throaty caw, tilting his head to scrutinize her intently. She plucks a plump blueberry from her porridge and offers it to the curious bird.

“I’m alright, my good boy,” she reassures him softly as he snaps up the treat. “Just feeling a bit drained this morning, that’s all. Nothing for you to fuss over.”

And it’s true—Severina’s been sticking to her usual regimen of potions and remedies. Despite last night’s mayhem, her face is glowing. A powerful pepper-up draught is already working its restorative magic through her system fully within half an hour. Vlad caws again and nuzzles her palm with his smooth beak, clearly unconvinced.

She pulls the journal from her bag and taps its leather cover with her wand, muttering, “Polukrovnyy prints¹.”

Just like that, the to-do list flashes onto the blank pages. She hums to herself as she scans the day’s tasks. She’s nearly finished determining the new book's table of contents and has typed up 70% of the version that needs to go to The Ministry for registration under her name. She’s almost done with the book itself, being extra careful with her comments to maintain that witty, informative tone from the first edition. 

After all, it’s meant to be enjoyable for O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. students, focusing mainly on Slughorn’s most used potions.

Something Blackthorn would definitely appreciate; he suggested she tone down her interest in medicinal potions to make space for a third book, emphasizing those essential regulatory choices that Slughorn favors. To jog her memory on Slughorn’s curriculum, she had to ask Malfoy for the details, spinning a little tale about how she was just prepping herself. His curriculum, when compared to hers from her time as a professor, is utterly lackluster—inadequate preparatory at best, and completely redundant.

Her gaze lingers on the word "Obscurus," tracing its contours absentmindedly as she circles it.

Sure, dealing with this might not be an urgent priority, but with the brewing storm not set to hit until her graduation—four years down the line—it’s the only free slot in her schedule for some serious research. At least she knows she won’t fall victim to the poison of the "Obscurus" until she hits 50. But then again, there’s no guarantee she can keep it contained like she used to.

Not exactly ideal, considering a) nightmares and b) the constant barrage of stress and emotion she’s under.

It’s simmering just beneath her skin, ready to snarl at any cracks in her Occlumency walls whenever she feels overwhelmed. She believes in those walls—strong enough that even the Dark Lord, a master Legilimens, couldn’t breach them. But she’s not so sure she can keep it up; she’s not the Severina she once was, and whether that’s for better or worse is up for debate. It’s not a whim driving her to rid herself of this burden; she’s just not as eager for self-destruction as she used to be.

It’s her top priority, right up there with devouring the latest monograph on lycanthropy by Belby. She steals a glance at Lupin; the full moon is approaching, and he looks twitchy, shaking his head absentmindedly while his rat friend rambles on. 

She plans to track down Belby, implant his long-awaited Wolfsbane Potion recipe into his mind, and then Obliviate him. She has the ingredients for an Ageing Potion lined up—a blonde hair dye and a thrifted dress. All that's left is to track down his address, send one of the crows to scout his routine, set up an authorized Portkey, and lure him in for a little chat. Easy peasy.

It’s not in her nature to steal someone else’s achievements; if it were, she’d have submitted her own recipe by now. Instead, she’s holding onto her version for the right moment, turning it into a milestone that will finally give her the credit she deserves.

If the werewolves had caught wind of a solution to their problem this time around, they might reconsider their allegiance to the Dark Lord. And when she finally submits her version of the potion—cutting brewing time from two months to one week—they’ll think twice before making a choice they might regret.

She thinks, absently, that even if she doesn’t dive into the front lines this time, this should give Dumbledore plenty to work with.

Suddenly, the quiet calm of pages flipping and spoons clinking is shattered by a deep voice. “Rough night, Snape?” Bruce Mulciber quips as he slides onto the bench next to her. Severina slams her journal shut with a bit too much force.

She glances over to find him leaning across the table, that trademark grin plastered on his face. Mulciber is as robust and athletic as ever—handsome in that way only pure-blood wizards seem to pull off. Broad-shouldered, dark-skinned, and dimpled, with piercing hooded eyes that snag her attention. Those pools of liquid gold burn with intensity, perfectly matching the glint of his single golden earring. It’s a stark contrast to the hollow, crazed expression of the man who spent fifteen long years in Azkaban, sanity chipped away until he took his own life just weeks after the 1996 mass breakout.

“Rough?” She drawls, dripping with smugness. “Hardly.”

Mulciber shoots a grin over his shoulder at Avery, who’s looking bored behind him, savoring the sweet schadenfreude of Potter’s unexpected but humbling defeat. “She's cocky, Ned.”

Edmund Avery Jr. regards her with disdain from beneath heavy brows. Even at his age, he exudes an air of arrogance and disapproval. The contrast between the two is almost comical; while Mulciber is well-built, toned, and agile, Avery is lanky and willowy—rigid and upright. His pale face is dull, tired, and lifeless. He’s a collection of sharp lines and refined edges—a sharp jawline, a lean build, and a finely tailored robe snugly draped over his shoulders. 

After a rough patch a few weeks back, thanks to his blood curse, he’s been limping around, now sporting a serpent-headed cane for support. His complexion is looking even more sickly.

She vaguely remembers he comes from a once-mighty pure-blood family that’s seen better days. Unlike his father, Avery never signed up with the Death Eaters due to his health. From what Severina recalls, he died alone in his family home, a casualty of that family curse during the Triwizard Tournament in 1994. Completely alone, not even his house-elves were around—he’d dismissed them, deeming them beneath him, a sentiment Voldemort himself found darkly amusing. His death barely made the third page of the newspaper, lost in the noise of that chaotic year.

Avery sets his polished cane down on the edge of the table before taking a seat on the other side of Mulciber. “How delightful,” he drawls mockingly.

Mulciber turns back to Severina, that amused grin still on his face. “I’ve got to hand it to you; you never struck me as the showy type. That spell was a masterpiece—I mean, who would’ve thought you, of all people, could be so ruthless?”

“It’s part of my charm,” she deadpans, shooting a glance at Potter, who’s glaring daggers at her. She smiles and lifts her coffee cup in a faux toast, murmuring, “What can I say? Some lessons need to be learned the hard way.”

Black responds with a double middle finger.

Mulciber snorts, chuckling at Potter’s blotchy face, the promise of payback simmering in his hazel eyes. Then he turns to Severina. “So, what do you say, little grass snake? Care to teach me some of your tricks?” His voice is low and coaxing.

Severina looks up from her coffee, regarding the burly Slytherin coolly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to pass on that offer.”

 Mulciber frowns, clearly not accustomed to being turned down. “Come on, Snape. I’ll pay you for the knowledge,” he insists, leaning forward with intent. “Ten Galleons for just the ankle-binding spell you used on Potter.”

Severina's countenance stays composed, but within, she is writhing as memory floods back—memories of wriggling upside-down by the Black Lake as Potter and Black jeered. It slither through her like venom. 

Outwardly, Severina replies evenly, “I prefer to keep my secrets close, where they can’t be tossed around or shared with the wrong crowd.” Her dark eyes glint with a challenge. “Let’s just say I have my reasons for discretion. I suggest you find your entertainment elsewhere, Mulciber.”

Mulciber bristles at the rejection, a bit taken aback, and so are the nosy onlookers. Severina meets their gazes, apathetic, eyebrow raised, waiting for any self-righteous condemnation to give her the green light to lash out.

“You don't trust me, Snape?” Mulciber asks, now amused. 

Severina stares into her coffee, her reflection staring back. “I don’t trust anyone, really. Don’t take it personally.”

Her gaze drifts across the hall, landing on a flash of red hair. Lily is staring back, her green eyes lit up with something more than mere curiosity. Severina knows that look well—suspicion, distrust, with a healthy dose of protectiveness thrown in for good measure.

Before the conversation can go any further, Avery nudges Mulciber and mutters dourly, “Sweet Merlin.” 

Severina follows their gazes upward to the staff table. There, Albus Dumbledore has risen to his feet, looking positively resplendent in robes that could only be described as garish—swirls of magenta, turquoise, and canary yellow that practically assault the eyes. His twin pools of brilliant blue seem to pierce straight through to the soul, as always. It’s truly fascinating, Severina thinks despite herself, to see him flaunting such an outrageous sense of fashion again.

“Students, I have an announcement,” Dumbledore begins, effortlessly commanding everyone’s attention. “It saddens me to inform you that Professor Malkinheim has resigned from her position as Divination Instructor.” A wave of murmurs ripples through the hall at this news. “However,” he continues with a knowing smile, “we’ve been extremely fortunate to secure a new teacher for this subject. Please join me in welcoming Professor Sybill Patricia Trelawney to Hogwarts.”

From the staff entrance glides a wispy figure, draped in shawls and beads that would make even Dumbledore’s wardrobe look basic. Enormous spectacles magnify her eyes to almost bug-like proportions as she stares vacantly into the air.

Severina has to stifle a snort. “Looks like he’s found himself a fashion rival.”

Mulciber cracks a reluctant snort at that. Avery briefly darts his gaze towards her.

Flint, Severina’s roommate, who has been too busy trying to catch her crush’s attention for the last ten minutes, is staring at Trelawney with wide-eyed awe. Honestly, it’s predictable—the girl’s a hardcore astrologist and a bit naive, if Severina’s being honest. Flint reprimands them, “That’s actually the great-great-granddaughter of Cassandra Trelawney you speak of!”

“So?” Wilkes chimes in from behind, perfectly timed in his interjection to catch the tail end of Flint’s rambling, clearly uninterested in the answer. He settles in front of Severina, giving her a quick nod before shifting his gaze to Trelawney.

Flint becomes agitated, appalled by the patronizing tone, “What do you mean, 'So'? Lady Trelawney was legendary—she must have something special for Dumbledore to hire her!”

Severina, relishing the rare opportunity to needle Flint’s tendency for hero worship, retorts back, “Haven’t you noticed the DADA professors? Every single one is either a fraud or just flat-out useless. I wouldn’t exactly trust Dumbledore’s hiring skills.”

Seeing right through her plan, Wilkes grins and adds, “In fact, with this track record, Dumbledore hiring her is practically a red flag waving in the wind.” 

Flint manages a strangled squeak. 

As Professor Trelawney reaches the head table, whimsical in her billowing shawls, Severina can’t help but study closely. 

 Something niggles at the back of her mind—a strange sense of unease creeping in. 

She frowns, racking her brain over why this feels so ridiculously... off.

Then it strikes her like a lightning bolt—this woman shouldn’t be here. 

Suddenly, it’s like her brain hits a glitch, and the banter from Wilkes and Flint, joined by Mulciber’s random quip, fades into the background. All she can hear is an alarm ringing in her head: something’s wrong, wrong, wrong. 

According to the timeline Severina knows, it’s simply not time for Professor Malkinheim to resign. By all accounts, the eccentric Divination professor had been holding down the fort at Hogwarts for over seven years.

A sickening surge of foreboding hits her like a freight train, and her mind starts racing with possibilities. The ramifications are downright terrifying:

A) Have her actions already started to mess with the timeline more than she intended? Did she accidentally derail the entire flow too quickly because of a slip-up?

B) Or is there someone else involved—a time traveler or... someone like her? That’s a problem, especially if they’re paying attention to her. Unless, of course, they don’t know her personally.

C) What if her memory of the timelines is the flawed one? That alone raises the stakes, highlighting the potential side effects of the bloody potion.

She hurriedly jots it down in the fictitious code.

Severina takes a few deep breaths, closing her eyes and counting slowly to ten, trying to rein in her racing thoughts. When she finally opens them, the world is still a blurry haze, her eyes stinging from the light.

She scans the Great Hall, searching each face for any hint of suspicion or unusual behavior that might confirm her fears of not being alone. Her Occlumency shields are cranked up to eleven—more fortified than when she’s wrestling with the beast within. 

Finally, her gaze lands on Regulus Black, sitting next to his cousin Narcissa at the end of the Slytherin table. He’s staring back at her, intense. With a subtle touch of Legilimency, Severina slips into his mind.

At first, it’s just fragmented moments—herself chatting, nodding, scribbling in her journal, and exchanging conspiratorial glances with Wilkes. Then she catches a snippet of Regulus asking his cousin about her in hushed tones. 

Narcissa replies dismissively, “Snape is half-blood. Unpredictable, for sure. The favorite target for bullies. I heard she’s quite intelligent, but it’s wasted on her. She’s not the sort to fit in with our crowd.”

Diving deeper, Severina catches a glimpse of Regulus listening to his mother through a handheld two-way mirror, where Walburga is lamenting about "Sirius' shameless behavior." 

Regulus just hums back noncommittally, like he’s tuning out a boring lecture.

Finding nothing too alarming—aside from the unsettling realization that she might have a stalker now—Severina breaks eye contact, feeling a bit reassured for the moment. 

The others around her are lost in their own chatter, debating the Divination professor's outrageous fashion choices or cracking jokes about classes. Her paranoia starts to fade, but she knows she has to stay sharp. 

From what she remembers of her past life, Trelawney had made a name for herself by correctly predicting the Dark Lord’s downfall. The new Divination instructor is infamous for her doom-and-gloom forecasts, often leaving students in tears after class. Beyond a vague annoyance, her true feelings about the woman are pretty shallow.

As a teacher, Trelawney was a lousy one at best—more focused on theatrics and wild guesses than any real Seer’s gifts. To Severina, her so-called "inner eye" feels as reliable and clear as the patterns in tea leaves or the nonsense seen in crystal balls.

A flicker of long-buried disdain stirs within her. This woman's ramblings contributed significantly to Severina losing Lily, the prophecy that forced her to sacrifice herself to protect her son. Sure, it’s tempting to blame everyone else, but she can’t deny that she carries her share of guilt for how things played out. Still, that’s a can of worms she’s not ready to open just yet.

So, for now, she decides to take a step back and observe.

“blyat^2” she mutters under her breath, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration.

Beside her, Vlad echoes her sentiment with a thunderous “blyat^2” of his own. 

The crow’s booming caw sends students shooting startled glances up and down the table. Dolohov nearly chokes on his drink, snorting so hard he almost shoots pumpkin juice out of his nose. 

Nearby, others stare at Severina with raised eyebrows. She shrugs casually.

Lily watches as Severina saunters over to their shared desk, that same menacing crow perched on her shoulder. 

Her left eye is still lighter in color—just a hint, and at least it’s no longer red-rimmed. She presses her lips together, trying to gauge the vibe. 

For the first time in two years at Hogwarts, Severina was actually chatting with her housemates, casually exchanging smirks and banter. But knowing the crowd she’s mingling with—pure-bloods with a history of making less-than-savory comments about others—Lily can’t help but feel a bit uneasy. 

She can't blame her entirely—after all, she knows now that Severina's been acting off because of memory issues and delusions. Even in those delusions, she’s thrown around the M-word, which is seriously concerning. If Severina’s mind is warped enough to think that way, it’s not a stretch to consider that she, even on a superficial level, might be influenced by their ideology. 

Lily isn’t even sure if Severina’s serious about that book she supposedly published. Given what she knows now, it’s hard to shake the feeling that Severina’s a danger to herself.

“Morning,” Severina says, sliding into the chair next to Lily with an uncharacteristic bounce.

Lily casually hides her notebook, where she’s been jotting down observations about Severina’s behavior, folding her hands over it as she gives her a disapproving look. “You haven’t been to the hospital wing.”

“Nope,” Severina replies, her tone light. “It’s nothing Poppy can’t fix with a quick healing charm. I’ll be right as rain soon enough.” They both know that’s a lie.

Lily presses further, “No books today? That’s not like you before class.”

Usually, Severina would be meticulously organizing her gear—flipping through her battered leather-bound notebook packed with neatly scribbled notes and spells, rifling through her tattered book on curses and counter-curses, and laying out a fresh roll of parchment alongside her favorite, well-worn quill. But not today. Her bag sits closed at her feet. 

"I'm afraid reading strains my eyes now," she says, flashing a mirthless smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. "Better to conserve my energy for class discussions."

Before Lily can dig any deeper, Severina’s gaze flicks toward the slightly ajar window. With a single, languid finger movement—barely noticeable—the window pane glides open. The crow perched on her shoulder lets out a timid caw, unfurls its inky feathers, and takes flight; its soft caw fades as it disappears into the depths of the Forbidden Forest.

“Severina, you just—” Lily gasps, then quickly lowers her voice. “Used wandless magic? Since when?”

With a touch of phony vanity, Severina tilts her head back and declares, “I’m just unfairly talented, sweet Lily.”

Naturally, Lily isn't buying that no-answer—not that she should. She shoots Severina a searching, disappointed look, but Severina just stares ahead, her head propped on her palm, eyes half-closed. The open window lets in a soft breeze, and with it, Lily catches a whiff of Severina’s scent—a faint hint of cigarette mingling with sage and something floral.

Her nails are still in good shape, bloodless at the beds, but instead of the French tips from last night, they’re now painted black. Clearly, Severina spent some time on them. The color suits her—much more her style than those French tips—but it feels a bit off; she used to scoff at Lily for wasting time on that kind of thing. 

Her eyelashes are longer and darker, thanks to a heavy layer of clumpy lash-plumping mascara. 

“Do you fancy anyone?” Lily blurts out before she can stop herself.

Severina gapes at her for a second, then bursts into giggles. “What the hell, Lily?”

“You have even got your hair blown out.”

Severina turns to gawk again, giving Lily a moment to really assess her face. Now that she’s looking closely, she spots the differences: her teeth are fixed but still have those fangs, and her lips are plumper and rosy—not outright lipstick, but definitely a tinted balm. Her high cheekbones—Severina’s best features after those long-lashed eyes—are sadly lacking a bit of blusher. They’re healthy and rounder, but a touch of muted rose or berry would really elevate the look. Lily can’t quite decide which would suit her better yet.

“Oh my god, there’s someone you fancy!” Lily exclaims, wide-eyed.

From behind them, Marlene pops her head between them, completely unashamed of eavesdropping—or maybe Lily’s just not being subtle enough. “Really? Who?” she asks Severina.

Severina gapes at the blonde, then shoots a look at Lily. Meanwhile, Alice, Marlene’s deskmate, facepalms.

Marry has the decency to act like she wasn’t eavesdropping, but she still inchies closer. After all, she’s the one who tossed out the idea that Severina might be having a secret affair with some pureblood, citing her expensive clothes and bold attitude as “evidence.” Lily shot that down instantly—Severina’s just not the type to fit Marry’s little fantasy.

Lily and Severina both shove her back into her seat just as Professor Flitwick strolls back in, his voice instantly capturing the class’s attention. “As we discussed, a locking charm that originates from within an object requires an alternative solution—not just a simple unlocking spell,” he reminds them. With a flourish of his wand, boxes materialize before each student.

Lily mutters, “This isn’t over.” 

”Bloody hell.” 

“For today’s practical lesson, each of you will receive a box that’s already charmed from the inside. Your task? Find an alternative method to reopen it without directly counteracting the inner charm,” Professor Flitwick instructs.

Severina glances at her box, seemingly unimpressed by the enchanted lock.

Lily whispers again. “Ere, that explains a lot, int it? Blimey! I wish Toney were 'ere; she'd love this, she would. But no, Severina, no way. Those guys are... Ah'm not judgmental, lah,” she insists, though the sincerity is questionable.

Severina shoots her a look at that bold-faced lie, but Lily gracefully ignores it. 

“That social circle's bad, Severina. Bad for yow, bad for me, bad for me sanity... bad for us.”

Severina grimaces. "Yow know what reeeally puts me 'ealth, yours, and our lot at risk—along wi' me proper lack of mental stability, like? Potter. Honestly, just the thought of yow two under that Gryffindor red blanket makes me feel proper sick, it does. Imaginin' them four-eyed, self-important little scallywags prancin' abaht wi' bird's nests for 'air, thinkin' their big egos make it stylish, is just too much to bear, innit?"

“This 'as nowt to do wi' Potter.”

“What's yow goin' on abaht? Who's in this social circle, then?”

“Yow table-mates, lah”

“For cryin' out loud, innit.”

She sneaks a look at Lily, who’s blissfully immersed in their Charms textbook, flipping pages randomly. A quick scan of the room shows her classmates equally absorbed in their boxes. 

Severina’s heart races with anticipation as she stares at the locked box. She knows it’s a foolish risk, but her curiosity is winning. After another glance around to make sure no one’s watching, she takes a deep breath to steady herself and refocuses on the ornate box in front of her.

Reaching deep within, Severina summons the wisps of the still-caged Obscurus, letting it flow from her fingers like smoky shadows. She clumsily phases it into an incorporeal state.

With a smooth motion, she slides her intangible hand through the solid wood of the box. Blindly feeling for its inner mechanisms, her fingertips graze a raised charm pressing against her ghostly touch. With a barely-there tap, the locking charm dissolves, and the box snaps open with a loud crack, startling nearby students. “Sweet Merlin!” one yelps.

Before anyone can notice, Severina yanks her hand back and quickly squashes the brittle remnants of the Obscurus, her pulse racing with anxiety. Thankfully, her school robe has done a solid job of concealing the black, incorporeal state.

A quick scan with Legilimency confirms that her classmates are still engrossed in their tasks, blissfully unaware of her near-miss. Her stomach churns at how close she’s come to being exposed. 

"Well, I didn’t see that coming,” she mutters. 

Just then, Professor Flitwick scurries over to check out her work, eyes widening in surprise. “Miss Snape, this is most impressive!” he squeaks, delight lighting up his face. “I’ve never seen a locking charm undone so cleanly. Well done!”

Severina flushes deeply at the praise. She glances at Lily, who beams with pride, though her sharp eyes seem to cut right through Severina's façade. 

Flitwick taps the now-open box with his wand, muttering a detection spell. His face lights up even more. “Marvelous, just marvelous! Thirty points to Slytherin for such exemplary charm work! Pray, do tell us how you managed it.” 

His eagerness makes all eyes in the room turn expectantly toward Severina.

Severina shuffles her feet, tucking an errant lock of hair behind her ear, feeling flustered under their intense stares. But once her mind clicks back into gear, the deception flows effortlessly. She knows the theories by heart—she memorized them once. She can pull any method known or yet-to-be-discovered out of thin air.

“Well, sir, since unlocking spells tackle the charm head-on and the rules prohibit direct counter-charms, I aimed to weaken it indirectly,” she starts confidently. “By casting a series of nonverbal, low-level spells consecutively, their combined effects gradually break down the locking charm’s integrity from every angle. It seems this particular charm was already somewhat unstable, making it easier to dismantle piece by piece without confronting it directly.”

Flitwick claps enthusiastically once more. “Ingenious deductive work, Miss Snape! Your method is truly NEWT-level! Well done indeed!”

Her gaze flickers to Lily, who studies her intently. Severina finds herself staring at her hands, at her now tangible skin, lost in thought.

Flitwick chimes in, “Miss Snape, would you mind assisting your classmates?”

Severina springs up, nodding courteously. 

The professor turns his attention to the rest of the class. “Alright, everyone, listen up. Miss Snape has demonstrated one method for unlocking the boxes, but there are still two more techniques I want you all to master today.”

Severina leans toward Lily and asks, “Okay, silly goose. Need a hand?”

“No thanks; I think I’ve got it.” Bless Lily’s sharp mind; she quickly grasps the concept and starts casting random spells in sequence. Instantly, the box pops open with a loud bang, startling the other students once again. “What page did you find that on?”

“Just a quick mention in chapter four,” Severina replies, her tone bored.

Lily nudges her and whispers, “Go on then; help the others. Don’t be such a grump.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Severina stands up and struts over to the neighboring table where two Gryffindor boys are sulking.

“Alright, lads, listen up,” she says, addressing them. One boy scowls fiercely at his box, shooting her a sneer while the other watches with a reluctant interest.

“The first thing you want to do is rest your non-wand hand gently on the box’s surface,” Severina instructs. “Then, concentrate on spreading your magic outward in a thin layer so you can feel for any weaknesses.”

The scowler grumbles but reluctantly places his hand on the box, furrowing his brow as he grumpily tries to focus his magic.

“You’ll start to sense odd spots, almost like gaps in the magic sealing it shut. We call those the ‘chinks in the armor’ or ‘Achilles heels’—that’s where the locking charm is most vulnerable.”

The interested boy perks up. “I think I feel one! It’s flickering near the clasp.”

“Good boy,” she drawls, watching him sputter with embarrassment. “Now, try casting simple spells in quick succession around that spot. With a bit of luck, one should break through the defenses and unlock it.”

Severina glances over and catches Lupin's gaze. He looks lost in thought, fiddling with his robe. Surprisingly, the usual spineless enabler isn’t backing down; it’s like he’s searching for something, his eyes roaming over her freely. She tilts her head in a silent challenge, and Black, watching the whole thing, twists his face into a snarl. 

Potter immediately scowls, his cheek still bearing the mark of her well-aimed stinging spell—a nice blue bruise, swollen and glorious. Noticing that Professor Flitwick is distracted, she strides over to their table, her presence already ruffling their feathers.

“We don’t want your help, Snivellus,” Black spits.

“Now, now, no need for hostility. Let me break it down for those pint-sized brains of yours. A ‘chink in the armor’ refers to a weakness, got it?” She flutters her long lashes at him. “Just like the many openings Potter so ‘generously’ handed me during our duel.”

Potter flushes with anger. Black jumps in, “Bugger off, Snape, before we make you.”

Severina doesn’t even blink, her gaze locked on Potter. 

“How's that neck of yours, by the way?” she murmurs, cracking her neck dramatically to look at him. “Well enough, it seems.” She stands taller, flashing a tight smile. “Pity my ‘dark magic’ didn't claim it for good.”

Potter leans in, his voice low and threatening. “How was your little adventure in the forest after curfew?” 

Severina maintains her aloof expression, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. 

Black smirks at that. “Alone in the dark after curfew?” he says in a staged whisper. “Tell me, Snivellus, how’s that eye of yours holding up?” 

Before she can muster a response, his hand brushes her raven hair aside, his thumb gliding over the skin around her left eye. Severina’s breath catches—surprise and something else coursing through her.

She knows she should shove him away—if not for her dignity, then to banish the memories of their twisted past as lovers. A future she shouldn’t even entertain, especially not with this reckless, alcoholic, childish man who can’t seem to figure out what he really wants. Yet, in that moment, he stupidly reveals his soft underbelly, his gaze pulling her in as he tugs at a silky lock of her hair.

Taking advantage of the moment, she slips into his mind, sifting through his memories—easy, seamless, and completely undetected.

At breakfast, Potter nudges Black, a sneer on his face. “Pad, check out Snivellus chumming it up with Mulciber.” 

Black has been already staring in on her since she has been muttering to herself, furiously scratching at her notebook, fighting the urge to smoke. 

“Definitely a Baby Death Eaters meeting in progress,” he grumbles, gripping his spoon tightly. 

Severina dives deeper into his mind, peeling back layers. Last night’s memory snaps into focus—under Potter’sinvisibility cloak. Of course that twat has one, and of course he’s abusing it. Black and his band of misfits zipped through the castle’s hidden passageways, popping up in the kitchens just to eavesdrop on her conversation with Lily. 

Severina gently pulls back from Black’s mind, shaking off the chaotic visions. She sighs inwardly—did these fools really have no boundaries?

Once she’s steady, she tilts her head, freeing her silky hair from his grasp. Black frowns at the sudden loss but quickly smooths out his expression.

“Well enough, it seems,” he says, blissfully unaware of her little mental intrusion, echoing her earlier words. “Shame your dark magic didn't claim it for good.”

Not missing a beat, Severina flashes a sweet smile. “Stalking and spying? A bit creepy, don’t you think? I know your family has a flair for madness, but even that feels like overkill.” Her tone is light, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it.

Black smirks, leaning in with that signature arrogance. “You’re afraid. I can see it—you don’t like what we know.”

Severina lets out a delicate snort. “Don’t flatter yourself, mutt. You’re not nearly as clever as you think.”

“Perhaps,” he concedes smoothly. “But so are you... Natalia Brown, is it?”

Her reaction is immediate, flinching like he just landed a solid punch. The Marauders look positively giddy, like cats that just caught a mouse.

“Busted!” Potter chimes in, throwing an arm over Black’s shoulders, smirking. “Didn’t think we’d notice, did you? Guess you’re not as clever as you thought.”

Severina’s eyes narrow, and with a subtle Legilimency probe, she dives into Potter’s mind, catching a glimpse of their magical map with her altered name glaring back at her. 

“You’ve got me,” she replies dryly. “Snape sold his soul to the highest bidder. Me!”

Black’s hand shoots out, gripping her arm like a vise. “You’re not Snape. I know it. I don’t know how or why, but I know you’re not her.”

Severina meets his wild gaze with calm confidence. “I am Snape.”

Black’s eyes narrow, and just then, Potter steps in. “Ease up, mate. She’s just messing with us.”

Before anything else can happen, Professor Flitwick appears, his gaze locking onto Black’s iron grip on Severina. He shoots Black a stern look and asks, “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”

Severina flashes a sweet smile, brushing off the concern. “No, sir,” she replies, swatting Black’s arm away with barely concealed disgust. “We were simply discussing the charm.”

The professor’s doubt hangs in the air, thick enough to cut, but Lupin, who’s been quiet until now, suddenly pops open a box with a loud snap, drawing everyone’s attention.

Potter leans in, his voice low and intense. “So, what were you up to last night in the forest, you slippery snake? Is that why your eye looks like that?”

Severina flutters her long eyelashes in a mock display of innocence. “How did you know, Potter?”

Potter’s nostrils flare with irritation.

She then adds, deadpan, “Looks like our little duel might have scrambled that Gryffindor brain of yours more than I thought. Maybe you should swing by Madam Pomfrey to check if the last two neurones still firing in there are functioning properly.”

She spins on her heel and strides away, not bothering to look back. Her expression shifts to serious.

Severina’s on high alert; the fact that her old school nemesis knows too much is unsettling. On top of that, they’ve just been tossing out wild guesses, and she’s given them validation by not controlling her expression. At least, she reminds herself, they’re not the time-travelers screwing with the timeline. Small blessings.

Chapter Text

Severina stomps toward the Ancient Runes classroom, not bothering to look back. Irritation simmers just beneath the surface. Cold and collected, she refuses to crumble. She has to come up with a plan. It’s infuriating that those insufferable twats managed to stumble onto her secret, all because of their incessant entitlement and meddling. The idea of just casting Obliviate flits through her mind—simple and swift, really. Not that she’d need to chase after them; they’re practically on her heels, like a pack of mangy hounds sniffing for a fight.

But to pull it off, she’d need all four of them in one place to overpower them first. Then, Obliviate them into oblivion. And then there’s that nearly impossible fantasy of just obliterating the map itself. A cursed object like that is far too dangerous in the hands of arrogant gits like Potter and Black. She grimaces. No wonder they always seem to know her every move—the very thought makes her blood boil.

Sharing Ancient Runes with a select group from all four Houses has its perks—she’s finally blessed with a couple of blissfully quiet hours away from those insufferable Gryffindor prats. Even Lily has chosen Herbology over Ancient Runes, meaning she'll be stuck alone for the most part. But honestly, that’s not such a bad thing. It gives her a chance to think things over; maybe jot down some potion ideas or sketch out a few runic designs. A little peace and quiet is just what she needs, even if it’s not exactly what she’d hoped for.

When she finally reaches the classroom, she finds the door sealed tight with a note plastered on it. She scans the message, her lips curling in annoyance at the news—a fierce duel went down here yesterday, leaving the room in ruins. Fantastic. Apparently, no one got hurt, but repairs will take ages, which means they’ll have to find a new space for lessons. Just perfect, she thinks, frowning as she kicks at a loose stone on the floor. Now she has to trek all the way to the opposite side of the castle. Sure, Severina knows these corridors like the back of her hand.

Since her first year, she’s navigated these stone halls, always on the lookout for a place to hide when the weight of it all gets too heavy. There are certain alcoves and hidden passages she knows all too well—some filled with fond memories, others steeped in pain she’d rather forget.

She was a professor once, chasing after kids who couldn’t manage a curfew. And then there was that stint as headmistress, brooding and wrestling with nostalgia while trying to dodge the Death Eater professors’ ire away from the students. Her memories are a collection of jagged edges, mostly. But there are spots she can still recall with crystal clarity—like that dull nook behind the tapestry where she’d curl up with a book, escaping prying eyes, or the arched window seat high in a quiet tower where she’d watch the clouds drift by.

Fleeting impressions flash through her mind—a glimpse of her younger self (or maybe just her current self?) ducking into an empty room to hide tears, or the snap of a wand casting a hex at a tormentor in self-defence. She had seen plenty within these walls. But for all the pain, Hogwarts has morphed into her only real home over the years. More than that crumbling house on the outskirts of town they ended up in after that Christmas disaster, or her grandfather’s sad estate in some forgotten village in Russia—places she can barely remember now.

No, this draughty, memory-and-ghost-filled castle is her one constant in life, for better or worse. She owns it. Sort of. Her self-built cage, her home. She lets out a heavy sigh, watching her peers murmur about the unexpected change. Most of them are just annoyed about the extra walking, but for Severina, it’s just another disruption to her routine.

She joins the throng of students heading toward the tower. A migraine is pounding away at her brain, and all she wants is for this new room to have windows that filter out daylight—or at least not be so bright it feels like a spotlight on her headache.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches Avery arching an eyebrow—he’s standing to her left, close enough to catch the flash of her light-coloured eye, and judging by his reaction, he seems to recognise something. Internally, Severina curses. If another student can spot the lingering effects of dark magic, it won’t be long before the professors catch on, too. Avery’s always been an annoyingly perceptive bastard; it’s just like him to pick up on the subtle clues that everyone else misses.

She probes his mind with Legilimency, sifting through his memories and thoughts. Like any student who hasn't been taught the basic techniques of mental protection, his mind is left unguarded. What she finds is a jumbled blend of uncertainties; unanswered questions; and recent manifestations and symptoms of his Blood Curse that have recently started gnawing away at his lungs; There are letters from his mother, stuffed with words he wished he could ignore; and images of him composing answers he couldn’t bring himself to send. All of this was eclipsed by the ominous picture of his father's gravestone, which bore his name. ‘In honour of Edmund Florian Avery V. Nov 27, 1932 - Feb 1970,’ it read, followed by the inscription, Non Omnias Moriar, meaning ‘I shall not all die'; A haunting foreshadowing of Avery Jr.'s own fate years later. And a heavy lordship ring and a charmed box sat at his bedside.

Reaching up to touch and rub his neck, it's obvious that Avery has begun to notice the nagging feeling at the back of his brain and is attempting to alleviate the pressure of her presence. Thanks to the diversion, he is spared from pondering the spell she could have cast for the moment.

Exasperated murmurs and complaints about the long trek between classes resound all around them as the horde of disgruntled students surge onto the moving staircases. At the end of the pack, Avery falls into step beside her, not so much out of choice as because of the jam-packed conditions that prevent her from escaping. The rhythmic tapping of his cane against the stone echoes like a metronome as they climb. Severina notices he’s struggling a bit to maintain his usual suave pace. Maybe his leg is bothering him more than usual today, she thinks absentmindedly.

Then she shrugs it off. “Ned!” comes a blithe voice, cutting through the air. The owner, a Ravenclaw, slips in Avery’s otherside, casually linking her arm with his for support.

Severina shoots an appraising glance at the unlikely duo. Aurora Sinistra always leaves a striking impression with her deep-set, sharp eyes and thick lids. While she may not possess the devilish allure of her cousin Belladonna Zabini, who is naturally seductive, she is undeniably lovely in her own way. There’s a subtle poise about her that Belladonna infamously lacks.

It is clear these two were well acquainted—on a first-name basis, no less.

Severina combs through her jumbled memory to find any pertinent nuggets of information.
Aurora Sinistra—astronomer, astronomy professor—her mind supplies. They were once colleagues, but their connection was formal, brief, and purely academic, much like all her other relationships with her former coworkers.

She remembers that, because of certain familial ties, Sinistra was one of a select few non-Death Eaters who was able to maintain her job after the Hogwarts battle. Given the situation and Severina's notorious reputation as The Dark Lord's right hand, she had been predictably aloof and kept her distance.

Vaguely, she recalls that Sinistra had taken a week off for Avery’s funeral, conveniently coinciding with the chaos of the Triwizard Tournament, which gave the Astronomy professor a good two weeks to deal with everything. From the gossip, she even knew that Sinistra was the one who discovered his body, decaying in his father’s office. A whisky in one hand and a cigar that had slipped from his fingers, leaving a mark on the Parisian carpet.

Avery replies tonelessly, “Sinistra,” sounding completely bored. But there’s a flicker of softness in his usually stoic expression when she touches him, his hand giving hers a gentle squeeze. He looks more at ease than Severina has ever seen him, actually tolerating the physical contact without his usual tension or that disdainful edge.

Severina breezes past them, noting they’ve already slowed to match each other’s pace. They’re deep in conversation about something that, judging by Sinistra's tone, strikes her as morbidly horrifying, while Avery seems utterly delighted.

The classroom is half-library and half-workbenches, with rows of tables and chairs lined up beneath tall windows that look out onto the Herbology lesson taking place below. From a mid-row seat, she notices Charity waving enthusiastically “Severina, over here!”

The Hufflepuff stretches out easing the kinks out of her limbs. There are already a few slim tomes, parchment, and other random objects littered around the table. Her yellow-trimmed robe has been flung off carelessly over the chair next to her.

Severina rubs her temples where a dull headache is pulsing in time with her heartbeat. “Choosing a seat near the windows wasn’t the brightest idea today, I’m afraid,” Severina says wearily.
The bright sunlight streaming through the glass feels like it’s turning her headache up to eleven.

Undaunted, Charity beams and gestures dramatically to the view below. “But the Herbology lesson is pure entertainment! You never know when some poor student might get tangled up in an irritable Devil’s Snare!” Then she gasps, her eyes widening. “Wait, your eye! What happened?”

Severina plops down into the shaded seat with a grunt, rubbing her throbbing eye. “It’s from a spell I was tinkering with last night. If I can’t fix the side effects soon, I might have to report it—and deal with whatever fallout that brings.”

Not that she really wants to. She still needs to test the binding herself to understand the spell's limits. Yes, she can slip into any crows now, but mastering the art of staying awake while doing so? That’s still on the to-do list. Theoretically, she considers passing out during the slip just a cost of pushing her magic core to its limits—especially without a decent Pepper-up Potion to even things out.

Charity glances at her, all eyes and intrigue. “What kind of spell?” Her tone is tactfully blank—nothing like Lily’s brisk critique.

“A Binding spell, but it’s not as straightforward as it sounds,” Severina replies, keeping it cryptic.

“But those aren’t supposed to cause direct harm.” Before Severina can respond, a silky voice interrupts, “Snape, it seems, has a delightful knack for tiptoeing along the darker edges of magic.” Avery slides into the seat behind them, piercing Severina with his damnably intense stare. “An ordinary Binding spell wouldn’t leave such lasting effects,” he muses, nostrils flaring with interest. “I can’t help but wonder, what kind of dark creature did you ensnare with such a dark spell?”

“Why, Vlad, my crow, is definitely not a dark creature, if I do say so myself. Sharp eye you've got there. Anyway, who really gets to decide what counts as Dark magic and what doesn’t? A question for the philosophers.”

Charity says, lips twitching into a reluctant grin, “umm—the Ministry?”

Severina waves her off, “Boohoo.”

Avery shoots her a narrow look, as if searching for any hint of deception. When he finds none, he lets out a dismissive tut. “A crow? For a second, I thought you’d actually tried something intriguing. Alas.” With that, he shifts his attention ahead, clearly deeming her utterly boring.

Severina arches an eyebrow. “What, were you expecting a Hungarian Horntail?”

Sinistra chimes in “Crows are actually quite fascinating—an excellent choice for a familiar.”

She settles into the seat beside Avery, just behind Charity. “Intelligent creatures, really.”

Charity huffs, clearly annoyed. “He’s a prat, that one. But forget him—Severina, let me introduce you to Aurora Sinistra. Rory, this is my new dear friend, Severina Snape.”
Sinistra extends her hand. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you, Snape. I’ve heard quite the tales about your duelling exploits against Potter.”

Severina shakes her hand firmly. “The pleasure’s all mine, Sinistra.”

Sinistra props her chin on her folded hands, rapt with polite curiosity. “So how did you two meet?”

Charity grins. “Severina here was the one who found my darling Nibbles when he got lost in the forest.”

Severina grunts, and just then, the Ancient Runes professor sweeps into the classroom. Without even glancing at the students, he hangs his hat on the wall hook, already buried in his notes. “Good morning, everyone,” he says briskly. “Apologies for the late start. Now, if you’d open your Runes Lore textbooks—Mr. Johnson, do please confirm you’ve brought the correct edition this time. Alaric Silverthorne’s Runes Lore, page 207 to be precise.”

The room buzzes with the rustling of books and parchment as students scramble to find their seats. With a flick of his wand, the professor summons several long scrolls that roll out across the chalkboard. Squinting at the runic inscriptions, he starts, “Today’s lesson dives into what seems like a historical topic. But for those who really get Ancient Runes, it’s more about exploring the narratives lurking beneath the surface. We’re here to extract deeper cultural insights from…”

Severina finds herself gazing absently out the window, brushing off the occasional sensation of being watched, until a stack of papers plops down in front of her. It’s a set of exercises—half-drawn Runes to identify, correct, or complete. Professor Mistvale, a former Unspeakable, has this infuriatingly inconsistent knack for gauging the right level for each year. His expectations swing wildly between too high and too low, which is why most steer clear of his classes. He’s a bit all over the place, not exactly the picture of level-headedness. Today’s exercises are something that would pass for O.W.L.-level at best, but Severina knows four of them should be reserved for apprentices.

Professor Mistvale clears his throat and says, “You know the drill. This counts for 30% of your total. Group up or go solo—your choice. And Mr. Johnson, don’t even think about opening that book. It’s not an open book exam. You should know this stuff by now.”

Severina tunes out his nagging voice, grabbing a pencil to sketch and adjust the runic designs laid out before her. Behind her, she hears Avery grunting with Sinistra, deep in a debate about the implications of having two opposing symbols in the same circle without lines to separate them for question 13. Next to her, Charity is mumbling about the symbols in question 9, which she insists is the easiest. Clearly, she’s skipping the tougher ones to focus on what she can handle, occasionally throwing in her two kunts, earning herself snarky retorts from Avery while Sinistra gives him a firm nudge to keep him in check.

Severina warps up all the 30 questions, faintly amused by the chaotic range of challenges. She plops her head on her folded palm and closes her eyes. Mistvale will eventually have to tackle most of these, and he’ll make a fuss about it. In front of her, two groups have already thrown in the towel, huddled together, scavenging for any scraps of information to swap.

Severina cracks her eyes open, suddenly aware of the silence in her row. She glances over to see Charity eyeing her parchment. “You know, the professor’s going to have a problem with you using a pencil. Where’s your quill?”

“I don’t know,” Severina shrugs lazily. “We can be a group, if you want. Take my answers and rewrite them—just don’t forget to put my name on it.”

Charity looks at her, surprised. “You’re done?”

“Yeah. Here.” Severina slides her parchment over and shuts her eyes again.

“Severina, are you sure about your answers?”

“I suppose?” she replies nonchalantly.

Charity turns to Sinistra and offers her the parchment. “Is she correct?” Sinistra and Avery glance up from their work. Avery looks back at his notes but then does a double take and snatches the parchment from Charity. His eyes dart over the lines, searching for something, while Sinistra leans in closer, peering at the answers.

“Snape, what’s the source for number 12?” she asks.

“Waverly’s third law. Two Thurisaz in one row of protective warding cancel out the Wunjo in the same lines, which either requires a baseline alternative or—”

“Or adjust the Thurisaz away from the line with another base of a different kind,” Avery finishes. “How did you know that?”

“I know things.”

“I understand all those words separately.” Charity informs them.

Avery scoffs, “Marvellous. Mayhaps you’ll figure out how to string them together next.”

Charity tosses her blond curls and feigns surprise, “I didn’t realise zombies could be this annoying.”

Severina and Sinistra exchange a look as they hear Avery’s jaw clench in frustration. Maybe Charity knew exactly what she was doing; maybe it was just an honest mistake. But the image of a grave with Avery’s name flickers in Severina's mind, and she doesn’t need to peek into his thoughts to know he’s having the same vision. Sinistra with no doubt shares that mental image too—after all, they’re friends. Soundlessly, they reach an unspoken agreement and spring into action to defuse the brewing storm.

“Let’s review number 22; I’m not quite sure about it,” Sinistra suggests to Avery, while Severina tugs at Charity’s hand. “I’m thinking of changing my nail polish. How about a blue with little stars? Thoughts?”

Sinistra and Avery launch into another round of debate, this time centred on her answers. They’re asking all the right questions, and Severina can’t help but enjoy the back-and-forth, refreshing her memory and drawing new insights. It’s remarkable how they can counter solid evidence with equally solid proof. Surprisingly, they actually would look to her for answers, expecting her to weigh one point against the other.

“Do you have a study group?” Sinistra interjects, cutting Avery off. Severina pauses mid-paint on Charity's nail, much to the professor’s chagrin, and turns to Sinistra. “Not really. I used to study with my friend, Lily Evans—if you know her—but her subjects aren’t really my thing anymore.”

“How about starting a study group with me?” Sinistra suggests. “It depends on my mood. What’s your pitch?”

“We could team up for the project—just the four of us.” She shoots a stern look at Avery, and when she sees he’s not objecting, she continues, “It’s worth 40% of the total grade. Is Wednesday good for you?”

“I restock my potions on Wednesdays, and I’m at the duelling club six times a week. If Sunday evenings work for you, count me in.”

“Yeah, Sunday evenings are good,” Sinistra replies, glancing at Avery, who just nods in agreement.

“I told you,” Charity puffs at her freshly painted nails, inspecting for any missed spots. “Severina is really smart. I knew you two would hit it off.”

Seeing that Severina isn’t about to reclaim her parchment and is pretending to be sleepy, while Charity fumbles with her freshly painted nails, Sinistra lets out a sigh. Knowing Edmund well enough to realise he won’t do it himself, she grabs her quill and rewrites the entire thing.

The professor’s annoyance fades, replaced by pure awe. After eyeing the parchment for a solid five minutes, he nearly sheds a tear. “Good job, the four of you. Now this is an improvement. You’re the first to finish and the first to score the full 30%. Excellent work. 20 points for each of you.”

That earns Slytherin a solid 40 points, and Severina can’t help but feel a bit smug—she’s technically racked up 70 points in one day.

The professor pulls out a sleek metal pen from his pocket to jot down names. Sinistra, embarrassed by the fact that she forgot to include them, makes a vague gesture at the four of them. “Miss Sinistra, Mr. Avery, Miss Burbage, and...” He halts to stare at Severina. "Who are you again?"

It takes Severina an embarrassingly long moment to realise he’s addressing her. She looks up at him, stumped. "My name is Snape. Severina Snape.”

“Ah, Miss Snape, forgive me—I didn’t recognise you at first. You…” he shuts his mouth at that, then waves a hand dismissively, “Never mind that now.”

A few students snicker at the exchange, and Severina feels her cheeks flush with irritation, with embarrassment. Turning back to the board, the professor waves his wand, and the assignment materialises in elegant script. “Your homework will be five feet of parchment detailing the historical backgrounds and meanings of dragons and serpents as portrayed in the Ouroboros symbol, both in new and old warding. Pay close attention to the differences in how each creature is used for vindictive protection purposes. You are dismissed.”

James's gaze drifts out the greenhouse window, his eyes locking onto Snape, who sits in her classroom, lost in thought. One palm cradles her chin while the other lazily twirls a pen as she stares off into the distance, oblivious to the world around her.

James's lips curve in distaste, his eyes burning with scorn as he traces how her arms unintentionally flex beneath the properly tailored white button-up shirt, presenting an athletic, toned physique that seems to have sprung out of nowhere.
It's all wrong, every bit of it. She’d always been a scrawny, insipid little thing, and now… now she’s transformed into someone entirely different. One who exudes an air of effortless and un-Snape-like confidence and quiet power that gets under his skin.

It’s infuriating—how wrong it feels, how pretentious and fake it should be by all logic. But somehow, it’s not.

There's something downright cagey about her, now plainer than ever, and it's like a nasty itch under his skin. Snape's always been a slippery one, not weak like the rest of them—not really. He's got to hand it to her; she's always managed to hold her own in those dodgy hallway duels when the professors weren't looking. But what he saw during their last scrap was something different altogether. She's turned into a bloody nightmare, far cry from the awkward, rage-filled wreck she usually was.

(“It's in your very nature to hide behind numbers, knowing full well you would lose otherwise.")

She's shown her true colours, and they're as dark as they come. No tears in her eyes, just a cold, calculating ghost of a smile as she toyed with him and danced around him with an uncharacteristic grace that made his blood boil just thinking about it. And to rub salt in the wound, he couldn't even land a decent hex on her. Not even once.

Everyone's having a right laugh at his expense, the Slytherins he's run into today taking great pleasure in rubbing it in his face, sneering about how 'Snivellus Snape took him down a peg'. Even Evans couldn't help but crack a smile at the sight of him, and he can still see it; he still remembers the smirk on her face. It's not just the loss that's eating away at him; it's the fact that it was Snape of all people who did it. Whiny, always-playing-the-victim Snape, with her ripped to shreds nailbeds and greasy locks.

(“How can you live with yourself after everything you've put me through?”)

But here's the thing: Snape isn't really Snape. Not with the way she didn't bat an eyelid, not with the way she struts around with an insufferable smugness, not with the way she's suddenly dolled up in those... suspiciously decent clothes that reek of desperation, like she's trying to impress someone. And definitely not with the way she's suddenly blooming tall with health instead of being a scrawny, hunched-up mess.

(“Classist, entitled, and to top it all, a spineless coward. Choose a struggle, why don't you?")

Too many questions, and not a single bloody answer.

At last, he muses, fairly resentfully, she's given up being a helpless little victim and shown her true colours. About time, too—he's had enough of her bleeding-heart nonsense.

(“How does it feel to hide behind your own self-righteousness and hypocrisy?")

Earlier, when Snape's head cocked up, her gaze skewered him like an insect on a pin. It was as if she delved deeper into his skull than into his soul, dissecting his every thought, and her stare was a scathing indictment of his entire being. Unfit, unworthy, and utterly lacking. Fortunately, if there is any consolation at all, he wasn't the only one who thought this way. Remus acknowledged having an odd feeling when Snape gazed at him fleetingly with her eyes—like a mental itch that refused to scratch.

For a brief moment, he claimed, her eyes would deepen seemingly at random, and her demeanour afterward would briefly become less artificial. She has become unbearably chuffed—snarky, sophisticated, and completely unreachable. Untouchable, even.

("How does it feel? To be at someone else's mercy?") 

Sirius growls beside him as the Devil's Snare lashes out, its slimy tendrils creeping over his bare skin and snapping James back to reality. He leaps into action, bellowing "Incendio!" and torching the blasted plant until it recoils, hissing in defeat.

"Bloody hell, I loathe this class."

Sirius grumbles, irritated, "Tell me about it," yanking his dragonskin gloves higher.

But then his gaze shifts to Snape, and his expression darkens in an unmistakable way—a combination of bitterness, fury, and something else entirely—something nearly manic that only sodding Snape can bring out in him.

“Don’t you find it a bit odd?” Remus had mused one day. “How Padfoot seems completely fixated on her? His eyes are always tracking her; she’s the first person he looks for in any room.”

James had played it off with a casual shrug and a laugh, but of course he’d noticed. Deep down, it baffled him to no end. He’d always seen the way Sirius’s gaze would linger on Snape, how his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched tight. But what he couldn’t wrap his head around, even after all this time, was why. Why Snape, of all people, inspired that intensity in Sirius.

“What do you reckon Snape's hiding?” James asks quietly.

Sirius shrugs while looking straight ahead. At Snape. “Dunno, Prongs. But we’ll find out.” His voice carries that familiar edge.

“Oh right,” Peter suddenly pipes up, “I heard Evans say Sniv—“

Before he can finish, he yelps, his hand caught by one of the annoying vines. “Pad, help!” he cries, panicked. In a split second, James and Sirius whip out their wands. “Incendio!” they shout in perfect sync, blasting flames that toast the plant into submission.

Panting and wide-eyed, Peter stares at the angry red mark now circling his wrist and whines, “Ow, it’s itchy.”

From behind him Remus struds back from another student’s workbench; he gently takes Peter's arm to inspect the damage. “I told you to wait for me, Wormtail,” he chides him gently.

“It grabbed me! Not the other way around,” Peter defends himself, flailing a bit. With a wave of his wand and a whispered healing spell, Remus eases the irritation. Eager to get back to their investigation, James turns to Peter, impatience radiating off him. “Evans said what?” he prompts.

Peter takes a calming breath. “Oh right. Evans mentioned that Madam Pomfrey summoned her to keep an eye on Snape. To note any changes in her behaviour.”

The three boys stare at each other, shock written all over their faces. “She what?!” Sirius bellows, too loud. His outburst instantly draws the attention of nearby students, all eyes shifting to the four boys, halting their herbology work.

Remus shoots a sheepish look at the onlookers. “Sorry about that,” he mutters, elbowing Sirius with a pointed nudge. But Sirius just glares back at the curious faces, then snaps irritably, "Oh, sod off, everyone!”

Professor Sprout strides over, disapproval mires on her face. “Mr. Black, language!” she admonishes, “That’s ten points from Gryffindor.”

Sirius sighs, deflating under the weight of her gaze. “Apologies, Professor,” he mumbles, fighting the urge to roll his eyes.

The other students reluctantly turn back to their plants, stealing glances at the infamous troublemakers. Professor Sprout gives the boys one last warning look before continuing her rounds, as if daring them to cause more chaos.

Remus leans in, "What's the story with Evans keeping an eye on Snape?"

Peter's eyes light up, and he can't wait to spill the beans. "Yeah, I was borrowing McDonald's homework as Wormtai," he starts, earning an eye roll from Sirius.

"Oh, for Merlin's sake, get on with it, Wormtail," James cuts in, his patience wearing thin. "Right, sorry. So, I overheard Lily gabbing to Mary about Snape's potions disaster a few months back. That's when her behaviour started going off the rails," Peter continues, his words tumbling 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 supplies the answer with a hint of dry amusement. "Schizophrenia, Peter. It's a serious mental disorder. But I think you mean Dissociative identity disorder. She might actually think she's someone else."

"You don't seriously think Snivellus has finally lost the plot, do you?" James nods thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing in consideration. “It would make sense, though. The bird’s always been a few sandwiches short of a picnic. But we need concrete proof before we can start calling her completely barmy." He turns to Remus, his tone expectant. "What's your take on it, Moony? Got any ideas what's going on in that twisted mind of hers?"

Remus shrugs, his expression dry. "At least this rules out the ridiculous possession theory. Case closed, if you ask me."
Peter perks up at this, "But I thought the map—doesn't it factor in the person's magical signature or something?"

James gives a sly grin. "It does. Case reopened, mate."

"What if the potion actually altered her signature? Enough that the map thought it was worth noting."

Remus raises an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "That's an…interesting idea, Peter. I'm not sure, though... it seems a bit far-fetched. But if the potion was dark enough, it's possible it could've changed her signature."
James mutters under his breath, almost looking upset, "At least the professors were in on it."

Then his face splits into a cheeky grin. "I wonder what Evans scribbled about our dear friend Snivellus..."

Remus lets out a loud "Absolutely not!" but James is already grinning from ear to ear.

Sirius's own grin spreads wide, his eyes darting up to Snape's profile with a mischievous glint. "Absolutely yes, mate."

Sinistra shoots Severina a sideways glance, "That was bloody close, Snape."

Severina watches Avery storm off, his cane thumping against the floor like a drumbeat. She mutters, "I thought for a second he was going to Avada Kedavra her arse off."

Sinistra starts, "You know, his Blood Curse has always been a bit of a sore spot for him." Severina raises an eyebrow, reading between the lines—some half-arsed excuse, if you ask her. But she keeps her mouth shut for a moment, letting Sinistra continue, "Weeks ago, he was a bit more level-headed, but after the last deterioration, he's been getting more and more agitated all the time."

Severina's face sets in a hard line, her tone flat."He was a right prat, Sinistra. Curse or no curse, it doesn't give him a bloody free pass to act like a total arse and expect everyone to tiptoe around him."

Sinistra bristles, but she takes a deep breath, composes herself, and gives a stiff nod. Then she lets out a frustrated sigh. "How are we going to make this study group work without one of them murdering the other?"

"I reckon it'll take a shitload of cigarettes, a stack of colouring books, and a classroom with a view of the romantic spot, so they can bond over gossiping about the latest slag."

Sinistra lets out a derisive snort, just as Charity saunters up to them.

"If you're going to have a go at me for telling Lord Zombie where to shove it, can it wait till I've got my bloody music player handy?" Severin tunes down the bickering and opens a hand mirror—a gift from Lily—to examine her eye. She drops the Glamour Charm that was hiding it. One iris is the usual deep black, healthy as ever, while the other is a lighter shade, sensitive to light, with some red trim and tears. She wipes them away with her fingertip, smudging a bit of mascara in the process.

“You really ought to see Madame Pomfrey,” Sinistra chimes in. Severina only groans.

The hospital wing is buzzing with the usual parade of post-Quidditch casualties.

A few Gryffindor players are wailing from their beds like they’ve just faced a dragon instead of a practice session. Severina can’t help but roll her eyes at their over-the-top antics. Seriously, it was just a scrimmage—some of them really milking those minor bumps for all they’re worth.

In a little screened-off corner, she lies back as Madam Pomfrey works her magic. “What kind of trouble have you landed yourself in this time, young lady?” Pomfrey asks.

Severina puts on her best innocent face. “Nothing, I swear! I just woke up with my eye itching and watering terribly.”

Pomfrey’s wand lights up, casting a harsh beam that feels like it’s searing her eyelid. Severina winces; great, just what she needed.

“Don’t think I’m oblivious to your antics, girl,” Pomfrey warns, pausing mid-spell to frown at something on her parchment. Severina’s heart races as she scrambles to concoct plausible excuses. What if they found traces of dark magic? Oh, fantastic, just what she needed on her record.

“First of all, rude. Second, ouch—my feelings are officially crushed,” Severina quips.

“Good,” Pomfrey says dryly, a smirk creeping onto her face. After a moment, she hums thoughtfully. “Seems you’ve got yourself an allergy, likely from some potion ingredients. Nothing to worry about.”

Severina lets out a quiet sigh of relief. “An allergy, huh?”

Pomfrey glances at her parchment. “Light sensitivity. Does bright light make you want to scream?”

Severina nods, albeit a bit sheepishly. “Very much so.”

“This tonic should do the trick. Just avoid direct sunlight and remember to wear sunglasses,” Pomfrey instructs, her tone as no-nonsense as ever. “I’ll inform your professors.”

“Thanks, ma’am.” Severina says with a grin, feeling a bit more like herself and a lot less like a walking catastrophe.

Severina discovers that the sunglasses Pomfrey gave her—spherical, all-black lenses, and rimless—are surprisingly handy. With the light no longer bothering her, she can even sneak in a nap during class without anyone the wiser.

Best of all, her odd iris has returned to its usual deep black, finally giving her the chance to experiment with her magical sight without drawing attention.

Sliding the frames down her nose, she pulls a small mirror from Lily's open bag. She studies her reflection, her familiar, bottomless black iris staring back. She pauses, glancing around the room.

Lily is busy rummaging through the shelves, scanning book titles for references for her essay. The others look far too preoccupied to even notice her. In the corner, two Ravenclaws are engrossed in a game of Muggle chess.

First things first—she needs to get into position. She recalls how she once saw herself from the forest floor through a crow’s eyes, lying utterly still. Two theories dance in her mind: one, that she might just pass out if she tries it again; the other, and the more likely scenario, is that she’d stay upright this time—her last fainting was probably just due to the ritual’s aftereffects.

Severina adjusts her setup, using her bag as a cushion and pressing her side against the window. Then, she slides her sunglasses up to hide her eyes. Focussing her will, she slips into the crow, Lilith, and her vision splits—her right eye still sees Lily’s back as she reaches for a book, while the other immerses her in the crow’s perspective. In that eye, her iris gleams with a strange, lighter hue, and a grin escapes her at the thrill of it.

Closing her right eye, she fully embraces the crow’s view and wills it to take flight. It’s both beautiful and terrifying. Everything below shrinks to the size of ants scurrying about. She spots Hagrid gently coaxing an aggressive giant spider back to its lair, Dumbledore leisurely strolling along the Black Lake’s shore with his phoenix perched on his arm, its wings fluttering gracefully. Quidditch players zoom over the distant fields.

Outside, it's pleasant, balmy, and warm. It feels like her first unsupported flight—yet it’s entirely different. There’s no rush of air, just the steady rhythm of Lilith’s wingbeats lifting her high above the treetops.

“Why are you grinning like a fool?” Lily asks, setting her chosen books down on the table.

Severina doesn’t even bother to open her eyes. “I just love flying,” she replies, blissfully unaware of Lily’s serious expression.

“Severina, you hate brooms,” Lily reminds her, arching an eyebrow.

“Yes, I do.”

With a solemn look, Lily pulls out her light pink-coloured notebook and begins scribbling away. After a moment, she shuts the notebook and dives into her schoolwork without sparing Severina a fleeting glance.

As Severina spots Dumbledore busy basking in the warmth of the day, she gently commands Lilith to return to her, fully slipping out of the crow’s mind and back into her own. She adjusts her glasses to wipe away a few stray tears, then pulls out her notebook, murmuring the secret word. The notebook snaps open, its letters shimmering to life.

Inside, a list of timeline possibilities unfolds in a makeshift Russian code. She takes a moment to translate a few points before glancing at the redhead. “Lily, what year is this again?”

Lily pauses mid-sentence, her head turning a fraction, “Nineteen seventy-three.”

Severina gives her list one last look, then nudges the typewriter closer and starts typing rapidly. Though she’s unsure about her role, about being a spy again, about putting herself in the position of a pawn, at least she knows one thing: She can help on her own terms, without betraying anyone—or herself.

Chief Warlock,

In the year 1972, a faction of Death Eaters infiltrated the Ministry of Magic, employing blackmail and the Imperius Curse to manipulate and undermine from within. Augustus Rookwood, an Unspeakable, orchestrated a covert network of espionage, alarmingly effective in its subversion. To further instigate confusion and paranoia, they cast the Imperius Curse on dozens of innocent victims, compelling them to act in concert with his followers.

Additionally, Fenrir Greyback, lured to Voldemort's cause by promises of prey, became a weapon for the Death Eaters. They wielded him like a dagger, threatening to unleash his savagery upon the children of those who dared to resist.

Feldcroft is on the brink of a werewolf attack, anticipated between the 20th and the 25 of June. Nine adults will perish, and seven children will be transformed. Immediate intervention is imperative.

By 1975, giants had entered the conflict, wreaking havoc upon Muggle settlements across Wales—Llangynidr, Beddgelert, and St. Fagans, to name but a few—leaving devastation in their wake. This chaos ultimately led to the removal of Eugenia Jenkins from her post as Minister for Magic, succeeded by Harold Minchum, a hardliner who responded to the unrest with an increased presence of Dementors surrounding Azkaban.

Take heed.

She pauses, then signs the letter:

Yours, V.

For Vasilisa the Fair, a childhood nickname from her grandmothers in both lives. Strangely enough, maybe it’s the potion’s effect muddling her mind, or perhaps it’s true.

That uncertainty makes her half-hesitant about sending the letter, especially when considering whether to include details about the vampire's involvement two years later.

But she decides that her intel was sound—no danger to anyone, especially not to her. If Dumbledore takes it seriously, they could tackle half the issues stemming from the Ministry’s incompetence. It would certainly give her a better footing with him.

With a shrug, she folds the letter and stands, tossing out, “I need a reference,” before disappearing behind a bookshelf, where Lilith waits perched on the open window.

She attaches the letter to her and gives her a gentle pat on the head, praising her in singsong Russian, calling her the loveliest, the swiftest, the best of crows. Lilith may not understand a word, but she preens, stretching her elegant neck so Severina can stroke beneath her feathers and along her beak.

She strolls back to her chair, gearing up to slip into Lilith’s mind. As much as she loves her crows, she knows they can’t get through Dumbledore’s gauzy curtains.

“Where’s your reference?” Lily asks, causing Severina to pause. She remembers her half-baked excuse and shrugs. “I just remember that I’m the reference.”

Lily gives her a long stare before reaching for her pink notebook to jot something down. Severina misses the look on her face as she dives into Lilith’s mind, soaring toward the slightly ajar balcony of Dumbledore’s office. Red gauzy curtains greet her, and she veers left to slip through the gap. The air is heavy with the dizzying scent of burnt incense, thick like soup. There, she drops the letter right on top of his paperwork, then swipes the bowl of sherbet lemons to pin it down. With a snort, she nudges everything up an inch, just for the laugh of it.

He’s got to know she’s been there.

Concealed beneath his invisibility cloak, James waits patiently as McKinnon rises from her bed, idly flipping through the latest issue of Witch Weekly. She chuckles to herself over something she’s read before slipping out of the room, no doubt heading to the Great Hall for dinner. Once the coast is clear, James counts to ten, then reaches into the familiar green bag—Evans’ bag.

He carefully rummages through its contents until his hand lands on a pink notebook, a stark contrast to Evans' usual darker belongings. This must be the one Peter mentioned.

Flipping it open, he finds the pages mostly blank at first, but then his eyes catch a long list titled "Strange Things Sev Did"

Intrigued, he skims through the in-depth statements, raising an eyebrow at each new revelation. Swiftly closing the notebook, James tucks it safely into his robes and hurries back to the boys' dormitory, where the others await him with eager anticipation.

“So?” Sirius prompts, eyeing the notebook James is now holding.

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!”

James settles comfortably on the floor beside Sirius, who leans casually against his bed. Peter, unable to contain his excitement, perches on the fluffy duvet, peeking over James' shoulder. Remus drags a chair from his desk, crossing his arms with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. The list is extensive, marked with circles and shading around certain words.

Strange Things Sev Did:

• She looks at me emotionally when she thinks I’m not aware.
• She starts smoking, shows signs of alcoholism, and makes some uncomfortable jokes about death.

The last sentence is crossed out, yet still legible.

• She’s making friends with people she’d normally avoid in regular settings.
• Strangely violent outbursts; typically avoids conflict.

The last word is surrounded by a thick circle, as if the pen she was writing with had been squeezed hard enough to leave a visible trace.

• Called Edmund Avery the second smartest walking corpse (!) she ever had the displeasure of meeting (??)
• called that nutcase handsome(!?) bloody hell Sev!!

James snorts, glancing over at his friends. "Who do you think Sniv is fancying?"

"My wager is on one of the Lestranges," Peter says. 
Both Sirius and Remus make a face at that, and Peter adds defensively, “I bet she's trying to get close to the Lestrange's fortune!"

The list continues:

• Secretive, cranky, gifted, friendly, and charming, yet prone to sudden bouts of depression.
• Doesn't shy away from using an obvious accent or code switching in front of others. (Even the Slytherin!!!)
• Seems to have adopted a healthy lifestyle—eating healthy, taking potions, the whole shebang.
• Suddenly can do wandless, wordless magic without even realising or giving it a second thought.
• Claims she loves flying, even though she detests brooms, and had quit the flying course after the first year. She’s never even flown(!!!!)
• Speaks to herself.
• Thinks she’s a female version of a scapegoat antagonist in teen fiction who enjoys bullying kids and believes it would be a good idea to sacrifice his life to save the son of his first love that she had with his bully.
• She doesn't remember things correctly.

“It's official.” Peter announces, “Sniv has the—what that muggle thing again? Um– Necrophilia!”

At that, Remus just faceplams, groaning.

Chapter Text

Before he can fully process the situation, Albus instinctively knows what has occurred. At first glance, it may not seem like a blatant mess, but the disorder is unmistakable. Someone has deliberately rearranged his belongings in his office, moving everything precisely half an inch to the left.

His gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the bookcases, the trove of artefacts, the Pensieve, and the enchanted globe, before finally landing on his desk. 

There’s little evidence of a break-in—no magical traces in the air, nothing missing. Then he notices his paperwork, perfectly straightened and pinned down by the bowl of sherbet lemons he keeps nearby. Fawkes lets out a soft, questioning trill as he meanders around to investigate. Beneath the bowl lies a folded sheet of parchment. Albus taps it once with his wand, but once again, there are no spells or magical traces to uncover. He unfolds the sheet, and as he reads, his expression hardens.

Someone has infiltrated his school, slipping into his office without being detected, to leave behind unsettling yet crucial information regarding Tom’s scheme. The contents of the letter are disturbingly alarming, and he finds himself unsure of how to process them. 

The messenger, only known as V, has gone to considerable measures to conceal his handwriting with a typewriter, implying that he might be someone Albus knows well—or at the very least, someone who is easily identifiable.

He taps his fingers on the desk rhythmically, deep in thought. “Who might our informant be?”

Severina flattens her palms against the wall, squeezing her eyes shut as she tries to get Hogwarts to open the Room of Requirement. In her mind, she conjures a spacious, limitless room, shrouded in darkness. A room powerful enough to contain an unchecked Obscurus and its chaos, quiet enough to keep prying ears at bay. It’s the same room she and Dumbledore’s portrait created when he first began teaching her to master the dark force simmering within her.

The wall revealing a towering door that seemed to touch the ceiling, she darted a glance at Vlad. "This isn't a spectacle you should witness." 

She shudders at the thought of surrendering to that slumbering, dark anger. Though she has faith in her mental discipline and emotional equilibrium, she cannot shake the fear that, without warning, she might lose her grip on control. The very prospect is unbearable, for she has grown deeply attached to her familiars, every single one of them, in the brief span of two days. And Vlad, dear Vlad, though not her stallion, her once dearest companion, is close enough in name and spirit to be considered irreplaceable.

The crow croaks back at her, pecking her once, strutting back and forth on her shoulder, before soaring up to perch on a carved stone above the lush tapestries. 

She gives him one last look, then pushes the door open and steps inside. Just as she expected, the room is empty and limitless, filled only with unlit candles that stand ready. The only light comes from behind her, casting a shadow of her shape that dances along the floor. As she steps further in, she feels the door vanish behind her, plunging her into darkness.

She flicks her wand, and just like that, all two hundred candles burst to life in a single breath. With a wave, she rearranges them into a neat circle, about ten feet wide. Settling down in the centre, Severina folds her legs beneath her and slips into a meditative position.

She starts to compartmentalise her mind. It takes time to be Natalia, to be Severina, and somehow to be both. She’s both, in a way. The warmth kisses her face, but all she feels is the cold, bone-deep, and stinging. She breathes in and out, repeating the rhythm. Calm washes over her, free of the shields that usually weigh her down.

Her thoughts turn to all the things she had lost, all the opportunities that had slipped through her fingers like sand in an hourglass. She envisions her father, Toby (not John), lounging with a cigarette dangling from his lips, his eyes half-lidded as he mouthed a tasteless jest. Her mind's eye then falls upon her mother, Eileen (not Elizabith), huddled in a dark corner of their dilapidated home in Spinner's End, her gaze darting about the room, unfocused and desperate. But as she looked upon the faces, the sting of regret dissipated, replaced by an air of acceptance.

"Come, Rina," Eileen said, her hand reaching out to claim her daughter's. "I will teach you how to shield your mind, to protect it from the darkness that lurks without."

Memories of Lily flood her mind, the two of them playing at the river's edge, mud-stained and carefree, with the gloomy sun casting an eerie glow from beneath the fog-shrouded sky. And then there was John, her other father—or was he her true father?—his eyes shining with a soft light, his lips curled into a gentle smile as he whispered, "That's my daughter."

She casts her mind back to her inaugural day at Hogwarts, those fleeting weeks of unbridled joy before the Marauders had deemed her their plaything. She recalls her tentative foray into friendship with a classmate, only to be rebuffed when he grew wary of being targeted by association with her. The memory of that sting, of being rejected, still lingers, though the boy's face had long since faded from her memory. 

Her thoughts then turn to her succession of Olympic medals, one after the other, yet with each victory, the thrill of triumph slowly began to wane, its allure lost in the haze of repetition. 

And then, there was Lucius, his smile condescending as he gazed down at her. "You created this?" he asked, doubtful. But she had refused to back down, her chin raised in a defiant gesture that had, to her surprise, amused him. "What if I did?" she had retorted, her voice biting. To which he had replied, his eyes glinting with approval, "Then you are a genius." 

She had been pleasantly stunned. 

When it came to spotting potential points of vulnerability, Lucius had a remarkable knack for timing his words perfectly. So he gave her the one thing she had always craved: approval. For the first time in her life, she felt seen, heard, and understood. 

He had remade her, and she was forever changed, never to recover from the transformation. Lucius had peeled away the tattered layers of Cokeworth that had shrouded her like second skin. Although she was not oblivious to the fact that he had manipulated her, exploiting her deepest desires and insecurities, she was too enthralled by his silver-tongued words, too besotted to mind the truth. 

Perhaps this was her curse—to be blinded by her own emotions, time and again. First, her ire at Dumbledore's wilful ignorance had clouded her judgement, then her jealousy had consumed her, followed by the crushing weight of injustice. Desperation had driven her to seek solace in academic life, to be appreciated and valued by the Death Eaters. And finally, guilt and self-loathing had become her constant companions. 

She recalls the vivid image of blood pooling beneath her, the eerie silence of the dungeon shattered only by the sound of her own ragged breathing. The sharp pain. The smell of the poisonous dark potion that had ripped the foetus away from her. 

It was for the best, she had told herself, a mantra of self-preservation. 

In the secret recesses of her mind, she had named the child Ilya, but she had brutally suppressed the thought, extinguishing the tender flame of hope. 

For a fleeting moment, she'd lost her grip on reality, wrapping her arms around her own body, her hands brushing against the still-flat belly. 'Let him be born,' she'd whispered to the god, her voice barely above a whisper. 'Let him grow up to walk, to pick up his first wand, to chase his dreams, to see sixteen, and twenty, and fifty. Let him grow as tall as his father, as my old man, as cunning as I, and for Merlin's sake, don't let him make the same mistakes I did. Make him happy, make him good, make him free. Please, please, please.’ 

The words had spilled out like an unanswered prayer, like an unheard plea, her eyes welling up with tears. Then she'd snapped out of it, pulled herself together, straightened her back, composed herself, and began working on the potion. Vaguely, she had wanted that baby, but she knew she couldn't keep it—not in her line of work, not in a life where danger lurked around every corner. If she had kept it, she would have had to give it up for adoption, and the thought was too painful to bear. 

The potion had tasted like poison, hot and stirring, and it had sunk into her womb like a dark curse. 

She'd bled and bled and bled, but she'd felt nothing of it, too deep in her Occlumency, layered and layered on top of her like a fortress. She'd sunk deeper, filling imaginary pockets with imaginary stones, retreating into the darkest pit of her own mind, where no one could bloody well reach her.

After that, Dumbledore's gentle hands had guided her out of the workbench to her quarters, whispering sweet nothings to her broken heart, trying to coax her back to the surface out of Occlumency fortress. She'd let him, of course, because even in her darkest moments, she knew she needed someone to hold her together. She had a duty, a responsibility, a promise to keep. 

Madam Pomfrey had come, a handful of vials of Blood-Replenishing Potion clutched in her hand. "You were too far along in the pregnancy for the potion to be safe," she had said. Her tone was one of quiet, pensive understanding, with no hint of condemnation or blame. “You won't be able to conceive again. I’m sorry, Severina.” 

Severina's heart, however, stayed impassive, her feelings as arid as dry as the Hogwarts' castle walls. She had once entertained the notion of motherhood, of doing better, of having someone to call her own, but it was a girlish fancy, a fleeting dream that had vanished like morning mist. She was a bloody spy, first and foremost, and she couldn't afford to show a single crack in her armour, she had reminded herself. No room for sentiment, no room for weakness. But she wept anyway. 

Fate had a twisted sense of humour. Black's little stunt, clearing his own name and getting recognised as the last lord of the Black family by the Ministry; by doing so, he'd inadvertently blown her secret. 

That's how Dumbledore caught wind of the pregnancy: Potter and his merry band had gathered in front of the Black Family tapestry. It was then that they noticed it—the name "Ilya," embroidered in golden thread, glaring back at them, wedged between her name and the once-blasted-off name of his godfather. The little brat made a fuss about it in front of the entire Order, drawing attention to something that should have remained hidden. His outcry grew louder when Ilya's name began to fade away, just like his father's had, leaving behind only a cold, empty grey space, no dates of birth or death, nothing. 

Unshed hot tears sear her eyes. It stings, it stings, it stings, it stings. 

For an instant, Natalia-now-Severina's breath catches in her throat. Her skin crawls with revulsion. She rips her mind free from the shameful memories, redirecting her thoughts with a desperate intensity. She conjures up images of Lily, alive and unscathed, smiling under the sun. Her father—Toby, not John—was lounging on the couch, lost in the pages of a Sci-Fi novel. Her mother—Eileen, not Elizabeth—bustled about the kitchen, brewing a pot of ginger tea that was almost too spicy to bear. And then there is Vlad, her beloved crow, its bluish inky feathers a stark contrast to the horse that haunted her wishful dreams. It is easier, she finds, to imagine herself sinless, free, and happy—to pretend that she's a different person.

The overstuffed, Obscurus-laden magic core begins to exhale a waft of black rot, the smell of ozone snuffing out the candles like they’re nothing, while those further away remain untouched. Then she starts to float, lifting herself up. Her hair spills around her like a dark halo, and an ozone-charged wind whirls about her. Slowly, her body has started to shimmer and blur, as if she is on the verge of Apparating, but she maintains her composure. Her breathing becomes more rhythmic, a calm, steady pulse that appears to synchronise with the ambient magic's thrumming.

The coldness seizes her, pressing pins-and-needles numbness, and she erects her Occlumency walls like armor. If there were any walls around her—or anything, really—she knows she’d be smashed to pieces, with broken bones, bruises, shattered furniture, and maybe even a few bodies lying around.

Once again, Hogwarts magic has proved itself to be resilient, unyielding, and unbeatable. It defies the rot-laden magic churning in the air and stands firm against the ozone-charged wind. 

Dragging the Obscurus closer, Severin coaxs it to sink its dark teeth into her. At the same time, she grasps it firmly, tightly, willing it to let loose in all its wrath, to burst with a wretched force that would fill the room to the brim with the stench of something genuinely repugnant. 

The air grows heavy with the stench of rot and decay, thick with the promise of an impending storm, making Severina's eyes water and her stomach turn. 

As she stands there, her breathing is slowed to a crawl, her shoulders easing out of their tense knot. 

Though it is no longer the dominant force that foiled the Obscurus; something that resembles anger-remorse-fear is there, seething barely below the surface. 

For the first time in what feels like an eternity, she is finally letting go, finally shedding the chains that had held her back for so long. 

Severina's eyes fly open, and she is greeted by a world gone dark, the air thick with an oppressive weight. She retches, and a stream of blood and stomach acid poured out, the stench of it hanging in the air like a miasma. She wrinkles her nose in distaste, the wind has died down, leaving only the heavy, acrid scent of the storm to linger.

Her body hangs suspended in mid-air, weightless and restless, surrounded by a sea of candles that have been snuffed out by the turbulent gusts. The faint smell of smoke wafts up from the wicks. With a mere flicker of her thought, the candles flare back to life, casting flickering shadows on the faraway walls. At first glance, Severina's body seems to shift and writhe like a living thing, her skin taking on a dark, oily sheen that signals her first step towards mastery of the Obscurial form.

She gazes down at her feet, where a mess of blood, stomach acid, and what was left of her dinner lies in a vile puddle.

Sweat drips from her forehead, matting her hair into a sticky, tangled mess that clings to the back of her neck and plasters itself across her face like a damp shroud. She swipes at her sweat-drenched bangs with the back of her hand, her eyes squinting against the sting of salt and fatigue. With a muttered curse, she casts a warming charm over her chilled skin. The warmth seeps into her bones, banishing the clamminess and leaving her feeling marginally more human.

She remains crouched mid-air for a time, recovering. The Room of Requirement, sensing her need, provides her with a glass of water, which she seizes.

A swish, a spit. Then she shakes the glass, watching as it refills with a quiet murmur of magic, and she takes a greedy set of swallows, feeling the cool water wash away the bitter taste of exhaustion. A nonverbal Accio summons her bag, which appears at her side with a soft thud. She rummages through it, her fingers closing around the half-filled bottle of Extremities Pepper-up potion. She downes the entire thing in one swift motion, feeling the potion's familiar buzz coursing through her veins. The empty bottle is tossed aside, lost in the shadows, as she finally drops back down to the floor, her legs trembling with fatigue.

She conjures a labyrinthine maze, walls towering and impenetrable, twisting and turning in impossible ways. The Room of Requirement begins to change: candles melt into the ground, walls rise, and stone blocks slot into place with a shy, ringing click. Severina waits, recovering, while the chamber finishes its last touches. She feels eerily calm, at ease. 

Severina's hand, still partially insubstantial, traces a slow, gentle path along the wall's surface, her fingertips grazing the solid stone as if testing its texture. And then, her finger sinks into the wall; the Obscurial fully mastered form allows her to interact with the physical world without physical contact. She holds her finger in place for a second, two, and three. Then, with a quiet determination, she pushes her body forward, intending to phase through the wall. But instead of a smooth, effortless passage, the wall responds to her presence by shattering, its stones crumbling beneath the pressure of the invisible force. 

It is a far more challenging feat than directing her hand, as she had during the Charms class; this time, her entire body is a conduit for the magic, and it takes all her concentration to control its wild, instinctual power. 

Inhales. Exhales. Repeats.

The next wall yields, though not in the way she anticipated. Quietly, hours drift by. Eventually, the day ticks by, unnoticed. 

Worn out, she visualises a nice, comfy queen-size bed and then turns the room into a frigid one. Her vision is already sluggish and muted.

The room is dingy and dark; the members of the Order gathered around a long table, illuminated by the flickering light of a single oil lamp. Shadows dance over their faces as the letter is passed from hand to hand.

Diggle shakes his head, replenishing his wine glass. "Merlin's beard, Harold Minchum as Minister of Magic? It's a catastrophe in the making, mark my words! The Ministry's lost all sense of reason, entrusting that blighter with the highest office in the wizarding world."

"I daresay, if we take this warning to heart, I fear only Minchum would be rash enough to respond to the unrest by unleashing yet more Dementors upon Azkaban. Either him or, heaven forbid, Crouch himself—those two would stop at nothing to maintain their grip on power, no matter the cost to our world."

“Rookwood,” Elphias Doge repeats, his voice slow and measured. He folds his hands in front of him, adding “Blimey. He killed his cousin, either directly or indirectly, if we think it through.”

Sturgis Podmore's eyes scrutinised the parchment. "Indeed, if the allegations are proven true... but for all we know, this information is naught but speculation, or worse, a malicious fabrication. We cannot take it as fact until we've conducted a thorough investigation.”

Moody's gruff voice interrupts the silence, his words accompanied by the clinking of his battered metal flask as he takes a swig. "Then we'll catch him red-handed, by thunder.”

Aberforth looks across the table at him. “I assume you have no idea who this V person is.” 

There’s a short moment of silence, stretched thin and deafening with tension. Albus meets his gaze. “No. I found it pinned in my desk, without a trace of magic or any sign of a break-in.”

“Curious,” Dearborn glances attentively. “What if it’s a trap?”

Moody takes the letter from him, examining it closely. Albus watches him intently, trying to gauge his reaction as he says, “The school wards are tightly locked; I reviewed them myself. No signs of a break-in, which means this person must have someone inside the school to pass on the message—someone who knows my office password.”

“The prophetic perfect tense,” Sturgis mauses, contemplating, then he barrels on. “Is describing future events so certain they’re spoken of in the past tense, as if they’ve already occurred. Perhaps our informant is a seer.”

"I entertain the notion," Albus murmurs, his eyes narrowing in thought.

Moody grunts, "Either way, we've got two weeks until the twentieth of June. If Rookwood's a mole, we can assume his entire circle's compromised. We should move on him before the twentieth, at least. Gives us a chance to take care of Greyback."

Elphias's brow furrows. "We can't afford to stretch our resources too far, not when we're already operating on a shoestring. This V hasn't given us a specific date, after all. Five days of waiting for something to happen is a futile exercise, considering the possibility of an attack occurring elsewhere, or worse, this intelligence being nothing more than a clever ruse to distract us from something far more sinister.” 

Aberforth points out, "Portkeys, if need be. Unauthorised, even if that's what it takes."

"Indeed, if Greyback is leading the assault. He must be brought down. He’s a wild and ruthless sadist who takes pleasure in committing atrocities for his own twisted amusement without the care or regard of others. If we can take him down, I doubt any other werewolf would dare follow the Death Eaters' bidding. And even if they did, none would be as menacing, as terrifying, as Greyback himself."

Wilhelm doesn’t pay attention at first; too bloody busy trying to swindle Rosier, who is being annoyingly perceptive today, unlike his usual oblivious self. He adjusts his card, trying to maintain his poker face. 

A quick glance at his hand reveals motley crew: three peasants, two farmers, two wizards, and a lone scholar. Meanwhile, Rosier's got a more impressive lineup: one jester, four knights, and a king. Wilhelm knows this because he'd discreetly marked the hazardous cards earlier, before allowing Black to deal them out before the younger Slythrien sulked away to the corner to bury his nose in a book. 

But then Slughorn lets out a sound that is both scandalised and panicked: "What do you mean she hasn't been in your dorm for two days?" 

Wilhelm's ears perk up at that. He glances over to see Flint fumbling in front of Slughorn and the Head Girl. 

Flint stops her fumbling; her face suddenly twists in annoyance. "I'm not Snape’s keeper," she snaps. 

“Even so, you are her roommate, it’s your duty to report her absence.”  

Flint flushes. 

That catches Wilhelm's attention, and he looks over to see the professor rubbing his face like he has a sudden headache. The Head Girl, on the other hand, looks like she was about to have a nervous breakdown. "What if she was sleeping in another's room? Maybe—" she trails off.

Just then, Narcissa Black, the new prefect, pipes up, "I'll ask around the dormitory." 

The door creaks open, and a sniffy, cold-faced Faucheux slithers in, his eyes darting between the three, sizing them up. His gaze finally comes to rest on Slughorn's bloated face, and he gives a curt nod. "Professor," he says, his voice as smooth as a snake's belly, "I've received word that Miss Snape has seen fit to break the rules. Not just once, mind you, but twice. And to top it off, she's been playing truant for two days, with no explanation, no excuse. And if that weren't enough, there's a whisper that she's been out of the castle itself."

Ah, Wilhelm muses; that’s why I never spotted her in classes or lounging in the Great Hall. But where on earth could she be?

Slughorn's face goes pale, his jowls sagging like a great sorrowful hound. "Now, now, Professor Faucheux, I'm sure Miss Snape... well, considering her... delicate health, she must have a perfectly reasonable explanation for all of this. We simply need to... ah... find her; yes, that's it."

Faucheux's nose twitches, his face a mask of contempt. "Being dosed with a semi-dark potion doesn't give Miss Snape carte blanche to flout the rules and break them with impunity," he spits out.

Slughorn's already pasty face turns a shade paler, his beady little eyes darting around the room, taking in the fact that the whole bloody common room is watching this little drama unfold. Even Malfoy, languid, leans forward in his chair, his face a blank mask, his pawns on the chessboard moving of their own accord.

Slughorn shoots Faucheux a sharp, pointed look, silencing him, and gestures for him to follow him outside. Before he beats a hasty retreat, he casts a sidelong glance at the Head Girl; his voice has an urgent note in it: "Ask her friend... ah, Miss Evans." 

Wilhelm slams his card down. "I'm out of this bloody game."

Rosier smirks, eyeing Wilhelm's card with a condescending gaze before laying down his own. "Oh, off to sulk somewhere, I presume?"

Wilhelm shoves his stuff into his bag, "To find Snape, since this game's gone stale."

Rosier arches an eyebrow, crossing one leg over the other, his pale eyes fixed on Wilhelm like a hawk. "I never pegged you as a gossipmonger. You're a coin artist, certainly, but not a gossipmonger." 

Inwardly, Wilhelm winces, realising Rosier's caught on to his card-marking tricks. Another reason to get out of there. He forces a practiced, coy smile, "Coin artist? Sod off, Rosier. Don’t you dare slander my good name." 

Of course Rosier makes a face at him. 

He slings his bag over his shoulder. He adds, "Snape's my favourite smoking companion, my only go-to potion supplier.” And, he thinks, she's bloody hilarious when she's in a good mood, spouting off a load of utter wacky rubbish about how she conveniently forgets her feminist ideals to capitalise on dim-witted pure-blood witches and their subliminal insecurities born from trying to live up to the impossible standards of their hierarchical gendered society by sneakily peddling her indecently expensive scratch-made cosmetics. Whatever that load of bollocks means. Wilhelm should probably be offended that she's taking his cousins for a ride, but no, he's too bloody entertained by her smug, self-satisfied attitude to give a damn.

People have this weird idea about him—that he's some kind of airheaded, forgetful, happy-go-lucky bloke despite being a Slytherin. It works in his favour, most of the time. People seem to like him better than his fellow Slytherins, even if they don't always take him seriously. The thing is, he never actively tried to deceive anyone; people just led themselves on, and this image of him just sort of... built itself. And he never bothered to correct it. 

But Severina Snape, she's not having any of it. She saw right through him; she snorted unseemly at his jests and tricks, at his impromptu on-the-spot comments, at the made-up trash he spewed forth because he was bored. 

On the other hand, Snape herself has a nasty public image, all sharp-tongued, poor, awkward, and just plain unpleasant. There's this other side to her, this all-too-real, yet unfortunately unfamiliar side, where she's restless, smart, compassionate, and a right old asshole. just a strange person, overall.

Rosier's fiddling with the cards, collecting them with a flourish, and then shoving them back onto the table. He follows closely behind, his eyes—hawkish and pale blue—fixed on Wilhelm. "Where do you think she went, then?"

Wilhelm gives him a cheeky grin, repeating his jab, "Why, Rosier, I never pegged you as a gossipmonger."

Rosier shoots him a look.

Wilhelm launches into a theory, just as the door slides open: "Either she's experimenting in one of the unused classrooms, peddling her overpriced homemade cosmetics to those dim-witted pure-blood witches who can't stop trying to live up to the impossible standards of their bloody, hierarchical, gendered society—her words, not mine—or she's lurking in the Forbidden Forest. And I'm not going to sugarcoat it; I think she's probably out there, banging her head against a tree or getting kidnapped by those bloody giant spiders."

The door slides open, revealing the two professors pacing back and forth. "Sir," Wilhelm says, addressing Slughorn, who looks up at him, "I couldn't help but overhear you earlier. About Severina going missing."

Slughorn shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking like a guilty little toad. "Mister Wilkes, Mister Rosier. She's... ah, don't worry about her."

"Did you check the Forbidden Forest?" Wilhelm suggests, cutting in. That catches Faucheux's attention, and he sniffs, "Of course that girl would break yet another rule. The Forbidden Forest, you say?"

Panic starts to rise in Slughorn's eyes. "Forbidden Forest! Oh my..."

Wilhelm cuts in, "Just a suggestion, Professor. I'll go check out her workshop; maybe she's lost track of time... again."

Slughorn's eyes light up, hopeful. "Her workshop?"

Wilhelm gives a slight nod, "Seventh floor. Or, you know, the Room of Requirement. If she's feeling particularly... adventurous."

Faucheux's face scrunches up like a prune, and Wilhelm can barely keep a straight face. He counts to ten, his lips twitching with amusement, trying not to burst out laughing at the one-sided rivalry between the professor and a student half his age. 

"I'll go take a look," he offers, trying to sound polite, and then turns to leave. Rosier falls into step beside him.

"Fuck," Wilhelm mutters under his breath.

Rosier shoots him a sideways glance. "So you do think she's lurking in the Forbidden Forest, eh?"

Wilhelm shrugs, "Who knows, mate? She's unpredictable. Chaotic, that one." 

A tiny voice in his head starts whispering about the Gryffindor lot maybe doing something to her. Potter, that little prat, always looks like he's about to burst a blood vessel whenever he sees her. The loser can't handle being outsmarted and outmanoeuvred by a Slytherin, especially Severina, whom always fires back at him, never backing down from a fight. 

Wilhelm squashes the thought, refusing to entertain the idea. No way, not after he's faced her in a duel himself. He knows firsthand what she's capable of—ruthless, cunning, and just impossibly good. 

He slips into Severina's workshop, expecting to find it locked down tighter than a Gringotts vault. But the place is empty, and he can tell she'd been working on something before she vanished. The cauldrons are scattered about, unwashed and abandoned, and several phials are missing. He runs his fingers around the rim of one of the cauldrons, feeling for any residue, and then takes a sniff. "Hmm, Pepper-up potion, if I'm not mistaken."

Rosier's voice comes beside him: "Whatever for?" His pale eyes are darting all over the chamber, taking in every detail, and finally coming to rest on the shut, tall arched window where a crow is ruffling its wings, looking like it is waiting for something—or someone. 

He gives the bird a once-over, his eyes scanning it closely. However, he loses interest as soon as he realises it isn’t that bloody nightmare of a crow that always lurks in the shadows, watching Severina's every move like a dark omen. Vlad is a menace that even the owls fear. A big bird, bold and surly and scruffy, utterly without fear. It would cruise him or any other poor sod who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time out, spewing out filthy obscenities in Russian. Severina had been kind enough to translate the bird's venomous words for him, and he'd even offered to teach Vlad a few choice curses of his own. 

He turns back to Rosier, ignoring the slight tapping at the window. 

At the end of the corridor, he spots Vlad strutting back and forth on the metal rod that held the lush red-and-gold tapestries. The bird sounds almost scandalised; its pacing is frantic until it catches sight of him. “Fool, fool, fool!” it caws. 

Rosier crouches as the crow flies over him and hops onto Wilhelm’s shoulder with a thumb and scrabbling of claws. “Bloody hell.” Rosier straightens up, “Is it yours?” 

Wilhelm rummages through his pocket for a snack. “Snape’s. Once he gets used to you,” he tells him, amused, “he’ll assign you a name that’ll make you want to throttle the blighter, consequences be damned.” He fishes out a nut biscuit, peels it, and offers it to the crow, who nearly takes off his fingers in the process. 

Wilhelm yelps, “You little bastard!”

The crow agrees, "Bastard, bastard, bastard." Then, its mocking laughter abruptly ceases, and it stands stock-still, its beady eyes fix on the wall with a rapt, single-minded intensity. The two Slytherin exchange a glance. Suddenly, the wall slides open, revealing a wooden door. A moment later, Severina emerges from it, her hair damp and tousled as if she'd just stepped out of the shower, her cheeks flushed with a delicate rose hue, but her face is deathly pale and her eyes are puffy, as if she'd been ill for weeks, or, he thinks, she'd been crying. 

"Severina," he calls out, and her eyes, dark and deep as a midnight sky, snap up to meet his, a flicker of surprise dancing across her face. Rightfully so, he never sought her out; their paths merely crossed in the kitchen, where they'd pilfer sweets and coffee, or in the Forbidden Forest, where they'd smoke until the centaurs chased them off.

"Wilhelm?" She glances at him through thick, luscious eyelashes, then her eyes slide to the crow, its feathers ruffled and its demeanour as grumpy as Severina herself, perched on his shoulder. “And Vlad,” she says, her voice low and husky, and as if on cue, the bird takes a short flight, its great wings casting shadows before it lands on her shoulders, claiming its rightful place beside her.

She snatches the remainder of the biscuit, and he can't help but accuse her half-heartedly, "Thief!" 

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a half-grin as she offers the pilfered snack to the crow, which, in a fit of schadenfreude solidarity, caws in agreement, "Thief, thief, thief!"

Severina takes a bite, her eyes drifting downward as she savours the snack. "I think I haven't eaten anything since..." She trails off, her brow furrowed in thought, "six hours?" 

Wilhelm's scoff is immediate. "Six hours? Where have you been? You vanished for two days."

Severina's eyes widen in shock, her gaze darting from Wilhelm's serious face to Rosier's, whose natural deadpan expression only adds to the gravity of the situation. She seems to notice Rosier for the first time, her eyes flicking back and forth. Eventually, she asks, "What?" 

Wilhelm scrutinises her, searching for any sign of deception, while Rosier takes pity on her. "You were missing for two days, Snape," he explains, his tone measured. "The professors and prefects were searching for you. I believe they're still looking, actually."

Severina's response is immediate, "Fuck."

“Fuck,” cries the crow, “fuck, fuck.”

“You aren’t helping.” Severina swats the bird away, "How bad is it?" 

Wilhelm's tone is dry. "Slughorn seems to think your potion accident is the root of all evil, which, by the way, the entire common room is aware of thanks to Faucheux's incessant blathering. Are you on something, Severina?"

Severina gasps, "Of course not!"

Wilhelm's fingers weave quotation marks in the air. "What's this...semi-dark potion you're supposed to be dosed with?"

Severina's face darkens. "I'll throttle that pasty wanker with these two hands, I promise you."

The crow, sensing her ire, takes up the refrain, its voice a low, menacing caw."Wanker, wanker, wanker," it cries, its beady eyes glinting with a frightening severity as it glares down at them.

“I’d love to see that,” comments Rosier, his tone has an intense quality to it. 

Severina snorts, then she amends her promise with a rueful tone, "I'll throttle the pasty wanker verbally.”

Rosier repreats with intent, “I’d love to see that” 

Pale eyes lock onto black ones, and Wilhelm's gasp is scandalized, "Are you two flirting?"

They both turn to face him, their expressions flat and similar. It’s eerie. They should have a grand time scowling and sneering at people together. He raises his hands up, palms out, placting.

“I was sleeping,” she tells them as they start moving to the dungeon. 

“Here, here,” Wilhelm's hand comes to rest on Severina's head, patting, the partly damp strands of her short hair tangled beneath his fingers, the aroma of herbal-scented shampoo wafting up to greet him. The blasted crow takes advantage of the moment and pecks sharply at his hand with its beak.

Severina's attention turns to Wilhelm, her wand flicking lazily to blow out her silky hair as she speaks. "Oh, and Will, do be careful with that Pepper-up bottle you have. You should water it down before using it; it's far too potent."

Wilhelm's smile is a flash of white teeth. "I lost it in a wager to Mulciber; I don't think I want to be the one to break the news to him."

Dryly, Rosier reminds him, "He's our roommate, Wilhelm. I don't know about you, but the thought of Mulciber vibrating with even more energy is nothing short of nightmarish."

Wilhelm's smile falters, and his face falls as the implications sink in. "Fuck," he mutters under his breath. “Fine.” 

Once Slughorn's eyes fall upon her face, he exhales a deep sigh of relief, his florid complexion momentarily paling as he wipes the sweat from his eyebrows. Faucheux, who had been tapping out a staccato rhythm on the floor with his feet, ceases his motion, his eyes snapping towards her. "Where have you been?" he demands, his tone accusatory.

Vlad fixes Faucheux with a baleful glare, the crow's voice a low, menacing growl."Wanker," the crow announces, its beak tilting upwards in a gesture of disdain.

Faucheux looks scandalized, squawking. Wilhelm cracks a smile. 

Severina ignores them both, her gaze instead fixed upon the head of her House, who hastens towards her with a look of concern. "Miss Snape, are you quite all right?" 

"I'm fine, Professor," she replies. "I apologise for any inconvenience I may have caused."

Faucheux looms nearby, his mouth a tight line. 

“You frightened us, Miss Snape,” Slughorn says. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands, so he removes them from her shoulder, also because Vlad glares at him manically. Wise man. 

"I apologise, Professor," Severina says. "I didn't mean to cause any trouble. I was in the Room of Requirement, experimenting, and then I overslept. Believe me."

Slughorn's nose twitches at the mention of experimentation, and he pats her hand reassuringly, only to have Vlad attempt to claim a finger. 

Faucheux, however, remains unimpressed. "Overslept, you say?" he scoffs. "You don't ever think about crafting a convincing argument, do you? You presume you have carte blanche to flout the rules and break them with impunity... or—"

Severina cuts him off in a clipped and curt voice. "No."

Faucheux's eyes narrow, his voice taking on a reprimanding tone. "You will address me as 'sir', Miss Snape."

"As you wish, sir. But you are making a mistake, sir. I'm not lying, sir. Why would I lie, sir? It's not in my nature, sir. I really was sleeping, sir. The Room of Requirement, sir, doesn't have a clock to wake me up, sir—“

The corridor bursts into a fit of laughter, with someone guffawing loudly, while others have the decency to attempt to stifle their amusement behind cupped hands.

Faucheux's face turns a deep, apoplectic red, his eyes bulging from their sockets like overripe fruit, outraged. Meanwhile, Slughorn's gasp is a soft, shocked exhalation, his eyes wide with surprise.

"Did you think my skull was stuffed with cabbage?" Faucheux's voice crackles with fury.

"Truthfully, sir,” Severina says softly, “I don't know what your skull is stuffed with, sir."

The corridor explodes into a cacophony of laughter, the sound echoing off the walls. Faucheux's face turns a deep shade of crimson as he seethes with rage. "Detention with Filch, and 50 points from Slytherin! Go to the deputy's office, now!"

With a stiff-backed stride, Faucheux stalks away from them, his gait so rigid it looks as though he has a dagger lodged in his posterior.

“Wanker!” Vlad cries after him. Roars of laughter fill the corridor. 

Severina's gaze shifts to Rosier, who's struggling to support Wilhelm, who nearly doubles up with laughter. Rosier takes a moment to compose himself, his eyes locking onto Severina's, his smile still plastered on his face. 

"I keep my word," she whispers, and she winks at him.

Evan Rosier stares at her retreating back. 

Circling around the desk, Albus settles into his heavily upholstered chair. Selecting a needle-sharp brown quill, he dips it into a golden inkwell and begins to compose his letter, mirroring the tone of his secretive informant. 

“Dear V,”

He starts, pausing for a moment,

“It seems I have received your message, albeit under rather peculiar circumstances. I must commend your creativity—not many would choose to rearrange my office furniture as a means of communication! I trust you found it quite amusing to see my quill nearly topple from its perch.

While I appreciate your cleverness and the vital information regarding the Dark Lord, I must implore you to consider the importance of transparency in our dealings. The path we tread is fraught with peril, and anonymity, while tempting, can lead to misunderstandings and missteps.

I encourage you to reveal your true identity, or at the very least, find a more secure way for us to exchange information. The safety of our cause—and indeed, many lives—depends on it.

I look forward to hearing from you, perhaps this time without the additional furniture challenge.

Warm regards,

Albus Dumbledore 

Headmaster, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

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.

Chapter Text

When Lily encounters her the next day, she envelopes her in a fierce, suffocating hug, her lips mumbling against Severina's ear, “Are you alright?”

Their heads are less than inches apart, close enough to detect the subtle nuances of each other's scents—Lily's hair redolent with the sweetness of honey and almonds, Severina's locks carrying the faint aroma of blackberry and mint.

Severina's response is muffled as she tightens her grip on Lily: “I’m alright, honestly” 

Lily gently extricates herself, her eyes probing Severina's, “Nah, you ain’t. You just up and vanished, and then my mum had to break the news about your mum passin’. Sev, I’m really sorry.”

“It’s alright, honestly. I’d be lyin’ if I said I wasn’t expectin’ it.” No it’s not, it never is, but she had learned long ago to swallow her heart. 

Lily gestures to the two swings seats. The park is empty. They settle in, Lily sits weirdly cross-legged and starts pumping gently to propel herself forward. The only noises are the mild squeaking of the swings and the crows' cries over the nearby wood. The sky is perpetually greyish blue. Severina fiddles with the coin-shaped pendant with a bony pale finger.

“After your week's leave, why didn't you return to school?”

“You know why.” 

Severina propels herself onwards, her swing matching Lily's steady pace, her head lifting to take in the greyish horizon and the barely discernible rays of sunshine shimmering over the tops of the clouds.

Introspective, she explains, “My... unique situation means I’ve got to keep a bit of distance when I’m feelin’ vulnerable, or else someone might trigger me without meanin’ to.”

Predictably, Lily's focus shifts to Severina's fingertips. The gaze dwelts on the cuticles, which, while completely healed, show a slight pink tinge. Severina's gaze follows to stare at her own hands, a habitual gesture of distraction at this point. She flexes her fingers, her eyes tracing the lines of her nails, the polish scratched and worn. She makes a mental note to tend to them soon, perhaps lilac or a softer, more muted sage green, “How was school while I was away?” 

“Professor Faucheux is proper pining for you, askin’ about you day and night.”  

“No doubt just lookin’ to fault me, I’m sure. Has he found another victim to torment?”  

Lily giggles, “That’d be Lupin, then.”  

“Aww, I almost regret not bein’ there to see it.” Severina grins. Then she stares at Lily evenly, “Now that you mention it, that insufferable cunt and his lot of dim-witted, shameless, braindead, entitled gits, nicked your ridiculous notebook, the pink one, and read what you wrote about me. Now they reckon I’m what... enamoured with—there’s no way I’m sayin’ it.”  

With each word, Lily's face falls, she recoils from the tone of preemptive accusation. "I'm...what?”

“You heard me right, and I ain't happy with you blabbin' that to McDonald of all people.” Taking a swig of the non-alcoholic beer, the bitter taste of betrayal clung to her tongue like an aftertaste. “I can’t stand her, and I can’t stand them knowing more than necessarily about me. They would hurt me, and you would let them.” 

Aghast, swing comes to an abrupt halt. Lily rears back, helplessly, “I didn’t mean to betray your trust, Severina—”  

Raised a brow and a swig of beer. “But you did, twice, now that I think about it.”  

At first, Lily looks defensive, but then she mellows into distress. “I didn’t mean to. I was called to the hospital wing, where they told me to report any unusual behaviour, anything strange about you. I didn’t take it seriously until you admitted you were seriously confused and lost. Marry knows about the potion only 'cause I wanted her to help me search the library for answers of my own. It just slipped out in a moment of frustration.”  

Severina tilts her beer, purses her lips, and looks at the beer bottom. Lily faintly quils at the distance. 

She can’t be angry when she had purposefully foisted her emotional burden onto Lily, to task her with uncovering the truth about the potion and finding answers on her behalf. At that time, Severina's own identity was a tangled mess—was she Natalia, Severina, or some hybrid of both? Or was this entire fiasco a consequence of the blasted potion's insidious influence? (She still thinks that deep down, despite everything, despite all the mental scars of both lives, of both souls) She hadn't anticipated the situation spiralling out of control so rapidly, and it wasn't entirely Lily's fault for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, prone to verbosity with those she trusted. Never mind that Severina herself didn't trust Mary, not entirely.

Lily presses on, “You never saw the way you were behaving—your explosive anger and depression. I needed someone unbiased to help me.”

Severina pouts mockingly, “And what, pray tell, did you and the indefatigable Mary discover in your sleuthing, anyway?”

“I have a theory,” Lily ventures bravely, reluctant, her eyes darting across her face, not just looking for something she knows she won't find but also as if to gauge any potential ire. But Severina's languid gaze appears to give her more confidence, and she continues. “You ain't the same person—Now, you’re... unpredictable; one minute you’re laughin’, the next you’re confrontin’. Severina, do you see where I’m goin’ with this? You’re a completely different person; even the smallest bits about you aren’t the same anymore.”

Irritated and dissatisfied, Severina resists the urge to fiddle with the pendant and peers at the redhead, asking, "What did you write anyway?" 

Before Lily can respond, Severina is already probing her mind, delving into the depths of Lily's thoughts. She finds the ridiculous list that had been presented to Madam Pomfrey, and her gaze drifts deeper. While Lily begins to recite the same words, Severina's lips twitch, a faint, annoyed smile threatening to surface, but it is short-lived. Lily's next words strike like a blow. “you... I reckon you’ll never be the same again. And I’ve been walkin’ on eggshells, tryin’ to reintroduce meself to you since the very first weeks.”  

Severina's eyes flicker, looking away “Is that a bad thing?”  

“I don’t know,” Lily admits, a bit unsure. “You were... sweeter.”  

Sweeter. That’s an odd term to use to define her. Most of the time, she only feels bitterness. Bitterness and helplessness. The more Severina hears her words and envisions the moment when she tells Lily everything without holding anything back, the more she believes that keeping it a secret is the right thing to do. 

“In truth, Lily,” Severina waves her off, “Make it easier for yourself; mourn this loss now. I don’t think I’ll ever be the same.”  

“That’s a right ominous thing to say.”  

“‘suppose. But it’s also the truth.”  

Pushing herself back against the swing seat, Severina digs her heels and launches herself upward. The world around her seems to flip upside down as Vlad's loud cawing reverberates across the air. Her eyes settle back on Lily. “You're not safe with them breathing down your neck, y’know.”

Her thoughts stray to the theft of that notebook, to Potter’s sanctimoniousness, and that glint in his eyes, a glint of–of sadistic pleasure, perhaps. Of winning. She recognises that glint. She is used to it. That insufferable prat needs to be put in his place, and if Lily one day saw something in him beyond the ugliness he displayed to both of them, Severina doesn’t know what to say about her friend's character. She ponders deeply; perhaps Lily had been fooled, just as she had been, by the shiny façade of Potter. 

What did it matter anyway? Severina is too old, too tired, and too depressed to judge her for her betrayal and shortcomings, although it shouldn't be considered a betrayal, given their falling out at the time. But didn't Sev mean anything to her? Not even a little?

She quells the growing line of unpleasant violence thoughts. I'm a flawed person myself, she reflects. I'm foul and spiteful. With what right do I judge her for the things she hasn't yet done? With what right do I think I'm owed anything? I’m not. I killed her family. I killed her son. To that, what’s a petty schoolyard quarrel? She recoils in shame, and the shame tightens its grasp on her, harder and tighter. She fights back. 

At this point, she assures herself, I haven't done anything wrong. 

It is not vindictive to take down a bully who was snooping around her business, putting her entire identity at risk. With him and his cohorts brandishing dangerous objects, stalking her every move, and hiding behind the Cloak, she felt like she was walking on thin ice. The fact that they had somehow managed to create a map powerful enough that had captured the change in her and even confronted her about it was a whole can of worms she isn’t yet prepared to deal with. The whole ordeal is a ticking time bomb.

In her book, it's a preemptive strike to protect herself and those she cared about from the fallout. She isn’t about to let Potter risk anything with his childish attitude, not when her very existence was on the line.

When she finally opens her eyes, she finds Lily’s face just inches from hers, her hand gently slapping her cheek to rouse her. “Bloody hell, Sev! Are you okay? You just blacked out.” 

“They have the Potter family's heirloom. That's how they knew.”

“What?”

Severina tilts her head back to examine her closely. “That's how they knew.” 

Lily stares at her for a moment, slightly nonplussed, before she returns to her swing seat, this time facing Severina directly. With a gentle sway, she murmurs, “I thought you were havin' a right bleedin' heart attack or summat! You ain't well, Sev. That's what you ought to be concentratin' on, not this... this obsession with Potter. It's daft and just makes things worse, innit?

The irritation of the repeated arguments temporarily subsides as Severina lets out a scandalised squawk, shrieking, “obsession with Potter!” She rolls her eyes heavenward, as if seeking divine guidance, before fixing Lily with a disbelieving stare. “Are you takin' the piss right now? Was it me who follows that bespectacled muppet everywhere he goes? For crying out loud, Lily. He's the one with a bleedin' Invisibility Cloak, showin' off and usin' it for his pranks. Open your eyes, will ya?.” 

From the dawning look of realisation mixed with horror on Lily’s face, she doesn’t have to say it. Severina almost grins spitefully as she feigns wonder in her tone. “Oh, ain't that just a right magnificent thing, eh? An Invisibility Cloak to skulk about in, all while shoutin' about bein' righteous and noble. I tell ya, I can't help but admire him.” She says, to Lily’s wide, shocked eyes, “For someone who thinks all Slytherins are just a bunch of slimy bastards, I ain't met a slimier git than James soddin' Potter, I’m tellin’ ya!” 

A spark of anger flares within Lily's eyes, a look that, for once, seems almost familiar. Lily's gentle swinging motion ceases, her heels digging into the ground as she settles onto the swing seat, her face a picture of horror, then disgust, and then disbelief as new thoughts and implications settle upon her mind. She looks as though she might turn green, and for a moment, Severina almost feels a pang of pity for her. Almost. This is a necessary evil. 

Lily's voice is hardly discernible; she stutters in distress. “No—he, that’s..” 

Severina's eyebrow arches. “No? How d'ya reckon he knows about me condition, then? He snuck into your room, yeah, snuck, and nicked the bloody pink notebook, readin' every last word! “

She observes as Lily's mind freezes for a moment before returning with ten distinct enquiries. It looks like Lily assigns the most importance to the question, “How d'ya know about it?”  

A snort. “I’m their favourite, I am. The target of their ire, I know that 'cause they used to hex me while hidin' like cowards under that cloak of theirs.”

A stab of shame pokes her when... his face, Harry's face, crosses in her head, his mother's brilliant green eyes shining like a forest after rain or the River of Cockworth. Brave, foolhardy young Harry. Dumbledore's sacrificial lamb. Her greatest mistake and shame. He saved me, she thinks, and this is how you repay him? By risking the chance of his birth, of having a family. 

They were right about her; She is a spiteful and petty creature. 

Her face darkens, and she glances up at the sky, her ears tuned out to Lily's incoherent murmurs of despair and distress. No, she tells herself, Lily must see Potter for who he truly was; she must not be fooled. It was James Potter's choice to act dishonestly, to be a coward, and it is his own downfall. What, after all, was a family built upon lies, dishonesty, and manipulation, but a house of cards waiting to collapse?

Severina's hand reaches out to pat Lily's shoulder. “Now you know, right? He don’t know that you know. You’ve got the chance to put him in his place once and for all... well, you could set a trap around your stuff to catch him red-handed.”

Some brief microexpressions twitch. A tightening around the nose. Disgust, maybe. But then, momentarily, her expression softens, and her head tips to one side as if she contemplates a very conceivable scenario. Severina loathes herself for seeing it coming, for silently agreeing with her, but she maintains a bored facade anyway as Lily says, “What if it’s just another one of your daft delusions?” Her voice picks up, still soft, “You thought you were a bloke in a kids' book, Sev.”  

“I guess you’ll find out,” Severina's shrug is a studied nonchalance. “It’s up to you to do somethin' about a creep lurkin' in your dorm..”

Lily's face flames at the mere possibility, “That’s disgusting. We’ve got to tell Professor McGonagall, she needs to know so she can take action—”  

“She won’t lift a finger, even though you’re her darling, and I hate to say it, but there’s a right glaring flaw you can’t ignore.” Severina picks up the beer from the ground and takes a slow, deliberate sip. Then she smirks sharply, “She’s got her favorites, and as long as they’re in her house, they get privileges the rest of us can only dream of. One of those is a slap on the wrist for even the worst offenses. Go on, deny it all you want, deny it as long as you like. I adore her, but sometimes I can’t help but think she’s an enabler, part of the problem. My school years are a nightmare 'cause of people like her, folks who see how others are treated unfairly and choose to turn a blind eye. And no, I won’t hear a word of defense for her or Dumbledore’s willful ignorance.”  

Evenly, Lily stares at her, then looks down at her hands on her knees, quiet for a moment, before saying, “Not that same. This ain’t just some trivial hex or petty prank, Sev. This is far more –– it’s our privacy.”

Severina levels her with a somber smile, and she agrees softly, “I know.” And in that moment, she recalls the day she'd been lured into the Willow, how she'd been the one ultimately silenced and punished, and a wry smile twists her lips at the bitter irony. "My point is this, down deep, you reckon it's all just some daft delusion from that cursed potion. I'm tellin' ya, set a trap and see for sure if I'm right. Call me then, I want to watch.” 

“I will.” Lily’s eyes darken. She matches her stare. 

Severina diverts the conversation, “It feels liberating to be home.”

They watch the children's laughter echo through the air in the distance, an old man's curses chasing after them. Behind the scene, the smog and smoke billows from the grim, industrial factories, shrouding the town in a veil of neglect. The kids skip over the polluted river, its banks overgrown with weeds and littered with trash. Lily shoots Severina a somber glance, eyebrow raised, before she snorts in somber amusement. 

“It's a crummy place, but it's where we're from."

"We always go on about wantin' to flee this town, but when it comes down to it, the thought of leavin'... it's terrifyin'"

"Ain't nothin' terrifyin' about it, just a bit of a heartache, that's all."

A moment of silence falls between them. Then Lily's soft murmur breaks the spell, “I’ll make sure they won’t ever hurt ya again. And if Dumbledore’s a right blind git, we can always give ‘em a good thrashin’ together.”

Severina’s eyes go wide, then she softens up: “Aww, Lilechka, you’re a right sweetheart. I don’t need ya to clout ‘em for me, just sit back and watch me rip ‘em to shreds.”

“By the way… what was that thing in your gaff? It were thick and… proper impressive, if I do say so meself.”

“Ruin, I’ll give ya me mum’s book.  Ya should really get stuck into it; it’s fascinating and useful to get the basics of magic.”

A bit of curiosity creeps into Lily’s voice. “Isn’t magic all about maths, though?”

“Only the flashy bits, the rest is all history and copyin’ what’s already been done.”

She watches her crows fly in circles, dancing in the smoggy air.

“Me dad’s in a right state,” Lily blurts out, “He’s proper worried, I’m almost regrettin’ gettin’ ‘em the Prophet.”

Severina sits up straight, putting her beer down on her knee. “Why’s that, then?”

“Ain’t ya heard? They’ve nicked a load of Death Eaters in the Ministry’s secret spy ring. People are shoutin’ for Jenkins to quit as Minister.”

For a moment, Severina's freezes, her mind racing with the implications, at war, undecided. She is surprised that Dumbledore heeded her words, but also afraid of the possible domino effect.

“Right,” she says absentmindedly, “She’s weak, an’ she’ll be the death of us.” Her eyes snap back to Lily,  “Did they say owt about them werewolf attacks?”

Lily gives a vague wave of her hand. “D’ya know Moody? He were in his seventh year when we were in our first – he killed three, but the leader got away.”

“Bollocks,” Severina hisses. “He’s got one job.”

In a burst of fury, she hurls the beer bottle, which shatters against the garbage can with a loud crash. Lily blinks at her, taken back, tentative “Sev?”

Belatedly Severina realises who insane she must have looked like. She regains a hold of herself, and mumbles, “I wish they'd caught him. I heard he... Grayback... transforms children.”

Lily blinks, and then blinks, and then blinks again. She too regains a hold of herself. “This is awful.” 

With a flick of her mother’s wand, the picture that used to hang in the hallway transforms into a sprawling corkboard that covers a good chunk of the wall of her room. Another swift motion, and a second board materialises, claiming the opposite wall as its own. Her father barely bats an eye at the missing pictures, but his expression darkens when Vlad reappears, lugging a box overflowing with the last thirty years' worth of Daily Prophet newspapers. 

“Homework,” she declares, her tone airy, as if the mere mention of the word could deflect any criticism. Toby's muttered retort is something suspiciously like, “What the bloody hell did they teach you there?”

Surrounded by the strewn-about essentials of her improvised investigation station—a pot of coffee, scissors, map, colour markers (yellow for suspicion, red for certainty), and a pack of cigarettes, alongside the open pages of her notebook.

Fragments of memory flit at the periphery of her consciousness, but her recollections are frustratingly unattainable, like a thousand little jagged pieces. She needs to make use of what she has. 

On the makeshift crime board, a photograph of a young Tom Riddle, fresh-faced and boyishly handsome, gazes from a page torn from the Hogwarts yearbook, capturing his graduation day in June 1945. This detail helps narrow her search parameters.

“He’s handsome, isn’t he?” She asks Dante and Vlad, who regard her with judgemental caws.

Severina raises both hands in surrender but retorts defiantly, “Sue me, lads.”

As the hours drag on, fuelled by coffee and nicotine, she immerses herself in the yellowed newspapers, her hands trembling slightly. At one point, she forces herself to set aside the cigarettes, wary of incurring her father's wrath for smoking excessively indoors. Her focus remains fixed on the Hogwarts-centric news from the years between Riddle's enrolment and graduation, and she scissors out headlines without thoroughly examining them, instead opting to glimpse the larger picture with all its disjointed details. 

"8 June 1943: Hogwarts Faces Shutdown—Parents Demand Answers After Tragic Incident!” She read aloud, a hint of recognition in her voice. “Ah, that's Moaning Myrtle.” 

With hesitant fingers, she pins the article to the board and highlights it with yellow, tagging it for suspicion. Under it, she attaches another article, '11 June 1943: Tragedy at Hogwarts: Half-giant Opens the Chamber of Secrets.’

She stumbles upon a second mention of the Gaunts, the last known Parseltongue speakers and direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, which in her book potentially link them to Voldemort's lineage somehow. '3 January 1943: Gaunt's Arrest—A Blow to Wizarding Secrecy?' The headline read, detailing Morfin Gaunt's reckless use of magic in front of Muggles, resulting in his arrest. Just as she is about to dismiss him, another article has caught her eye, '27 July 1943: Morfin Gaunt Arrested—Charges of Murder Against Muggle.' 

She reads on, then she whistles. “Holy shit.” 

Morfin Gaunt had murdered a wealthy Muggle family—the Riddles.

She pins the article to the board and highlights with red the village name 'Little Hangleton' and the phrase 'the Village is a Home to House of Gaunt, and The Riddles.' 

“They were neighbours.” 

The steady mountain suspension keeps her sharp, making her consider all the awful possibilities. With a sudden burst of energy, she snatches her jacket and takes the stairs two at a time, her father's voice calling after her, “Where are you going?” She flings the response over her shoulder, “The library!” without breaking stride.

Once inside, she exchanges a brief greeting with Miss Hale, the librarian, before making a beeline for the Geography section. Ignoring the dusty tomes on demographics, she homes in on the gazetteers and local histories, her fingers skimming the spines as she searches for the right title. After a period of intense focus, sitting cross-legged on the floor amidst the scattered books, she finally fishes out the information she'd been seeking. Little Hangleton, a small village in England, lay six miles from the larger community of Great Hangleton, and a considerable 300 miles from Mainland. 

“Good,” she mutters to herself, "it's close. Close enough.” 

With a satisfied smile, she selects a book featuring a map of the area, pays for it, and hurries home. 

There, she carefully scissors out the map and pins it to her board, the pieces of her investigation slowly falling into place. 

Vlad settles onto her right shoulder, where Dante has already taken up residence on the other, its claws gently digging into her bare skin. Her eyes fixed on the map, Severina absently plays with an earring, her fingers working a subtle magic that transforms it into a Portkey. She attaches the earring to Vlad's claw. “Now, sweet boy, we have to take a chance.”

Vlad responds with a low, throaty caw, his dark wings rustling as he stretches them wide. Then, suddenly, it takes to the air, flying out the open window like a dark, silken shadow, leaving Severina to watch him disappear into the night.

Severina descends into the dimly lit basement. She gathers empty bottles and rearranges them, restocking the labelled ones: Sobriety potions and Pepper-Up for Toby, Plants-Growing for Mrs. Evans, and Hair-Growing and Ageing Potions for her own clandestine investigation. Over the next weeks, she has devoted herself to brewing her medical supplies, vitamins, supplements, and even cosmetics, driven by a need to keep herself occupied and productive. 

Research on the Obscurus has shown that it's thriving particularly faster on the most sickly of its victims. She takes a certain pride in knowing that her concoctions not only provide a much-needed energy boost but also round out her figure, put Toby's mind at ease about her eating habits, and slow down her health decline, if only for a little while longer.

The spectre of September and Hogwarts hangs over Severina's thoughts and plans as the holiday creeps to its end by the day. 

Night after night, Severina finds herself scrutinising the magical map that adorns the far wall of her room, each one a detailed map of the British Isles. Sticky notes pepper the maps, marking cities and villages where Death Eaters are likely to strike. In the past-future, she was an occasional silent observer in the war room. She knew the tactics of Nott Sr. and Dolohov Sr. as intimately as she knew her own thoughts, even without the now-defunct spy network of Rockwood that had been dismantled weeks prior to fed them.

The two have an unnerving fascination with Muggle military strategies, effectively incorporating them into their tactics. They target the vulnerable edges of conflicts, exploiting the strategic narrow Muggle villages with their preferred choke point strategy. Their movements follow a vague pattern, favouring two main strategies: the Fabian strategy and, particularly in the early years of war, the Bellum se ipsum alet strategy. This is why they deploy giants, werewolves, and Inferi—they are seen as disposable, at least until they can bolster their ranks with newly graduated wizards.

At the map, Gulltown is highlighted by red. Glaring. 

With her father safely ensconced in his room, the sound of his snores a gentle hum in the distance, Severina slips into her own bedroom, the soft click of the lock a reassuring sound. 

She then lifts the delicate vial of Hair-Growing Potion to her lips, feeling the familiar, magical tingles as her hair begins to lengthen, the strands flowing down her back like a river of silk, reaching her waist in mere moments. With a flick of her mother’s wand, the colour transformed, shifting to a rich, vibrant blond, identical to Natalia's signature shade, just as it had the last time she'd attempted this transformation. A swift, practiced spell follows, weaving her now-long locks into a thick, luscious fish-like braid that settles comfortably on her shoulder, keeping it out of her face and perfectly in place. Next, she downs the Ageing Potion, her eyes fixed on the full-length mirror as her limbs stretch and contort, the bones and muscles reshaping themselves with a faintly painful scratching sensation. The reflection that stares back at her is that of a woman in her late thirties, a stranger yet somehow familiar.

After a moment to collect herself, Severina peers into the mirror once more, her eyes adjusting to the new contours of her face. She then selects an all-black outfit from the Parisian shops she had set aside for this grownup body, complementing it with the spell-reinforced leather dark blue-and-grey bodice and long, dark trench coat. 

After checking and double-checking the backpack's contents, Severina grasps the Portkey, her hand closing around it while shoving it into the coat’s pocket. She slips her leg out of the open window, the night air enveloping her like a dark cloak. Dante perches loyally on her shoulder. Then the other leg fellows. Silently, she launches herself out, her body floating upward, unsupported, to the rooftop of their neighbour's house. The only sounds that break the night's quiet are the distant, muffled curses of drunken men, cat fights, and the barking of the neighbour's dog. Polluted and thin, the smog douses her. Under its cover, she half-leaps, half-floats over the rooftops, her path a shifting trail of shadows, as she makes her way out of Spinner's End and, farther still, away from the sleepy town of Cockworth. She dares not risk drawing attention to her home, to her father, to the Evans. 

Once she is away, only then does she use the Portkey.

At once, Severina crouches down, her senses on high alert, her stomach churning with unease. Dante, over her shoulder, lets out a timid caw, and Vlad, perched atop a twisted yew tree branch above her, responds with a baleful cry. 

The darkness is absolute, and Severina's mutter curses under her breach, tightening her hold over her mother’s wand, until, gradually, her eyes begin to adjust, and shapes begin to materialise from the shadows: crumbling, moss-encrusted tombs and headstones, laid out in rows like sentinels. Beyond a twisted, ancient Yew tree to her right, where Vlad is perched, the silhouette of a small, decrepit church looms, while to her left, a hill rose like a dark sentinel, crowned with the outline of a grand, if neglected, manor. 

Severina crawls to the tree, shrinking into the shadows, before closing one eye and slipping into Vlad's gaze, her consciousness merging with the crow's as she takes to the skies. Under the silver moonlight, the graveyard dwindles to a tiny, forsaken patch of darkness as she flies over it, sweeping the area for any sign of life, any hint of wizards hiding in the shadows, waiting to strike. She re-circles about, up and down, and she locates a few folks awake in their house or at the pub, despite the fact that it is midnight.

She combs every nook and cranny of the village, and luckily, finds it shrouded in a deep, untroubled slumber. Satisfied with her reconnaissance, she withdraws from the bird's eye, much at ease. 

Rummaging through the backpack, she produces a flashlight that casts an eerie glow over the graveyard. She shines the light around, illuminating the neglected headstones and overgrown vegetation. Her gaze flickers up to Vlad, who soars above her, his wings beating silently.

"Among all the bloody places in this bloody village, you thought it was a good idea to toss me into this forsaken hole, you cheeky git?" 

A sharp caw is her only answer.

“Yeah, I thought so.” 

She heads over to the wall, beyond which the manor, perched on a hill with a view of the village, is situated. Some of its windows are boarded, tiles missing from its roof, and ivy spreading unchecked over its face. Once a fine-looking manor and easily the largest and grandest building for miles around, the Riddle House is now damp, derelict, and unoccupied. 

She floats over the wall and lands soundlessly on the strangely smooth lawn, now that she's had a closer look.

Strange. 

When she spies a run-down cottage in the grounds of the Riddle House, with a light peeking in through the open window, Severina switches off the flashlight and crouches down on one knee. She slips into Vlad's gaze once more, and the bird's wings bore her towards the ajar window of the cottage. There, she finds the slumbering form of an old man, his snores rising and falling in a gentle rhythm as he sat wrapped in a tattered red duvet, his rocking chair creaking softly beneath him. She surveys the cottage, searching for any sign that the old man might be a wizard. But there was nothing—no whispered incantations, no faint glow of magic, no telltale signs of a wizard, pure-blood or Muggle-born.

She withdraws from Vlad's eye, her consciousness snapping back into her body, her legs carrying her towards the manor. The door, as if expecting her, yields open with a soft creak at her whispered ‘Alohomora’. Her hand tightens around her wand, her flashlight at the ready, as she steps inside, the beam of light glaring across the dark, dusty interior. The air inside the manor is stale, musty with the scent of decay, and dust coats every inch of surface and corner like a thick, grey shroud. The few pieces of furniture that remain are swathed in white sheets.

Her ears strain to pick up any sound of footsteps or voices from above, but the silence is oppressive. 

She moves through the entrance hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust. The large mullioned windows on either side of the front door allowed a faint, eerie light to filter in, casting long shadows across the floor. Ignoring the stairs for the moment, she chooses to explore the ground floor first, her wand at the ready. From room to room, she walks, her eyes scouring every surface for any hint of magic, any whisper of protection ruins. But there was nothing. The kitchen, the living room, the dining room, the conservatory, and the bathroom all lay bare, defenceless, and vulnerable—not something Voldemort would use as a warehouse. 

She has knocked on the walls and on the floor, searching for hidden panels or secret doors, and has even pulled every book from the library shelves, hoping to find something, anything. But there is nothing. With a deep breath, she begins her ascent up the stairs, her flashlight roaming over the walls. 

For a heartbeat, Severina freezes midstep, paralyzed. The beam has landed on a familiar young face. She feels a frigid, metallic dread growing with each pulse. Tom Riddle stares down at her, handsome and arrogant, with black hair and grey-green eyes that seem to bore into her. She lifts her wand high over his chest, defiant. Sweats tickle down her neck. But then, as she stands there, frozen, she realises that he isn’t moving and isn’t reacting to her presence. That this face is just a portrait, hanging on the wall, staring down at her with a cool, superior half-smile. Severina flashes the light over his face, taking in the scene depicted in the portrait. A man and woman sit on a long red sofa, while Tom Riddle looms over them, his half-smile seeming to convey a sense of arrogance and superiority. 

Understanding dawns on her. 

"This isn't the Dark Lord," she realises. "This is his father." She flashes the light on the woman, brown-haired and blue-eyed, "And his grandmother." And then, on the old man, his face lined with age, "And his grandfather... The Riddles." 

The creak of the door downstairs shatters the silence, and Severina's heart leaps into her throat as she curses under her breath and hastily switches off the flashlight. She spins around, peering over the railings, and from her vantage point at the top, she sees the same old man from the cottage hobbling into the entrance hall, his walking stick thumping against the floor as he mutters to himself in anger. He flicks on his own flashlight, casting a wild beam of light overhead as he bellows, "Who's there?" 

Just in time, Severina ducks as the light slices through the shadow mere inches above her head. She slips behind a wooden table, her ears straining to catch every sound as the old man shuffles and climbs up the stairs, his laboured breathing and grumbling growing louder with each step. "I know you're here!" he snarls, his voice rising. "If I find you, not even your parents will be able to save you! You shameless brats!" 

Melting into the shadows seamlessly, and ducking behind a nearby table as the old man reaches the top of the stairs, she holds her breath, her wand at the ready, as he flashes his light around the room, casting a warm glow over the portrait, the fireplace, and the clutter surrounding him. Just as he is about to turn into the other side of the room, Severina strikes, rabbit-quick. "Petrificus Totalus."

Shell-shocked, the old man wheezes, while his body locked up in an invisible grip. He starts to teeter, but Severina's whispery incantation suspends him in midair. His walking stick clatters to the floor with a hollow thud. He twists his head marginally to the right, and he gawks at the crimson orbs peering from Severina's hiding spot, his pupils dilating with terror. "Good Lord above,” he stammers, "what—what sorcery is this?"

Severina slithers out of the shadows, "Hush, sir.” She whispers, just at the threshold of being audible, “You're disturbing my little friends.”

With a boney finger, she delicately strokes the crow's beak that perched on her shoulder, its rubescent eyes aglow like lanterns in the dark. The old man's gaze follows her movement, briefly focusing on the mean-looking, red-eyed crow before returning to Severina's face. "You... fiendish wench !" he spits out, his voice shaking with fury. "It was you. You butchered the Riddles."

"I didn’t, sir," Severina says, slipping into his mind to skim through the surface of his memory as she draws closer to the suspended body. "You know the Riddles, don't you? Tell me the truth about them, and I'll set you free."

The old man's defiance flares, like a dying spark. "And why would I betray myself to a…witch like you?"

Severina exchanges a fleeting glance with Vlad. She shrugs, "Oh well..."

With a whispered incantation, "Mendosus Memoria," Severina's wand ignits, casting a soft, ethereal glow that envelops the old man like a misty shroud. The old man's eyes widen, and he freezes, his face taking on a glassy-eyed, slack expression as Severina carefully manipulates his memories, simultaneously probing the depths of his mind. 

She discovers that he was the Riddles' gardener, a revelation that explains the immaculately manicured lawns, a stark contrast to the manor's state of disrepair. He lives alone in the cottage. Frank had come back from the war with a very stiff leg and a great dislike of crowds and loud noises, and had been working for the Riddles ever since. She secretes her mother’s back into her boot and retrieves Frank’s walking stick, guiding his hovering form down the stairs, out of the manor, and back to the cottage, the door creaking shut behind them softly. 

Carefully, she eases him back into his rocking chair. A flick of her finger summons the hot-water bottle, which floats towards them. Severina catches it mid-air, steaming it with a wordless charm, and presses it against the old man's stiff knee, then takes her seat opposite him, casually tossing one leg over the other.

Frank's eyes flutter open, and he sits up with a startled "Madame Brown! Pardon me, what was I saying?"

Severina's eyes lock onto his. A soft grin. "About Tom Riddle..."

Frank’s head tilts very slightly, and his stiff posture relaxes one iota against his chair. The old man's eyes cloud, and he nods once, dead-faced, "Ah, Tom... he was proper snobby and rude, even worse than his folks. The coppers had a go at me, saying I was behind their deaths. I wasn't keen on the lad, but I didn't off him... I didn't off any of 'em.”

"What about the Gaunts, then? You think they're in on it?"

He inspects her face, and he says, much more thoughtfully, "Gaunts...bloody lunatics. But I've got a hunch it was that teenager, pale as a ghost and dark-haired to boot. I can still see the blighter's face. Didn't matter, though—no one would listen to me."

Absent-mindedly, Frank then abruptly adds, “Poor girl, the Gaunts' daughter, yeah? Her old man was barking mad, her brother was completely off his rocker, and Tom... Tom married her, used her for a year, and then chucked her like yesterday's trash.” 

Well, she supposes, that explains a lot. She fiddles with the golden pendant, his eyes following her finger, staring at her chest where it rests. She hides it under the turtleneck, tilts her head, and flattens both hands on her knees, drumming a finger. "I've heard they lived cheek by jowl, the Gaunts and the Riddles. So, where's the Gaunts' place, then?"

Frank's mind starts to wander, "Ah, yeah... the only patch of land around here that's not owned by the Riddles... down the road, across the manor, somewhere between the hedgerows, somewhere. Follow the lane. Don't know what's become of their old house, never had cause to visit the place, myself."

Severina raises, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. “Thank you, Frank. Sleep well,” she murmurs. With a subtle flick, she eases him, watching as his eyelids grew heavy once more. 

Outside, the night isn’t young anymore. The stars blink faintly at her as she strolls out of the Riddles' ground, down the road. Above, Vlad and Dante soar loyally, following her. 

"It's a bit anticlimactic, don't you think?" She muses aloud, Dante responding with a soft, sympathetic caw as he settles onto her shoulder.

Severina draws her wand back into her hand, clicking on the flashlight to illuminate her path. She quickens her pace, acutely aware that she has squandered two precious hours. As the lane curves to the right, Severina follows its bend, eventually leading her to the main road that wound its way to the village. Slipping into Vlad's view to rise above the treetops, her gaze sweeps the wood, focus. And that's when she catches it—a faint, tantalising whisper of magic in the air. “Bingo.” 

Curiosity burgeons through her heavy dread. It tempers her, as does dread. Without breaking stride, Severina vaults over the thick hedge, landing cat-like on a narrow dirt track that seemed to materialise out of the darkness. “Let's see where this rabbit hole goes.”  

The hedgerows here are wilder, more unfettered than those she'd left behind. Severina lifts a hand, her fingers brushing against the air as she senses the thick, pulsing layer of Muggle-Repelling Charm that hangs over the land like a veil. She takes a step forward, then another, her movements hesitant and half-hearted. The path itself was a twisted, rocky thing, potholed and treacherous, sloping downhill like its predecessor towards some unknown destination. And sure enough, the track soon spat her out at the edge of a dark, secretive copse, its shadows waiting to swallow her whole.

Isn't this what she'd been searching for all along? She thinks fiercely, defiantly, I'm not some timid little thing anymore; I can handle whatever dark magic comes my way. But then, a worm of doubt creeps in, and she thinks bitterly, Bloody hell, I should've told someone.

Despite the cloudless sky, the old trees ahead cast deep, dark, cool shadows, and it is a few seconds before Severina's eyes discern the building half-hidden amongst the tangle of trunks. Its walls are mossy, and so many tiles had fallen off the roof that the rafters were visible in places. Nettles grew all around it, their tips reaching the windows, which were tiny and thick with grime.

Vlad darts into the broken window, perching on the sill as he gazes intently into the darkness within. Severina drifts up beside him, flashing the interior before she slips through the open window, her movements silent as a ghost. The house, she discovers, is tiny, consisting of only three cramped rooms. The main room, a humble combination of kitchen and living space, holds two doors that lead off to either side. 

She takes a step, and the floorboards groan beneath her feet, making her jump. She sweeps the light around the small space, the weak beam flickering due to the dying battery but still managing to illuminate the entirety of the miserable room.

Dust and rot fill the air, and Severina tugs the high turtleneck collar over her nose to serve as a makeshift mask.

Her heels click on the squeaky floorboards as she prowls cautiously around the empty space, investigating the broken, dusty beds and the few pieces of furniture shrouded in spider webs. She checks and double-checks. When she finds nothing, she comes to a standstill, empty-handed; her brow furrows in concentration. It doesn’t make sense—the Dark Lord wouldn't bother with such a powerful Muggle-Repelling Charm without a reason. Just as she's deep in concentration, the flashlight's battery inevitably dies, leaving her in the dark. Severina swears “Bloody hell” and smashes it against the wall, where it breaks into pieces, leaving her alone with only a faint, feeble moonlight struggling to reach her. She flicks her wand, and a blast of light illuminates the squalid space. Then, determined to find any hints, Severina turns to face the fireplace, but she stumbles when her heel digs into a rotting floorboard. 

She swears again, “Oh, for the love of..." Then she pauses, staring at her leg. She tilts her head attentively, instincts kicking in, before impulsively dropping to her knees and burying her fingers around the loose floorboard's edge, heedless to the discomfort of the tiny wood fragments that stab her.

One by one, she starts pulling the rotting planks. Peripherally, as she yanks away the fourth board, she glimpses something gleaming dimly , and when she casts her wandlight over it, she feels a jolt of excitement. With a thrill of discovery, she realizes that a hidden golden box lies between the floorboards. She digs her fingers into the gap and claws at the bottom until she reaches it. As the tips of her fingers touch it, she senses a pulse of black magic flowing from within.

The feeling is ominously familiar. 

Ill-at-ease, she opens the box, peering under the sharp light of her wand, and there, nestled within, she finds an ugly, achingly familiar gold-and-black ring. 

The Horcrux. 

The Horcrux that killed Dumbledore

Victorious, Severina let out a sudden laugh. The sound starts as a low, throaty chuckle but soon escalates into a hysterical cackle. The crows join in, their high-pitched cawing echoing through the wood like a chorus of madwomen. 

She slams the box shut, nearly crushing her own fingers, and then ramming it into her backpack. She spins around, making a quick exit. She stumbles, nearly falls on her arse, but then effortlessly begins to float, not giving a flying damn if some bloody Muggle happened to see her darting out of that forsaken wood in the midst of the night.

Only when she is well clear of that godforsaken place does she finally Portkeys back to the Mainland. 

From there, she walks her way to Cockworth, and it takes her almost forty minutes without a shred of magic to get there. 

The air changed, growing crisp and cold. 

At the edge of Cockworth, her body starts shrinking back into its proper age, the Ageing Potion's effects finally wearing off. She sneaks in, climbs into her room and collapses onto the floor, her now oversized clothes hanging off her like a sack.

Against the bed, deathly still like a statue, she sits, staring at the crime board as the grey light leaks through the window. The room is dim. Dawn has taken its first breath for a time now. 

Severina lights a cigarette, takes a long drag, and then stands up, face to face with Riddle's bloody face, her eyes tracing the strings between the Gaunts and him, between him and Myrtle's Incident on 8 June 1943, then the headline of 11 June 1943: Tragedy at Hogwarts: Half-giant Opens the Chamber of Secrets', and finally, at '27 July 1943: Morfin Gaunt Arrested—Charges of Murder Against Muggle.' 

The Gaunts, his family. 

"This can't be a coincidence," she mutters. Vlad settles onto her shoulder, as if sensing the tension building inside her. The bird cocks its red eye at her, bobbing its head knowingly. 

Myrtle's Incident on 8 June, Riddle's death on 27 July... Frank said a teenager did it, and she saw that face when she went through Frank's memory. 

8 June. 27 July. Only a month apart. 

The investigation team said the half-giant did it, but Severina knew better. The last known descendant of Salazar Slytherin was none other than Tom Riddle himself, a Parseltongue speaker, a student at that time, and a bloody mastermind of manipulation.

"It's not his first time making a Horcrux; the ring wasn't his first at that time.” 

She stares at Tom’s face. “Myrtle's is."

She wakes up drenched in sweat and tears. She lurches her slumped chest away from the bed, turns into her back. The ceiling above seems to press down on her, as if the walls themselves were closing in. A long, shuddering sigh. Her breath remains at an unsteady stagger.  

With a stolen vodka bottle in her hand, she fumbles awkwardly toward the loo, ill-tempered. While still wearing the holey, threadbare pyjamas that reek of last night's panic-driven chain smoking, she stands under the freezing shower, terse, and takes a long, hard swig of the Vodka, feeling it burn like acid all the way down, trying to wash off the suffocating feeling of dread that's been eating away at her gut. 

Severina is freezing to the bone, but the cold is a blessing—it means she's alive, she's safe, she's back in her own sanctuary, she's free from that past-future that's been haunting her.

Her hair's still long and blonde, she notes glumly, styled in thick braids from the night before's bloody fiasco. She slams the Vodka down beside the soap and starts to undo the braids, combing through the tangled mess with boney fingers. Unshed tears burn her eyes, but she's too stubborn to let them fall; she blinks them back and takes another swig of the Vodka, feeling the burn all the way down. 

After a few moments, she peels off the pyjamas and takes a proper shower, scrubbing herself raw with shampoo and conditioner, and all the long rest works. Then, she picks up the scissors and cuts her hair, watching as it falls to the floor in rich, blonde locks. 

It's a shame, really, but she can't afford to keep it if she wants to sneak around without being recognized. By the time she's done, she still looks like hell—pale, puffy eyes, and bags under them that even a ton of makeup can't fully cover up for those to bother to really look. 

Just as she's finishing up recharming her hair back to black, she hears the door knocking, then Toby and Lily's bickering drifting up from downstairs.

Severina adds on another layer of mascara, downs a half bottle of Pepper-Up Potion, and then shoves the backpack with the ring into the closet with a slam and a heavy locking charm. Her wallet and bag float over, and she snatches them up before pounding downstairs.

"I lost a vodka," Toby growls, turning to face her with a scowl. He takes one look at her clothes, and his face twists in a plain disapproval.

"I peed it a minute ago," Severina replies with a grin, circling the table to grab a piece of toast. Lily spits out her orange juice, choking on a laugh.

"Sip sip, that's all you do."

“Pot, kettle, Daddy.” 

Toby then barks brusquely, "Go change your clothes.” 

"Why?" Severina whines, discomfited. She'd bought that skirt in Paris, and it's knee-length with a stylish slit in the side. She's also wearing stockings in the same black colour, so there's no reason for Toby to be a git and ruin it for her.

Toby turns to Lily, and squints suspiciously. "Ey up, is that what she's got on at that bloody weirdo school of yours?"

"Toby!" Severina protests.

Toby each her tone inanely, "Rina!" 

Lily chimes in, her smirk growing wider as she savours Toby's discomfort. "Blimey, Toby, people grow up, innit? Puberty just clobbered 'er a bit 'arder than the rest of us, that's all it is, mate.”

Toby splutters, his eyes bulge, and he growls, his Russian accent thickening, "Sort yerself out, Severina, or you're gettin' chucked outta school, I'm warnin' ya! I ain't messin' about!"

Severina stomps her feet like a petulant child, and with a flick, the skirt transforms into jeans. She crosses her arms over her chest, looking up at Toby with a sulky expression. "Better?"

Toby's warning comes swift and stern. "And you better not bloody well Abrakadabra it back to that... that... napkin."

Severina huffs and drags Lily out of the house, muttering "arshole" under her breath.

"I think he's sweet," Lily says, but Severina just keeps walking, grunting. They stroll out of Spinner's End, crossing the bridge where Severina had stumbled last night, the stolen ring weighing heavy in its box on her backpack. She recalls thinking, "What the bloody hell am I doing, bringing this cursed thing home?" But then she remembers Dumbledore's death, how his own temptation had consumed him, and how giving it to him would lead to the same fate.

For a moment, Severina's mind flashes back to the green flames she'd seen when trying to recall her father's past-future death. She can almost see them, the Death Eaters, coiling in the night, their dark robes outlined against a sea of green flame

Severina casts a sideways glance at Lily, her tone as casual. "You should put protection wards on your house."

Lily stiffens, "Why?"

Severina hesitates, her pause long enough to send Lily's panic levels soaring. Lily's voice rises, insistent. "Why, Severina?"

"Promise you won't think I'm bloody insane."

Lily's voice is firm. "I won't."

Severina takes Lily's hands, just as she had under their tree when she'd confessed her fears of something looming. This time, she's careful not to dig her well-manicured nails into Lily's soft skin. "You remember the months before my mother's death? I had a gut feeling; told ya something bad was going to happen, and then it did. Mum's dead; I'll never see her again. And all I have is Toby, and all Toby has is me. I've got a bad feeling about Cockworth—not now, not tomorrow, but something bad is going to happen." She pauses, her gaze locked on Lily's eyes. "Do you believe me?"

Lily stares and absorbs the statement, she bites her lip and nods once, and Severina swiftly steers the conversation in a new direction, trying to shake off the foreboding sense of unease. "It's my first time taking a Divination class this year." She signs for it to get to the bottom of why Dumbledore hired Trelawney too early in this timeline. The very thought unsettles her. 

Lily blinks, a faint smile on her pale face, despite the unease that still lingers. "You're terrible at changing the subject, Severina, but alright, I'll go with it. They say the new professor was a Ravenclaw back in the day; Alice mentioned she was a right oddball who used to predict her housemates' deaths just for a laugh.."

Severina hums. Sounds about right. "She asked for Tarot cards in her required equipment list. Tarot cards and teacups, no bloody textbooks, for God's sake."

"I think I'll join you. It sounds like a laugh.” 

At the Alley, where Mr. Evans had kindly offered to escort them, they spent a good half hour bickering over the tarot card designs and negotiating with the shopgirls over the teacups. 

Severina splurges on a new trunk, one that's sturdier and larger, so she can stash the ring box deep within her belongings, hidden from prying eyes.

That night, two days before the 1st of September, Severina slips into Carmilla’s view, her sweet crow perched on a bony branch among her murder. She wills her to pick up a letter that Vlad had dropped at their tree, and they take to the skies, soaring over the treetops, above the river, and swooping down to Hogwarts' tower, where, at first glance, she's surprised to find that the ever-changing magic of Hogwarts hasn't altered the location of Dumbledore's office. It's the old man's favourite thing about his office; he'd admitted to her on more than one occasion. That means he adjusted Hogwarts' wards to allow her entry; that means he's been trying to reach out to her. She darts inside and finds him standing near the fireplace, lost in thought, staring at a chessboard.

Dumbledore's eyes flicker towards the crow, and he pauses, blinking in surprise, "Oh, what do we have here?" 

A knowing glint shines in his eyes, and Severina almost slips away from Carmilla’s view, but Headmaster Black's portrait seems to come to life, a smug grin spreading across his face. "I told you it was a bird."

"Yes, indeed," says Dumbledore, who reaches out a hand, offering it to Severina. She perches on the offered forearm, careful not to dig the claws into its skin. She's still angry with the old man, but she can't help but feel a soft spot for him.

Dumbledore retrieves the letter. A wand taps the envelope. It spews out five pages, four of them torn from the Art of War book where she highlighted points, and the last typed letter detailing the death eater strategy and the near-possible attack on Gulltown. He presses his lips in a thin line. For a moment, he doesn’t move, just stroking the crow’s feathers gently. He circles around the desk to pick one of his own, a neatly folded parchment, from among his paperwork. The parchment bears only a single letter: "V."

He attaches it to Carmilla’s leg, but when its eyes catch sight of Fawkes in the background, she knows the phoenix will follow her. So it shrugs the letter off and opens it, much to Dumbledore's surprise, and it bobs its head to read it. 

It takes Dumbledore a moment to realise that the crow is not alone in its mind. He looks into the skewed eyes, his gaze piercing. "V, did you hear me?"

The crow cocks its head, its gaze never leaving Dumbledore's. "I hear," it responds, its voice low and gravelly. It lets out a sharp caw, as if punctuating its statement.

"I believe you and I have a common goal," Dumbledore continues, his voice measured. "Join the Order—"

The crow's stare intensifies, defiant. It raises its head, its beak pointed towards Dumbledore, as if daring him to continue. "Nobody's soldier," it declares. 

Chapter Text

On the crisp September 1st dawn, Severina finds herself half-naked in bed, Vlad sitting on her chest, glaring down at her with eyes impossibly red. She's been jolted awake by disquieting nightmares, fragmented visions of her life as Natalia, and eerie echoes of past events that refuse to align with the uncertainties of this new reality. To put it mildly, she's not a fan of being memory-fractured, ghost-haunted, and utterly messed up.

"Blimey,” she groans, shoves the crow away, “get out of here!"

Knowing it's under the bed, she hunts the floor for her bra before donning Toby's old shirt and sweatpants—her makeshift workout attire cobbled together since her return. Downstairs, she heads to the fridge to guzzle the necessary potions: memory, beautification, and protein. The sole exception is the hormone potion, which she no longer requires since reaching her goal weeks earlier. According to her chart, she had surpassed her target long ago, even having overdosed on it.

Her shape is now nicely proportioned—not too slender, not too round—with admittedly a flattering hourglass waist, defined abs, well-defined arms, and toned legs. It’s an athletic physique that emphasises her legs and core, reminiscent of her previous self as Natalia. Even though she finds her curves are extremely pronounced for a normal fencer's physique due to the unintended effects of the hormone potion, she considers this ounce of surplus fat a worthwhile trade-off. It might help counterbalance the probable weight loss from the untested Obscurus treatment, especially given her smoking habits.

I’ll be battle-ready, she muses, if the need arises.

Her only regret is having to part with her old clothes, opting instead for her parents' hand-me-downs while staying at Spinner's End. She’s too stubborn to waste her new wardrobe on the dreary town or while brewing potions in the basement.

As she jogs through the woods, navigating fallen trunks and leaping across the river, she loses count of her laps—one, two, three, a dozen. Her body knows the routine all too well. The familiar sting of exhaustion creeps up her calves, a dull ache she’s learnt to ignore. Slowing to a stop, she bends forward, hands resting on her knees, gulping in the fresh air to catch her breath. Her trainers scrape against the leaves, and her shirt clings to her, drenched in sweat like a second skin. Hair sticks to her face, a wild tangle she hasn’t bothered to fix. In that moment, she simply stands, chest heaving, allowing the woods to envelop her.

She whips up a full English breakfast.

Toby stumbles in late, bleary-eyed, while she has already wolfed down her portion, washing it down with a swig of potion. A cup of coffee follows and a cigarette. The coffee here tastes good, pleasantly cinnamony, and it makes her think of Halloween at her grandfather's place. The last thing Natalia had eaten before taking her own life was a stale cinnamon roll, left abandoned on the kitchen island. Though it didn't make it any easier to reconcile the two sets of memories that now coexisted within her, the anguish of what she'd left behind continued to linger, a surly and bone-deep ghost to which Severina had become used.

Death has cheated them of everything.

It is abnormal, but she'd learnt to navigate the dual landscapes of her mind, even if the personalities within her still clashed occasionally. At times, she'd be consumed by a brooding, guilt-ridden stoicism where she would sit and plot and try to counter the Death Eaters' plans by making plan, a back-up plan, a back-up plan for this back-up plan, and a substitute plan waiting in the wings in case it was needed. Other times, she'd regale Toby with fantastical tales of her time-travelling adventures, spinning yarns about being the Death Champion, collecting Koshchei the Deathless's eggs¹, all of which always made him smile. Half-frightened, half-amused by her own carelessness, she'd drink and continue to vent to her equally inebriated dad, wondering whether Death had pushed her to the verge of lunacy and, if so, if she would ever recover. Bipolarity, the potion’s description labelled it, and she can’t fathom why Slughorn would keep such a dark brew within reach of dimwitted students. It left her questioning which parts of herself were genuine and which were mere illusions.

Uncertainty has made her weary.

Toby pauses at the kitchen door, his eyes fixed on the food with a look of mourning. "I'll bloody well miss this," he mutters mutinously. He slumps into his seat, takes a sip of his coffee, and Severina flashes him a languid smile. "You'll have to learn to get by without me, old chap."

"I won't miss your cheek, that's for certain."

"Yes, you will." Smugly, Severina states, before snuffing out her cigarette and heading upstairs to take a shower to wash off every trace of the morning.

By 9, she is already done primping, her hair blown out to perfection, mascara layered on thick, and her clothes effortlessly chosen. She stares at her reflection, searching for a glimpse of Natalia in her features—not for the first time, the ache of longing burning in her chest. Vlad settles onto her shoulder, his eyes peering into hers, and she can’t help but think that her face still has that quirky, Tim Burton-esque flair—a curved nose, dark silky hair, and eyes that are too big, too deep, and too expressive. Alabaster skin that seems almost translucent. It isn’t a bad face, she thinks; it is a lovely face, an ordinarily lovely face, but compared to her old face or that of some of the pure-blooded housemates's, it doesn’t make anyone look twice.

She occludes out the uncertainty and observes in wonder as her once-expressive face becomes steely. She checks, then double-checks. The ring is safely stashed deep in her trunk, protected by powerful wards.

Downstairs, she stands on the top of her toes despite being tall, her lips brushing against her father's unshaven cheek in a fleeting kiss. "Mind yourself, old chap, and don't forget there's a stash of sobriety potions in the fridge. And for the love of all that's holy, don't go smashing my vials—they're bloody pricey, if you recall."

Her father, who is accustomed to her bizarre display of adoration, glances down over her with fondness and annoyance. "Stop fussing.”

It was a fleeting lapse of sanity, really, when she'd first succumbed to those sentimental displays of affection. half-tipsy and sad, she'd gazed at Toby, illuminated by the streetlights, and for a moment, he'd been the spitting image of John. Her heart had skipped a beat as she'd half-expected him to turn around and greet her with that charming Russian diminutive, 'Natasha', in his awkward attempt to connect with her heritage. It had nearly undone her, and before she could rein herself in, she'd flung her arms around him, searching for a comfort she knew she'd never find. And then, a day later, she'd caught a glimpse of his memories—the image of him soliciting advice from his coworkers on how to handle a teenage daughter, fidgeting with his whisky glass in embarrassment, was simply too bloody hilarious. So, she'd made a point of doing it again, just to see him flummoxed and off-balance.

He scans her face, muttering a low-voiced complaint about the subtle makeup that seems to rile him on principle. The fact that she'd even bothered with it still irks him, but he sets the annoyance aside as he leans in to plant a gentle kiss on her forehead. His fingers make contact with her skin, and he can't resist the childish urge to wipe away the offending cosmetics, saying, "Blimey, Rina, love, you're chuckin' your dosh down the drain on them fancy tiny pots. You'd be better off nickin' one of me empty vodka bottles.”

She raises an eyebrow, swatting his hand away. "That'd contaminate the stuff."

Toby shrugs sagely, “Not if ya give 'em a good scrub, Snezinka ².”

Severina lets out a soft snort, rolling her eyes. “Not wastin' me breath arguin' with ya about that, too. You're not exactly the model of responsibility, are ya, Dad?”

"'Ere, watch it.”

"Pillock!" Vlad jeers.

"Git," Toby shoots back.

Severina meticulously reinspects the stabilising runes she'd etched into the house foundation with her own hand and blood, for nothing less would suffice, and which were further empowered by the rich, innate magic that coursed through her veins, courtesy of the dormant obscurus.

She hauls the trunk, with the crows' cage teetering precariously atop, as the birds inside hurl vitriolic curses at Toby, who responds with a childish barrage of insults. When she's out of her father's line of sight, Severina frees Dante, her lips grazing the sleek head as she whispers, "Keep an eye on him for me, won't you, love?"

Dante tenderly nuzzles Severina's nose with its beak, then unfurls its wings with a soft flutter, taking to the sky as it soars up to its perch in the tree outside her window. A small, shimmering Portkey, this time authorised, drops from its claw, landing softly in a twig. A hidden safeguard that would whisk her back in an instant if the need ever arose.

Once she arrives at the Evans' home, she swiftly silences the irate crow with a quick charm, forestalling any further embarrassment. Lily is still upstairs, showering, and her mother ushers Severina into the kitchen, where Petunia is sulking in a corner. "Did you have breakfast, Severina?" Mrs. Evans asks, her eyes roaming over her face. 

“Yes, ma'am, thank you.” Severina replied.

"You're growing more lovely with each passing day, Severina," Mrs. Evans says, her eyes shining with a warm, maternal affection.

Severina's cheeks flush under the praise. "Oh, why, thank you. You, on the other hand, are as radiant as ever.”

Rose Evans huffes out a laugh as she rushes her to take a seat.

Severina can feel Petunia's hostile gaze on her; the girl's lips curled in distaste as she seemed to relish the fact that only Lily and Severina were the objects of her disdain.

Severina flashes her a bright smile. “Well, hello, Tuney.”

Petunia's response is a haughty sniff. “Snape.”

“How are you doing?”

“I've been better.”

Severina waves her off, still grinning to spite her. “Well, aren’t you a bundle of joy, Tuney?”

Petunia sniffs again, her expression pinched, and takes a sip of her tea. Meanwhile, Severina, bored and genuinely curious, slips into Petunia's mind, sweeping through her thoughts and memories with an ease that belied the complexity of the emotions she uncovered. A snort threatens to escape her lips as she stumbles upon the thought that has been echoing in Petunia's mind—a begrudging admission that Severina is 'not unpleasant to look at, even if her attitude still left much to be desired.'

Of course, Severina cannot resist taking a dig at Petunia. She adjusts her sunglasses, folding her hands together to rest her chin on top, and cooes, "Aw, thank you, Toney."

“What?” Petunia looks at her with annoyed bafflement.

Severina's innocent blink is a work of art. "What you just said."

"I didn't say anything," Petunia protests. Just then, Lily walks into the room, her eyes scanning the scene before her. She shoots Petunia an accusatory look. "What did she say to you, Sev?"

“I didn’t say anything to the freak!” Petunia denies hotly.

Severina pipes up, "She thinks I'm cute."

Petunia's face turned red with indignation. "I didn't!"

Severina's smile is sugar-sweet and fanged. "You literally said, 'not unpleasant to look at, even if your attitude still left much to be desired’.”

Petunia's face contorts in shock, her mouth working soundlessly before she finally splutters, "I said that out loud?!"

Lily snorts, and Severina grins from ear to ear, relishing the moment. "Aww, Tuney, you did. You're the sweetest," she cooes.

Petunia's face flares with embarrassment, her eyes flashing with anger as she shoots them a scathing look. “It's called flattery, Snape. Sometimes, it requires lying.”

“Sure thing, Tuney.”

Without another word, Petunia turns on her heel and stalks off. They share a look and snort.

Lily's detestable half-kneazle cat, Peanut, suddenly materialises out of nowhere, landing with a triumphant thud in Vlad's cage. The crow, notorious for his short fuse, erupts into a frenzy of scratching and squawking, desperate to get his beak on the insufferable orange menace.

"Oi, you little scallywag, I'll unleash Vlad on yer and we'll see 'ow you like it!" Severina exclaims. She removes the silence charm, and Vlad caws loudly like it has been possessed, “ little scallywag.”

But Lily, well acquainted with the long-standing feud between the crow and the cat, intervenes promptly. "Oh no, you won't," she says firmly. "Keep that nasty ol' bird locked up tight, where it can't cause no trouble!”

Henry Evans strides into the room, his "good morning" accompanied by a wry glance at the simmering tension between Vlad and Peanut. His uneasy smile falters before he recovers, jingling the car keys in his hand. "Alrigh' girls, let's get a shift on! We're already runnin' behind, ain't got all day to stand around chattin'!”

With a chorus of goodbyes to Rose, the car set off towards London, the ride filled with lively discussions about their extracurricular activities and electives. Division was already a done deal, but the second option remains up in the air, with the three engaging in a spirited debate about the merits of Ancient Runes versus Arithmancy. Severina has launched into a lengthy, if somewhat dull, explanation of the importance of warding, making sure to casually mention that her house was the safest in Spinner's End, protected from any rogue wizards who might come knocking. “If anything goes down, you know where to hide.” She has said. Henry's expression has turned thoughtful, and he lapses into silence.

The bustling crowd on Platform 9¾ is wearisomely restless. Severina flattens her hand over Vlad's cage to steady it as they navigate the fast-moving throng, following Henry’s lead. At last, Henry comes to a stop, turning to them with a warm smile. "Well, this is where I say goodbye, girls." He leans in, planting a gentle kiss on Lily's cheek as she wraps her arms around him in a tight hug. "Be good," he whispers.

"Bye, Mr. Evans," Severina chimes in.

"Bye, Dad."

When they find an empty compartment after a quick search, they set up their trunks and settle in. As Severina draws out the leathery runes toolkit roll, which has five various sizes of etchers with fine nibs and a little inkwell of the scratch-made blood-enhanced ink, Lily sits with a book looking at the window. She absently twists the coin-shaped pendant between her fingers, flipping through the pages of her notebook to refine her design for the anti-offence rune, which, in theory, would bounce any jinx back to its caster. Severina's focus is razor-sharp as she pores over her notes, intent on fine-tuning the shield's deployment for those hair-raising close-quarters attacks, as well as the more subtle, seemingly harmless ones. Though she cracked the code weeks ago, her perfectionism drives her to double-check every detail, meticulously assessing her choices before committing to a final approach.

Just as she is fully immersed in her work, the compartment door slides open, and Marlene McKinnon's bright smile fills the doorway. "Ah, here you are! I've been searching all over for you," she exclaims, her eyes flicking briefly to Severina, pausing, before nodding. "Snape."

Severina returns the nod, her gaze never leaving her notebook. "McKinnon," she murmurs, before refocusing on her sketching.

McKinnon takes the seat beside Lily, and the two of them launch into a conversation that Severina tunes out. Five minutes later, Charity bursts in, "Severina!" she chirps.

Severina's gaze snaps up from her notebook and blinks, her fingers instinctively closing the book, with the pendant making a makeshift bookmark.

"Ah, Charity. Hi," Severina greets her pen pal.

Charity's bright blue eyes dart between the two Gryffindor; she bites a lip and asks, "You won't mind if I join you?"

Severina's gaze flicks to Lily, gauging her reaction. The redhead's answer is instantaneous, her hand beckoning Charity in with that soft, inviting smile she usually wears when she isn't sure if she likes someone or not. "No, come in."

Charity's face lit up, and she flashes Lily a radiant smile as she neatly stows away her trunk with a wave of her wand. Then, she settles beside Severina, her movements fluid and effortless. "Hi, I'm Charity Burbage," she introduces herself to McKinnon, who responds with a firm handshake. "Marlene McKinnon."

Charity wraps Severina in a warm, half-hug. "Oh my god, Severina, I’m so sorry about your mum."

McKinnon echoes her sentiment, “My condolences."

“Thank you,” Severina replies, instinctively raising her hand to pat Charity's shoulder. “I’m sorry for not saying anything and leaving all the project work to you.” She glances at Lily and adds, “Ancient Runes."

“Don’t be silly; you have every right to grieve in your own way.” Charity then notices the toolkit roll, her expression shifting to a scowl as if it reminds her of something distasteful. “I can’t believe that walking corpse bothered you while you were grieving,” she exclaims. “I even tried to steal his walking stick and send it to a watery grave, but his bodyguard was right there and wouldn’t budge.”

Severina snorts involuntarily, picturing Avery sneering behind Mulciber, while Aurora strains to keep the peace without any outside help. “He called me ‘flighty and fickle-minded,’ so I doodled a bird on the letter and sent it back."

“Avery?” Lily asks, making a face.

"Yes."

Charity gasps in shock.

“Merlin, he’s a right cunt,” McKinnon comments.

Severina clicks her tongue.

“He doesn’t have the depth or warmth for that. But honestly, I was grateful; he gave me the push I needed to get back to work and stop wallowing.”

As the three begin a spirited diatribe about Avery's dreadful behaviour, Severina's gaze returns to her notes, devouring the pages. The compartment door slides open, and Macdonald slides in, and after a brief pause to examine the new addition, she dives headfirst into the Avery-bashing session, regaling the group with her own horror stories of his condescending attitude towards her during classes.

The conversation around her grows more animated, and she tunes out the chatter, unrolling her worn leather toolkit. She pulls out a fine-point bronze etcher, its cynical curves appearing to challenge her as she picks it up. With quiet confidence, she begins to replicate the runes on a scrap of paper, her strokes tentative at first but growing bolder with each passing second. Once she feels satisfied with her grip, she dips the etcher into the inkwell—once, then twice—watching as the dark liquid clings to the metal like oil.

She picks up the pendant, flips it to its unadorned surface, murmuring a subtle charm to enlarge it. Using her knee as an impromptu table, she carefully positions the etcher and begins to draw the first layer of the intricate curves and lines, each stroke infused with magic.

The runes on the pendant shimmer and pulse like a heartbeat, emitting a soft, muted light. Their gentle glow dances faintly around its edges. Severina concentrates intently, carefully calibrating the magic to prevent the delicate metal from overheating.

When the sales lady knocks on their compartment door and asks if they want to buy anything, she pauses her work, letting the second layer of the runes rest, and chooses a steaming pumpkin-and-paper pastry, coffee-flavoured lollipops, and a copy of today’s Daily Prophet.

Beyond the train windows, the weather is as unpredictable as it had been all summer, the mist-shrouded landscape giving way to weak, clear sunlight in patches.

The newspaper features Damocles Belby, his face beaming with pride, the headline celebrating his groundbreaking invention of the Wolfsbane Potion. She has no regrets about the bold risk she took, cornering him in broad daylight to implant the memory of the formula, pushing him to create the potion nearly twenty years ahead of its time. In just two years, she plans to one-up him by publishing her own refined recipe—one that streamlines the process and reduces the effort required. By providing werewolves with consistent glimmers of hope for a better future, they have a reason to reconsider their loyalty to the Dark Lord. Now, if only Moody could take down Greyback, she muses wistfully, absently tapping her fingers on the wooden table.

She shrugs and begins layering the next set of runes over the gold. Once she finishes, she inspects the newly enchanted pendant, carefully twisting it to ensure the crow's features remain intact, unmarred by the warding process. She slips it on, pleased with her creation, and feels the faint hum of the pendant as it starts to draw from her plentiful magic, strengthening its protective shield. She restores the leather in the bag after rolling it. Charity has already fallen asleep, leaning on her shoulder, and Severina is compelled to pull her sunglasses up and rest her eyes.

In the background, Vlad is calling someone a cunt, maybe Lily’s cat; someone lets out a scandalised squeal; and Severina pretends to be asleep.

Hours later, silence envelops the compartment as the other Gryffindors remain lost in their thoughts or asleep. Severina's eyes flutter open, and she meets Lily's gaze. With a swift motion, she casts a Muffliato, wrapping them in a cocoon of silence. Lily’s eyes widen in surprise at the sudden absence of sound.

“You're worried,” Severina observes.

"I'm disgusted," Lily mutters, her fingers clutching into the arm of the chair. "I want to tell them; they're my roommates, and they have every right to know."

“Those mates of yours, they'll try to spin it; make me out to be the bad guy," Severina says, twirling the pendant. "They'll accuse me of being malicious, and I won't deny it—I'm being intentionally malicious.” Lily looks taken aback by the flippant admission, and Severina files that away for later as she continues. “But that doesn't change the fact that the git with the glasses had the nerve to go snooping around in your business. You need to dig deep, find that Slytherin streak in you, and set a trap that'll leave them reeling. Make 'em regret ever messing with you, Lily."

Severina leans in, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. "Besides, you have me by your side, Lily. I've got a few ideas up my sleeve, if you're willing to listen." Her eyes glint with a hint of nostalgia, recalling the memories of dealing with the Weasley twins' illicit items. "You could, for instance, jinx your belongings with a theft hex to keep them stuck in place until you catch them red-handed. Personally, I've been known to take a more... potent approach, but I'm not sure what your boundaries are."

Lily looks at her warily at first, uncertain, then her countenance hardens as the simple possibility that someone is invading her private sets in. "He'll be sporting a lovely shade of blue for a week, at least," Lily vows, "Bloody git."

Leaning back against the window, Severina peers at Lily as she softly instills in her mind the notion of enticing Potter into her room by promising to hold something over Severina's head. The suggestion is gentle yet potent, and Severina's eyes bore into Lily's, urging her to be patient and vindictive. Then, Severina's gaze drifts away, breaking the intense connection, and she gazes out the window, her eyes fixed on the faint, twinkling lights of Hogsmeade.

The manipulation has left her crestfallen, her head throbbing with the weight of it all. She can’t shake the voice that whispers in her mind, ‘You're not just a messed-up little shite, Severina; you're a selfish, messed-up little shite.’

But the harsh truth, Severina knows, is that without her cunning and guile, no one would bother to listen to her, stuck as she is with the curse of the Cassandra complex in this life.

She takes a minute to let the I'mnotgoingtobloodywellfeelsorryformyself ebb away. As they roll into the train station, Severina's eyes lock onto Hagrid, the half-giant billowing, “First years, first years!”.

She’s itching to get to the bottom of this Chamber of Secrets business.

The trouble is, Natalia-now-Severina doesn’t know Hagrid from a hole in the ground, and more to the point, he doesn’t know her. He doesn’t know the professor she'd become, and even if he did, he wouldn't be exactly thrilled about the person she used to be. She reckons he'd have his reservations about Slytherins, too—after all, one of them had cost him dearly. Maybe she doesn’t need to bother, she hopes, recalling the look on his face in her dream, the snarl on his lips as he cradled Harry's body, 'It's your fault, you did it.'

She takes a deep breath, letting the I'mnotgoingtobloodywellfeelsorryformyself mantra wash over her.

Severina resists plucking out the cuticles, watching from the sidelines as Hagrid herded the little tykes towards the lake, scrambling out wide-eyed onto the rocking boats like a bunch of lost souls.

She trudges towards the carriage, her feet dragging like anchors. Lily's own carriage is packed to the brim, so she leans against a nearby tree, waiting for another to pull over. Relieved, really. For once, she hasn’t felt the painful stab of exclusion from being around these people. Sometimes, when she is wound up tighter than a spring, she needs some space from people who could read her like a book and lecture her about her stress levels.

Just then, she gets that prickly feeling on the back of her neck, like someone is watching her. She tilts her head, and that's when she spots him—Lupin, his nose twitching like a rabbit's.

Severina's own nose twitches in response as she mouths to him, “Are you trying to sniff me out?”

Lupin looks like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, mortified that she'd caught him, and more so by her accusations.

Black saunters down to him, slapping a hand over his shoulder. “Mooney, I've been calling you—why aren't you answering? Ah, what's caught your attention?”

Then, those piercing grey eyes land on Severina, first a fleeting dismissive glance, then a full-on stare that makes her skin crawl.

Her heartbeat speeds up, just a notch. She'd be lying if she said she hadn't been thinking about him since remembering Ilya and all the memories that came flooding back. There was the time he found out about her pregnancy, and he'd stare at her with that same intensity, making her feel small and ashamed. She'd wanted to slip into his mind to figure out what the hell he was thinking. Then, all of sudden, he'd tried to touch her belly, still flat and unnoticeable. She'd swatted his hand away, and he'd let out a whoop, “You harpy!” Dramatically smoothing his hand.

She had retorted, “Keep your paws to yourself, mutt.”

Unbothered, he'd murmured, as if speaking to himself, “Harry's always wanted a family to call his own. And once I finally get my name cleared, I'll wrench him away from that vile Petunia, and we'll get out of this bloody shithole. I know you're a sucker for the dark, the damp, and the foreboding. Sev—Grimmauld Place is your bloody playground, isn't it, you little dungeon vixen? But you'll have to rein it in, love. We'll have to find a way to make it work, for Harry's sake, for our son, and for ours. We'll find a way to make this family thing work, together."

His words should've rolled right off her; they shouldn't have taken root in her mind like a bloody curse. But they did. She started to imagine herself in a cottage, surrounded by trees, with kids calling her 'mum'—if Harry would even let her have that much. A boy who'd love her, and whom she'd love back with every fibre of her being. A big black dog trotting after her, whining when she shooed him away to get some work done. Lemon trees blooming in the garden, fresh bread wafting from the oven, and her walking barefoot on the grass, free from the Dark Mark's taint. But she'd choked back the tears, refused to let them fall. Severina had snorted, annoyed despite the grief-daze of her inchoate feelings, “Son? Not a daughter? I knew you were that kind of man.”

Sirius's hackles had risen, and he'd fired back, “What the hell is that supposed to mean, you hag?”

"Sirius."

He'd perked up, his ears pricking up like a dog's at the easy, intimate way she'd spoken his name. It had softened him. She'd looked at him, her tongue darting out to lick her lips. “We can't. You know that—”

It had felt wrong—peeling him out of his stupid dreams.

He'd pounced, “Oh, don't be daft, Severina. You think we can't make this work? I'll bloody well show you we can. Mark my words, love, we'll make this happen, no matter what the cost."

But Severina had just smiled at him, a wry, rueful smile: “Don't fool yourself.” And then she'd flashed the Dark Mark on her hand, a subtle reminder of her responsibility and mistake, as she picked up her coat. “I know you're a fool, but I never took you to be the kind who fools himself on purpose.”

Sirius's grip on her wrist had been like a vice, his fingers closing in like a trap. She'd looked up at him, ready to curse him, but the stormy face that met her gaze had taken her aback. His eyes had blazed with anger, his features twisted in a snarl. When his jaw did that tense, clenching thing that signaled that he had turned into a fatally emotionally compromised ball of rage and grief, she had taken a step backward. But then, in an instant, the tension had dissipated, his grip relaxing, though still firm enough to hold her in place. He was much more composed than normal and less enraged than she had anticipated. He'd brought her raw, tender cuticles to his lips, kissing each one with a tenderness that was both sad and hungry and utterly unyielding. “Don't go back to him,” he'd whispered, “don't...you just don't listen to me; I know what I'm doing.”

Too exhausted with misery to fight him, she had pulled away and never looked back.

Vlad's dark wings flutter ominously over her shoulder, its gaze fixed on the two Gryffindors with intensity.

Severina's lips graze against his feathers, her voice a low, sultry whisper as she says, "Can you bloody well believe that prat almost ended up as your daddy?” Then she lets out a derisive snort, “Shame he's a bloody arsehole, if you ask me. I think I almost even love him.”

"Oi, Snivellus, no one wanted your company, mate?" Potter sneers, his voice like a rusty gate scraping against Severina's nerves.

Black's reaction is automatic; his own sneer perfectly mirrors Potter's. Severina's gaze falls upon him, her eyes rolling in disgust. How could she have thought for a moment that they could make a go of it and raise a kid together? She's better off on her own, without the baggage.

She glances at Potter and says, "Oi, Speccy, how's it feel to be rejected by the one you've been mooning over for ages?”

Potter bristles, and Severina's gaze drifts away, her eyes fixed on the carriage, while he continues to hurl venomous jabs at her. She shuts them out, refusing to rise to the bait, and smiles at how it only makes them more furious.

"Severina," Wilhelm calls, jogging towards her. "And Vlady!" he adds, grinning, like a burst of sunshine on a gloomy day. Blond ringlets shine faintly, even in this dingy station. They're shorter now, but still manage to look boyishly charming.

Vlad's response is characteristically blunt. "Wanker.”

Wilhelm just laughs, undeterred. "You little shite, I missed you," he says, oddly fond of the bird. But then he pauses, his gaze flicking to Severina, and his face takes on a sombre, stoic look. "My condolences for your mother's, Severina.”

For a moment, the old Wilhelm is gone, replaced by a more mature, more compassionate version.

She seizes the opportunity, her hand slipping into the crook of his elbow as she pulls him towards one of the carriages. "That's what everyone's been saying to me; you at least don't," Severina says. "But thank you anyway."

Wilhelm's face remains sombre for a moment longer before he cracks a dimpled smile. "Something funny happened," he says.

Severina raises an eyebrow. "Do you want me to guess?"

Wilhelm's grin widens. "Faucheux was taking a shower, slipped on a soap, and hit his head. Lost his memory, the bloody idiot."

Severina's giggles are instantaneous. Suddenly, the pendant around her neck sparks to life, the runes flaring in response to some unseen threat. A faint, shimmering shield materialises, deflecting a jinx that was meant for her—a jinx that now hurtles back towards its sender. Wilhelm pauses, his face darkens, searching for the culprit.

Her eyes dart from Black's shoes to Potter's, and she lifts an eyebrow. She can't tell from where she is standing which of them sent the tripping jinx, so she smirks at their stupefied expressions before giving them both the finger and slipping into the carriage while shoving the blond before her.

He keeps the map pinned under his hand, his eyes glued to her as he whispers the incantation, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good!”

The ink begins to take shape, but he's not interested in looking at Snivellus's name to make sure it’s there, not when he’s transfixed by her across the hall. She's ignoring me, like always, too caught up in Wilkes's drivel, laughing and smiling at his antics.

The two of them make an odd pair, Wilkes with his charming, goofy grin, and...and her. He doesn't even know how to describe her anymore.

She tilts her head, exposing the curve of her neck, and he finds himself tracing the line of her skin with his eyes. He tightens his grip, stabbing his palm with his nails. The bloody sunglasses she used to wear during classes or to hide behind while gazing back at him like she was daring him to do his worst are now perched on her hair, and she's resting her chin on her hand, still maddeningly hanging on Wilkes's every word.

Sirius takes his time mentally completing the list's slots, the one they'd compiled to confront her with, to shove it in her face and make her squirm. But then she'd done a bloody runner, just weeks before the exams and never set foot in Hogwarts again. Peter had been convinced she'd chickened out after Faucheux had spread it around that she was insane, but then he'd come crawling back with the news that she'd gone to her mum's funeral.

Her mannerisms are familiar yet unfamiliar, like trying to recall a dream that's just out of reach. There's something different, something that's hard to put his finger on.

It's fascinating to watch her, to see the usually solemn, once-gaunt face light up with ease, to see her big eyes half-blinking in frustration as that awful crow peeks out from her shoulder, to see her pause mid-sentence to nuzzle the bloody thing.

It shocks him, how breathtaking and good and right seeing her smile felt, but also how unfair. When he first met her, he'd been trying to be her mate, he and James both, partly to get in good with Evans, but she'd always seen right through their motives, always dismissing them as a pair of prats. And yet, he'd genuinely wanted to be there for her, to be someone she could count on, because he knew her Slytherin housemates would eventually turn on her, scorn her for her blood status.

But what did he get in return? The cold shoulder, the brush-off, or worse, a tongue-lashing that left him feeling like dirt. It made him feel angry, it still does. And now, it seems like she's found someone else to lavish her attention on, someone who doesn't deserve it. The unfairness of it all burns in his gut, but he can't help but be drawn to her, to the way she lights up when she's happy, to the way she makes him feel like he's stuck in the shadows, watching her from afar. It rankles him, deep down, that she'd dare to scorn him. Who does she think she is, anyway?

He's Sirius Black, the scion of the most noble House of Black, for Merlin's sake! He's a pure-blood, with a name that commands respect, and she's just a...a...nobody, a half-blood who thinks she's too good for him.

At first, he can't fathom why he can’t just shove her out of his mind. Why does he keep looking over his shoulder, hoping to catch a glimpse of her sulking in the shadows, just so he can go over and bother her? But then she goes and disappears without a word, and he's left lying awake all night, his heart twisted into knots. He had realised, with a jolt, that he's actually afraid for her, that he misses looking down into those dark eyes that seem to see right through him.

The unwanted realisation of it gnaws at him—that he's not as indifferent to her as he'd like to be. He can only stare covetously at the smiles that aren't meant for him.

She tenses up when Evan sidles up beside her, his pale, droopy eyes gazing at her. For a moment, she looks away from him, her gaze drifting down to her hand. Then she lifts her chin, her big eyes locking onto Evan's, staring at each other, briefly interlacing hand with hand and fingers with fingers. He murmurs something in her ear, and she raises an eyebrow, smiling before refocusing on Wilkes's story. And then abruptly, Evan's finger brushes against her cheek, tucking a stray strand behind her ear, lingering longer than necessary. The gesture is intimate and easy.

And damn her for that little eyebrow flicker, that quirk of her mouth that suggests she doesn't exactly mind Evan's touch. Stupid Snivellus, fancying a wannabe Death Eater like Evan Rosier, someone who'd use her and toss her aside like yesterday's trash. And stupid Sirius, fancying stupid Snivellus of all people. He should be disgusted; he should be hurling his guts out at the mere idea alone. Only he's not. Only his heart is hurting, yearning to take her bird-like wrist and pull her away from his cousin’s grasp.

He wants to tell her, to warn her, to shout at her that she's being foolish, that Evan's just using her, that he never meant to hurt her; it just happened. But the words stick in his throat, his feet unwilling.

"Stop looking, you bloody fool," he tells himself, but his eyes refuse to budge, fixed on the pair like a hawk on its prey. Something sharp stabs him from the inside, a pang of jealousy, of anger, of...he doesn't know what. 

All he knows is that he can't tear his eyes away, can't stop watching her, watching them, his heart heavy with a sense of foreboding.

Sirius' gaze finally falls on the map, and instead of Natalia Brown's flickering name hovering above her dot, he finds it's been replaced by Severina Snape—stable and unchanging.

Chapter Text

Severina's fingers instinctively brush against her bare neck, a habitual gesture that's become a nagging annoyance. She's, by nature, hyperaware of her surroundings, always on high alert for any sign of trouble. Her personal space is her sanctuary, and she's meticulous about keeping everything in its place—books, clothes, bottles, ingredients, planners, everything. 

Chapter Text

When she slams him against the wall with one hand, the air is knocked out of him, and he lets out a humiliating whimper, his bladder threatening to betray him. Her elbow digs into his neck, almost strangling him; her wand presses against his stomach, and her knee angles menacingly between his legs, making him squirm in terror.

Peter gulps and braces for the pain. 

The crow darts its beak towards his eyes, and Peter lets out a high-pitched yelp and squirms away. But before the crow can do any damage, Severina's voice intervenes, "Now, Vlad, play nice with little coward Pet." 

The crow's beak retreats, and Peter exhales a shaky breath. Fear beats like a heart inside his chest. His mousy brown hair is soaked with sweat, and his face is flushed and ruddy. Under his feet, the stone floor feels slipping-edged. 

Severina then looks back at him, and she smiles. For a moment, Peter imagines that Vlad, the crow, mirrors her expression.

“Let me go—let me go.” Peter whispers, low, tinny. 

He scrambles, struggles, and flails, but she stands firm, unyielding as a stone wall. He tries to kick out at her; he pulls and thrashes, his heart racing like a rabbit's, his breath coming in broken gasps. He scratches, tries to kick, moves, fights, and flees—begs, even—but she's not having it. 

She pushes her wand and sends him a lightning-based hex that causes his body to ache intensely as the crow screeches threateningly.

Petrified, he stops struggling, his body slack but as well jittery. 

“Are you done yet?” She drawls, her expression bored, untired, and for a moment, he understands why the young students fear her, why they'd rather flee from her or skip their turn when she's standing across from them in the Duelling Club. 

It's no wonder James sweet-talked his parents into engaging a top-notch duelling tutor to drill him relentlessly over the summer holidays—anything to give him an advantage over her. And it's little wonder, given her unnerving blend of unpredictability and cold menace. Especially now, as it seemed she'd honed her skills to a deadly edge over the break herself. 

“I’m sorry—for—it was a joke, please…” 

The Slytherin leans in, enough that he can smell her perfume, a fresh scent that spoke of wildflowers, blackberry, and mint, her eyes roving over the side of his face up and down, sizing him up.

"A jock," she repeats, deadpan. 

Her tone makes Peter recoil but then she seems to relax, an almost-smile creeping over her lips. "You aren't very brave, nor bright, are you, rat?"

He feels cold as she spits out the word "rat," and a horrible truth dawns on him like a mountain of bricks: she knows. She knows about Wormtail; she knows that he's an Animagus, an unregistered one at that. 

"N-no...what," Peter stammers, trying to feign ignorance, "what are you talking about?"

Snape hums to herself, a maddening, tuneless sound, and then she tells the crow in a stage whisper, "Oh yes, not very bright." 

And that blasted crow on her shoulder lets out a caw, like it's laughing at him too. 

Peter's gaze drifts to the passageways behind Severina, where he can hear light footfall, murmured murmurs, and laughing. Sirius and James must be just around the corner, he realises, coming to rescue me. Peter opens his mouth and yells at the top of his lungs, "Prongs! Help me, Padfoot! Snivellus lost it!"

Snape simply smiles, imitating a feigned look of fear. She pouts her dark reddish-brown lips, the colour of dried blood, he thinks uncomfortably, knits her brows, and coos, "Aw, does the little rat fear old Snivelly? Why, Wormy, you're breaking my heart."

Peter ignores her taunts and yells even louder, but the expected rescue never comes. The sounds of his friends' voices and footsteps fade away into the distance. His eyes flash with a look of betrayal.

"No, they didn't betray you, sweet fat Pet. Treachery is usually your own thing. They didn't hear you—no one can." Snape’s face cracks into a cruel smile, the crow on her shoulder jeering, laughing, as she continues softly, "I've created this spell, one that'll make sure no one's gonna hear your pathetic cries for help, Pettigrew. Do us both a solid: don't try to be something you're not. Just look scared, and for fuck's sake, don't bloody well wet yourself." Then, she lifts her knee off the gap between his legs, like she's waiting for him to lose his nerve and soak his pants. 

Peter's face turns hideously beet-red, his eyes darting about for any help. He’s nervous—no, he’s scared. She's got him spooked, and she always has. Once, she had a creepy doll-like quality, with sharp, harmless edges, a vulnerability that seemed to invite abuse. It was easy to overlook how much she made him feel uneasy, on edge, when there’s someone else to encourage him or draw her attention to them.

But now, her smile has fangs, and she's transformed into an unrecognisable creature. She has gotten taller and healthier, and her plain muscles flex beneath her uniform as she crashes her elbow on his throat, pinning him to the wall again.

Shakily, he tries to edge towards his wand, his legs wobbling. "W-what do... you... want?" he stutters, near-hysterical, interrupted only by his shallow, painful breaths.

To rip your little throat out, her glare suggests. She shoves him against the wall harder, her knee crushing his edging hand against the wall, preventing him from reaching his wand. He whimpers, squeamish, tears welling up in his eyes. 

"Look at me!" The Slytherin commands.

Subdued, he's forced to crane his neck to meet her gaze, his head tilted back until he's almost gazing upwards. And she is, too—almost as tall as Prongs and Padfoot, and seemingly having shot up even more over the summer, towering above the rest like the tallest bird in their year. Only the sixth years surpass her height, yet none have ever intimidated him quite like she does.

He lays his eyes first on the mocking crow perched on her shoulder, then back to her, on the glint of her almost-smile, and when he meets her scalding eyes, impossible eyes, impossibly clear, very dark, she whispers, “Legilimens.”  

Then, he feels an inexplicable tug, and the anguish of it bursts through his head like a grenade. He feels her presence, invasive and uninvited, rummaging through his memories like a thief. She's watching Moony, watching him look up at the sky, hands in his pocket, saying, 'I don't know, Peter. Snape is...You saw her tears, but not the iron underneath'.

She snorts at that, and he feels the memory shift and twist, like a snake slithering through the grass. Multiple images flash through his mind, a jumbled mess of thoughts and emotions. Shameful things that she doesn’t raise an eyebrow at, merely flipping through and through and through.  

But she stops when she sees the Map, and he feels her interest pique. "I solemnly swear I am up to no good," memory-James said, his finger tracing the yellowed paper. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me; she's still Snape here."

“Not possessed then,” Memory-Remus said. “Drop it; she’s mental.” 

"Or maybe, somehow, she got her hand on the Map," Prongs suggested, his eyes narrowing in thought.

The four of them exchange a look.

She digs deeper, and he feels the memory shift like a rusty gate creaking open. He's back in the darkness of the dungeon, the four of them huddled under the invisibility cloak, sneaking towards the Slytherin dorm. Peter's in his rat form, perched on James' hand, as James patted him reassuringly. "Alright, Wormtail, it's some kind of protection trinket she's wearing, a ring or a hairpin. I don't know," James whispered. Then he paused, watching one of the Carrow twins murmuring the password, 'Potenia.'

‘Wormtail’ Snape snorts in his head, ‘How wonderfully accurate.’

In that moment, Peter hates her as much as he hated the nickname when it was first given to him, but he eventually came to accept and even enjoy it, only to hate it once more after hearing her laugh and sensing her condescending amusement. 

Then Sirius shook them fervently, "Oh, the door is open; run, run, run!" They dropped Peter to his feet, and quickly, he scrambled between the legs to sweep under the nearest ornate furniture. 

He took a moment to adjust to the light and then to the coldness, his eyes squinting against the brightness. Wary, Wromtali peeked out from his hiding spot, his beady eyes scanning the room. 

High heels clicked against the dark tiles. Then, the whisper of liquid pouring, the clinking of metal against ceramic, and the faint, cautious scrape of button-tufted leather chairs being drawn out. Maybe, the supple folding of legs and the lazy murmur of a yawn. A fire was crackling under an elaborately carved mantelpiece ahead of them, and several Slytherins were silhouetted around it in carved chairs. The air was heavy with the scent of black tea and perfumes. Skulls adorned the shelves, and dark wood cupboards loomed like sentinels. The room extended partway under the lake, giving the light a bluish-green tinge that made Wormtail's fur stand on end. Tapestries featuring the adventures of famous Mediaeval Slytherins draped over the walls, their intricate threads splashed with cloth-of-silver. One of the wooden tables was occupied by a Wizard's Chess set, where Malfoy sat, absently staring into space. 

The room was more opulent than the Gryffindor common room, but in a way, it felt suffocating, like a velvet-lined trap. He recognised Roberts, Snape's fair-haired and short roommate, trotting after her as she walked, seemingly distracted by her reading homework. It was easy to leap onto her bag and wait, nestled among the folds of her cloak. She climbed the stairs, and he watched as she passed by the doors to the dormitories, each with a numbered plaque designating the year. Until she reached the fourth year, and from there, she slipped unnoticed until she reached a door, equally ornate with snakes and skulls, that bore the names "Flint, Roberts, Snape, Snyde," on a plaque. She opened the door, walked inside, and Wormtail leapt out, landing on another piece of furniture. The first thing he noticed was the lake water lapping against the windows, creating a soothing melody. The four-poster beds were shrouded in green silk verdant canopies. Silver lanterns hung from the ceiling, casting a soft, ethereal glow over the room.

In the small alcove on the other side of one of the beds, Snape lounged, swathed in a blanket; he could see her bare collarbone and the curve of her breasts peeking out from a black nightgown. A cigarette dangled precariously from her hand, but Wormtail's sensitive nose detected no hint of the familiar acrid smell of smoke. Maybe some kind of spell, he thought, his beady eyes scanning the room. And then, his gaze fell on the crow, that awful, blasted creature perched on the rail of the canopy, engaged with its owner's Russian-sounding muttering. Snape was engrossed in a titleless book, its dark leather cover worn and old, as a self-writing quill hovered above her head, scribbling away with a fast scratching sound. Around her, three or four books floated. 

Wormtail's attention shifted to Roberts, and the rat's eyes grew wide with lechery as he stared at the girl disrobing, her clothes slipping off her shoulders like silk, revealing glimpses of her skin. He leered at her, following her every move, his beady eyes fixed on her body. He missed the moment. Severina stubbed out the cigarette and went to bed, taking the crow with her before closing the curtain around them, shutting out the rest of the world.

But the memory shifts abruptly, like a harsh jolt, before Roberts can get fully naked. Instead, Snape's eyes narrow, and she punches him squarely on the nose; the cartilage gives away under her knuckles, and the warm wetness of blood splatter on her fingers. She seems pained by the punch, but it is nothing compared to the agony that seared through. He sobs openly, the tears streaming down his face as he clutches his broken nose. But she is uncaring, shoving him back with a strength that belied her slender frame, careless that she is stepping over his piss.

"You sick son of a bitch. You disgust me.” 

“I’m so…sorry.”

“No, you are not. You are sorry you got caught.” 

And then, she does something, a mental manipulation that's not a simple Obliviate, not nonverbal, nor wandless. It's something she's done with her mind, and as a result, Wormtail's memories of Roberts's undressing are obliterated, erased from his mind like they never existed. He cannot even recall the delightful shape of Roberts, nor the way she undressed, nothing. The memory is gone, lost, leaving only a faint sense of unease and fear.

His eyes well up with tears as he whimpers, "Please." But Severina's grip only tightens. His bladder finally gives in, and he feels a warm trickle spreading down his leg.

Her gaze flicks down, grimaces, but she shows no sign of relenting.

"Silent!" She hisses. And again, she spits out "Legilimens." The memory snaps back into focus, with Wormtail's gaze darting around the room. 

He scurried around Severina's immaculately organised belongings, his beady eyes scanning the shelves and desk. Books without titles were stacked high, many of which he was sure he had seen before in the restricted section. He tried to pry open the school trunk at the foot of her bed, but it was warded, heavily so. Then he tried to snatch her bag, but it too was protected by powerful spells that seemed to repel him like dark magic.

Undeterred, he climbed the wooden nightstand next to the closet, his eyes locked on the crow whose shadow loomed on Snape's pillow beside her head like a Grim Reaper. On the nightstand, he spotted a pack of cigarettes, a small stand holding five different sizes of bottles with unidentified potions, their labels scrawled in Russian. One of the bottles had the word 'memory' scrawled on it in a hasty script. Finally, he saw a small seashell-shaped plate with the occasional rings that Snape had worn. The rat scurried through the pile, its claws scratching against trinkets, desperate for any sign of magic. Then it froze, its beady eyes catching a glimmer—a faint, pale light, like a tiny sun in the gloom. There it was: a golden, coin-shaped pendant lying atop a sealed letter. Its delicate chain, so impossibly fine, seemed as though it had been spun by a spider’s thread.

Wormtail’s paws trembled with excitement as he extended them toward the pendant. The moment his claws brushed the metal, he felt it—a faint pulse of magic, stirring memories of his aunt’s protective earrings. Without a second thought, he looped the delicate gold chain around his thin, scruffy neck. The pendant fell against his chest, cold and gleaming, a weight both comforting and urgent. In that instant, a singular thought consumed him: he had to escape. He darted a quick glance at the looming shadow of the crow, his heart hammering. Then he scurried out of the room, the golden pendant clutched tightly in his paws. 

At last, Wormtail scurried past the dormitories, his heart still pounding from the close call, and made his way back to Gryffindor Tower, to the reassuring familiarity of their shared room. Pushing the door open, he found Moony cross-legged on the floor, a book balanced on his knee like an impromptu desk, his brow furrowed in concentration. James was sprawled on the bed, idly tossing the Golden Snitch from hand to hand with the practiced ease of someone perpetually unimpressed. Sirius, meanwhile, lounged by the windowsill, one leg dangling lazily over the side as he exhaled a plume of smoke from a cigarette, his expression unreadable. 

Remus snapped his book shut with a look of concern. "No detention, I hope?" he asked dryly. 

Peter slammed the door shut behind him, his chest rising and falling in labored gasps, the golden pendant clenched tightly in his trembling hand. He sagged against the door, gathering himself before raising the pendant to eye level, its polished surface catching the light as he held it out for the others to see. “I found this,” he blurted, his voice shaky but eager. “It felt… strange.”

The room fell into a tense silence, every gaze fixed on the pendant. Sirius abandoned his perch on the windowsill, straightening up with a sharp focus, his dark eyes locked on the gleaming trinket. Remus was the first to act. He reached out with a hand, flipping the pendant to reveal its etched underside. His brow knit in thought as he studied the markings. “Protection runes,” he murmured, his voice low. “Real gold, real stone. This is… significant.”

James grabbed the pendant, flipping it back over, and his eyes squinted as he paused on the crow's lone eye. "Ruby, eh?" He enquired, his tone tinged with suspicion. "Not exactly following the Slytherin dress code, is it?"

Snatching it from James, Sirius gazed at the curves of the crow, its lone eye glinting in the light, as Remus murmured, "Maybe that's why, mate—her familiar's got red eyes, after all."

"The point is," James cut in, his voice rising, "she's dirt poor, and protection jewellery doesn't come cheap, especially not for her. And this is gold—real gold, not some dodgy fake stuff—and a ruby, to boot. You think she nicked it, don't you?"

"Maybe it's a family heirloom, yeah?" Remus suggested, his eyes still fixed on the pendant, "You know, something that's been passed down through her family for years?"

"Or maybe it's a gift, eh?" James said, "A little present from someone she's got in her pocket, if you know what I mean. A favour for a favour, that sort of thing."

Sirius’s face darkened. He scoffed. "You think she's selling herself out to someone, Prongs?"

Peter can sense the annoyance radiating from Snape, like a physical force. And if his instincts don't fail me, he detects a hint of disappointment too, bitter and sad. 

Remus said "Or maybe, Sirius, you're grasping at straws and desperate for something. Remind me, why exactly did we steal this?" 

"Eh. Hex her, that's what I'd do." James said as Sirius's fingers absently tracked the crow pattern on the pendant. He then added, determined, “Says I can't touch her without you lot backing me up. Well, I'll show her; I'll show her what it means to cross me.” 

The two started arguing, but Peter felt himself being ignored, his eyes darting between the trio like a trapped animal. Suddenly, he blurted out, "I knew where Snape hid all the grease!"

The three heads snapped towards him, James and Remus looking bemused, while Sirius threw him a lopsided smile. "Where?" he asked. 

Peter hesitated, his eyes darting around the group before he said, eagerly, "In her...tits, yeah? She's got a rack on her, if you know what I mean. I mean, the Slytherin birds, they're flauntin' it, wearin' next to nothin' in their dormitory, and I saw... Sniv, yeah, and I'm tellin' you, she stashed the grease in her bloody chubby tits."

It made Sirius and James and, a bit grudgingly, Remus guffaw, but Peter afterwards felt Sirius stare at him, his face darkening just a little bit. No one seemed to notice, too busy questioning him about what he saw.

"Snape has a rack? Impossible, she's flat-chested and chicken-legged." 

"I think Peter might have been seeing things, don't you, Wormtail?”

"Yeah, yeah, very funny, Wormtail. But what else did you see, huh? Anything else you want to share with the class?"

Slipping out of his mind again, eyebrow arching up in disdain. "My chubby tits?" She repeats, slowly, almost amusedly, as though she's still in disbelief at what she's heard. "But Wormy, yours are chubbier than mine. Have you ever looked at yourself in the mirror, you big-teated pig?” 

“I’m sor..sorry — I want them to like me. Please..” 

“They are your friends. They see something in you, whatever it is.” 

She lets him go then, and he crashes to his knees over the puddle, clutching his bleeding nose. 

Snape waves her hand, a delicate gesture of disdain, her nose pinched in distaste, “I couldn't stomach another bloody second inside your twisted mind. And I've already acquired what I desired. But there is one trifling matter that remains...unresolved. Where, pray tell, is my...pendant?"

"S–Sirius, he keeps it in his pocket," he says. "Will keep it until James gets back at you, he said." 

Though she claimed she wouldn't snoop around in his mind again, he can sense her lurking, probing for the truth. And when she finds it, she nods to herself, a small, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Peter's eyes blaze with hate, but also with crippling fear—fear that she'd report him for being an unregistered Animagus, for spying on her roommate. Though he can’t remember what he'd seen, she'd wiped that memory clean.

She smiles at him pleasantly. "Good boy," she purrs. And with that, everything goes black. Peter’s eyes roll back, and he crashes to the ground into piss-scented sleep. 

When he regains consciousness, hours later, Peter groggily opens his eyes, wincing in pain as he tries to breathe through his broken nose. His head is pounding, and his body aches all over. As he struggles to sit up, he realises that he had no idea what had happened. His memories of the hours are hazy and unclear.

But as he looks around, trying to get his bearings, he feels a creeping sense of fear. It starts as a tiny spark in the back of his mind, but it quickly grows into a raging inferno. He is terrified of black eyes, and the thought of snooping while he was in his Wormtail form made his skin crawl.

Idly, he raises his eyes as a bird's shadow passes over him. 

After dumping James in the Hospital Wing—again—after his latest broomstick blunder, courtesy of ogling Evans, Sirius decided to take the long way around the ground corridors. The cold afternoon light on his skin and the wind's gentle caress of his hair were just what he needed to clear his head.

The ground corridors, with their arched doors leading out to the yard, were a favourite haunt of his. Filch and his arsey cat rarely patrolled this area, making it the perfect spot to sneak in a smoke. Which, come to think of it, was the whole reason he was here in the first place. Only, he remembers with a curse as he pats his pockets, that he'd given his last pack to Remus.

But as he rummages through his pockets, his fingers stumble upon something he wasn't expecting—the pendant. He pulls it out, his thumb tracing the outline of the much-too-cold little trinket. Snivellus's pendant, of all things. Red as gore, the ruby eye glares up at him, lodged in the crow's socket like a macabre replacement. Otherwise, the design is too simple and functional; now that he looks at it closely, it's a seal rather than some fancy trinket meant to be flaunted. But its real value lies in the intricate protection runes etched onto its reverse side, the same runes that he and James had worn to push their limits, only to watch as jinxes and hexes bounced right back at their senders, no matter how many there were or how coordinated their attacks.

He turns it over in his hand, feeling a surge of something. 

Over the summer, whenever she invaded his thoughts, Sirius would try to evict her swiftly, ruthlessly. He knew he shouldn't be wasting his time on her, shouldn't be letting himself get lost in fantasies about that wretched, soul-draining…

But, Merlin, he's stuck. Helpless. And, to make matters worse, he's well rattled about it, too. It's like he's been caught in a trap and can't escape, and it's driving him mental.

In his mind's eye, she's always standing beneath the oak tree by the Black Lake, as still as a statue and as solemn as a graveyard. She's bathed in pale sunlight, blanketed in snow. She's been there long enough for the flakes to build up around her like a shroud, making her look like some ill-made, neglected porcelain doll. That's how he remembers her from their first year, trussed up in that massive coat that looked like it belonged to someone else and that ridiculous fur hat piled high with snow.

The image always gets him riled up, stuck somewhere between anger and frustration. Sometimes, he imagines himself striding up to her, just to get a rise out of her, so they can have a good old-fashioned shouting match. She'd growl at him, speaking in bitten-off words with that weird accent of hers, and he'd always be impressed by her creative swearing. Sometimes, she'd just stare him down, ignoring him completely, without so much as a flicker of expression. And Sirius would be his usual, provocative self, because that's just how he'd decided to be with her from day one. Either she'd continue to ignore him or pretend she'd never heard him, but Sirius knew she was always listening—her reactions were too obvious to miss. Her eyes would cloud over, or he'd catch a fleeting lapse of shattering vulnerability, that brief, telling tremble of her lips, or the unshed tears she'd hastily blink away, all tiny cracks in her armour that she couldn't quite conceal.

The cloudless sky turns a pale purple, the colour of an old bruise, then fades to a velvet blue. 

Another shadow swoops in, circling around him, and before he knows it, it's right on top of him. He looks up, surprised, and that's when another blighter strikes—the pendant's ripped out of his hand. Sirius's eyes go wide in shock as he gapes at his empty hand, then up at the birds flying off with his loot, then back at his hand again, like he can't believe the audacity of the thief. “Bloody hell!” he bellows, withdraws his wand, and takes off in hot pursuit. “Get back here, you fuck—fucking Sniv!”

The crow lets out a loud, mocking "Suka, Suka" as it takes off, dodging Sirius's jinxes with ease. It flies higher, then lower, disappearing into the trees ahead. Sirius leaps over the balcony, ignoring the yelps of surprise from the girls below, and tosses out a half-hearted "Sorry, ladies," as he bounds down the slope, then hits the road that leads to the river. The sun's dipping below the treetops by the time he reaches his destination—a small, secluded clearing deep in the woods, where nine ancient oak trees form a rough circle. And there, sitting on a fallen trunk in the centre of the grove, is Snape. A murder of silent crows perched on the trees over her. The thieving chicken that stole the pendant is perched on her shoulder, looking smugly at him with impossibly red eyes. Like the ruby, he remembers Remus noticing. 

Sirius draws in a deep breath, his eyes fixed on her as the blasted bird continues to taunt him with its shrill "Suka, Suka, Suka" chant. 

She doesn't even bother to glance up at him, too engrossed in fastening the pendant around her neck, where it disappears beneath her shirt. A cigarette dangles from her lips, and Sirius’s eyebrow arches in startled disbelief. He’d always pegged her as too proper for something so crass—too straight-laced, too much of a stick-up-her-arse type to ever stoop to such a mundane vice. Then again, whatever head injury she’d sustained—or whatever dark magic she’d been fooling around with—had clearly left its mark. This wasn’t the same witch he used to know. Since the accident—an incident Sluggy quietly blamed them for—she’d changed. She was harder now, sharper around the edges, as if something inside her had cracked and let the darkness seep through. Ruthless and fragile all at once, she’d become dangerous in a way that made her colder, unpredictable, and anything but safe.

She exhales a puff of smoke, her eyes drifting shut with an air of deliberate indifference, as if Sirius weren’t even there. A red-varnished claw idly strokes the beak of the obnoxious bird perched on her arm. Then, without warning, she drawls, “That means ‘bitch,’ in case you missed it.”

Sirius stares, momentarily stunned into silence, and she meets his gaze with an utterly blank expression. “Bitch,” she repeats flatly.

Snapping out of it, Sirius quickly raises his wand and barks, “Accio pendant!” But, predictably, nothing happens. Of course it doesn’t. It was a bloody long shot to begin with. The moment that pendant had settled around her neck, any plans of hexing her had gone up in smoke. Useless.

Unimpressed, Snape’s gaze slides lazily toward Sirius, more bored than alarmed. She leans toward the bird and mutters, “You should have shat on his egocentric, thieving head, Vlad.”

The crow lets out a sharp, mocking caw: “Suka.” Somewhere in the trees, another of the eerily quiet crows murmurs the same word in mournful agreement: “Suka.”

She bares her teeth in a feral grin—sharp, savage, and painfully familiar. It’s the same grin she’d flashed at James just before finishing him.

In a heartbeat, quick as an eyelid’s beat, their wands are up, pointed directly at each other.

It’s hardly the ideal place for a duel. The ground is damp and treacherous, slick with mud, hidden rocks, and twisting roots ready to betray the unwary. Sirius still wears his Quidditch gear, the leather stiff and clinging uncomfortably, while she’s in her dragonskin boots. And then there’s the bloody pendant, which automatically tips the scales in her favor.

But if Sirius can just get close enough—close enough to rip that damned protection charm from around her neck—they’ll be on even ground again. And then, maybe, he might stand a chance of taking her down.

The first shot's fired, and suddenly they're dancing before their little dotted audience, their wands weaving a deadly rhythm. Sirius inches closer, steadily, deliberately. She edges closer too, perhaps unaware she’s playing right into his hands, her proximity making it all the easier to snatch that pendant from her neck.

But she’s fast, damnably fast, light-footed; her gait is bold; it's a hybrid of swaying and sauntering. Every time he thinks he’s close enough to grab her, she slips away like smoke.

Snape dodges, twists, and pivots, always just beyond his reach. But when one spell lingers too long, their magic colliding with a deafening crack, they find themselves face-to-face, a blinding flash of scarlet light sizzling between them. 

Sirius laughs. “Very good, wench.”

In response, she exhales a lazy plump of smoke directly into his face, the cigarette still dangling insolently from her lips.

His eyes water, but he can't tear them away, torn between morbid amusement and anger, his emotions in a jumbled mess, ineffable. "I waited for you," Sirius admits, his voice low and rough. "I thought you'd scurried back into the rathole you crawled out of." He grinds out the words, his anger and excitement tangled together like a snarled rope. 

Snape flashes that sharp, fang-toothed smirk with a glee that’s nothing short of vicious. "Did you miss me?" 

"Oh, terribly," he growls, his eyes locked onto hers, soaking in the raw savagery that's, for once, it doesn't look like a stolen glove that doesn't quite fit; it looks like a stored-up natural extension of her. And it's intoxicating...erotic, even. This spectacular, bloodthirsty savagery. The iron underneath, as Remus had once put it. Black as a pitch, hard, and strong, and she will break before she bends. It is a bloody beautiful thing to look at, and at the same time, utterly terrifying, knowing that the one in its crosshairs, but isn’t this the right order of things? They've been building towards this all along, even when he was the hound to her rabbit. They were always racing towards this moment, 

Parrying, he charges at her, "You still owe me for that little poisoning incident, if you recall.” 

Step and slide. She pouts, "Oh, boo-hoo. Don’t be such a baby, you’re too old for that.” 

"And clearly, you need someone to knock you down a peg or two. You're getting a bit too big for your britches, love."

They both stumble on the treacherous root of the devil's snare, but neither of them notices, too caught up in their duel. For a heartbeat, Sirius thinks she's done for, but she recovers swiftly, dropping to one knee instead of falling flat on her ass. She doesn't miss a beat, never stopping her water-like motion. Adjusting his aim, Sirius sends a spell hurtling towards her, but she swats it away with a flick of her wand, "You arrogant little toad. Of course, it rankles you that I dare to snap back, doesn't it? The idea that the mutt's favourite plaything could ever be more than just a plaything is simply too much to bear."

Breathless, he sizes the seconds of solace she unwisely offers. Then he charges again, mindful of his footing. “Well, Snivellus, maybe if you weren't always so easy to provoke, I wouldn't have had to! Besides, you know you secretly enjoyed it—it kept you on your toes, didn't it?" 

"Since the moment I dared to refuse you—" rotating, she spits out, hard-eyed, "and your unwanted attention.” 

Fuelled by the sour taste of frustration and wounded pride, his rage surges. It is galling to learn that she had been aware of his overtures the entire time but had purposefully avoided him, preferring those would-be Death Eaters over him. It stings, her rejection. Shame-racked by her knowing his thoughts, Sirius brittles, "You're just a bloodsucking leech, feeding off Evans' goodwill. I was only trying to take the heat off her, give her some space to breathe.”

The words feel like a knife-blade that digs deeper into her flesh. For a moment, the world teeters on the edge of a sword. Snape sounds like Snape again, an observing, weepy Snape. She's lost for words, her face a mask of distant blankness, her eyes gloss right past him, as if he's suddenly become invisible. It's like she's slipped back into a different time, a different place, and he's no longer standing in front of her, with their spells clashing and sizzling the very same air they are breathing. The expression on her face is hauntingly familiar, like the sad, lonely girl he'd seen standing beneath the oak tree, snowflakes piling up on her hat, biting her lips to stop them from trembling.

Sirius feels a sudden jolt of vague sense of unease, as if he's been erased from her reality. He needs to snap her out of this Merlin-blasted trance; he raises his voice, infusing a mocking tone into it. "Just consider it character building!" 

And he seizes the opening, his eyes locked on hers. He shoves a foot forward, adjusts his wand with a subtle flick of his wrist, and the collision of spells ends. Suddenly, she's off-balance, her eyes widening as she sways, and the spell bites deep, drawing blood from her shoulder. Sirius takes a half-step forward, his heart pounding in his chest, but she snaps out of her Merlin-blasted trance, and then he sees it, the shattering vulnerability. 

Sirius is already pivoting; he kicks her legs out from under her, but she's maddeningly too quick, and only one foot leaves the ground. Numbly, she says in something not much above a whisper. "You left me," and if he weren't close enough, the wind would have snatched the words away. "Alone, and he blamed me for your death; he blamed me for the choice I had to make...to Ilya, only because you made promises you can't keep. That's what you're good at, aren't you?" 

“What are you blabbering about?”

Her lips then tremble freely. Sirius is enthralled, staring at her like a magnet. 

He can't even understand a word of the resentful charges she's spewing out, yet he can't take his eyes off of her. It's as if it’s his turn to be trapped in a Merlin-blasted trance, his mind dull and unresponsive. He regains his senses. The spell only breaks when her lips stop trembling, and the tears that had been threatening to fall disappear like morning’s fog. Suddenly, her face is cold, unfeeling, and she's unrecognisable, a stranger to him once again. A predator, he thinks, alarmed. 

"Expelliarmus!" she cries. 

A blinding flash of light erupts, and Sirius is lifted off his feet, sent flying backward out of the clearing. He crashes into a tree with a loud thud, the impact knocking the wind out of him, and then slides down the trunk to sprawl on the forest floor, dazed and disoriented. He should have seen it coming—it was the same trick she'd used to take down Frank in their duel, and he'd been thoughtless enough to fall for it again. 

A cold wind whispers through the trees. Silence. He is rendered helpless when another 'Expelliarmus' tears his wand from his feeble grasp. A thump, his wand has been thrown away. 

He hears her footsteps crunching in the mud, laggard and somewhat heavy, and then her shadow looms over him, casting a dark silhouette over the forest floor. "Never dare to taste my power, and most importantly, never dare to taste my fury." Her voice is cold, almost unrecognisably so. The anger seems to go out of her all at once. And then all the moment, all he sees is the sad, lonely girl beneath the oak tree, almost storm-wrecked but somberly glorious.

The words 'Don't you dare walk away' scream in his mind, but they refuse to leave his lips. All that comes out is a rasping, inhuman sound, like the growl of a beast. It's as if his voice has been ripped from his throat. 

Spitting out the salt-iron of his blood, he digs his hands into the mud, using the dirt to haul himself up, his back aching from the force of their magical clash. But it's the heart-tearing break in her tone that really gets to him—it's wrong, somehow hollow, like there's nothing behind it. Refusing to dwell on the notion, he pushes it down, telling himself it's just a trick. Instead, he thinks about the absurdity of the situation: the rabbit walking away from the hound, unscathed and triumphant. Miffed and more than a little frustrated, Sirius does the only sensible thing, given that neither jinx nor hex seems to have any effect on her. He shoves his hand into the ground, the cool, damp mud squelching unpleasantly against his fingers. He scoops up a hefty handful, shaping it into a dense ball. Weighing it briefly in his palm, he aims then hurls it at her retreating back. The clay missile strikes its target with a wet splat, squarely on the back of her head. 

Snape goes eerily still. 

Satisfied, on unsteady legs, Sirius himself up. "Oh, come on, Snivellus. You know I love a good challenge." 

He's trying to provoke her, to get a rise out of her, but she's not taking the bait. Yet. Mud trickles from her hair, creating a dirty rivulet down to her shoulder, where that detestable crow perches, its eyes flashing with baneful intent. Sirius's instincts twitch, his body tensing up, but he tries to play it cool. That bird is seriously unsettling, though. 

When she turns around, Snivellus's face is maddeningly blank, but there's a faint twitch in one of her eyes. Sirius lets out a loud, uncontrollable guffaw, because he's never managed to rile her up enough to see her eye twitch like that before. It's an expression he's only ever seen on his mother's face. Hastily, he shoves the unsettling thought aside to keep laughing, to keep mocking her. Mockery has always been his shield, his tried-and-true weapon for dealing with her—a guaranteed way to provoke her and keep the upper hand. It’s easier than acknowledging the uneasy knot forming in his chest, easier than facing the creeping realization that the [his] rabbit might be turning her back on him.

After a beat, she says evenly. "No, you didn't."

His laughter grows louder, until it’s abruptly cut off. He's tackled to the ground, and a startled yelp escapes his lips, half from the shock of the impact, half from the utter astonishment of being taken down by none other than Snivellus Snape. Sirius lands on his back, wheezing wetly for air as his lungs collapse, with Snivellus tumbling on top of him. For a fleeting, electrifying instant, her face is pressed against his neck, her warm breath sending shivers down his spine. 

Instantly, Snape’s slender frame has warmed his body with naked warmth and heated skin. Hyperaware, he feels the curve of her chest, which is more pronounced than he'd anticipated—and surprisingly, more generous than Parkinson's, whose assets he'd had the pleasure of fondling during their snogging sessions; the swell presses against him momentarily distracts him from the pain of being tackled to the muddy ground. 

A deep, fractious, snarly sense of fulfilment stirs at the back of his mind as her body melds into his, as if he's finally discovered the missing key to unlock the cage of all his unacknowledged desires. The realisation provokes a flicker of simultaneous unease and embarrassing, shame-faced arousal. His body betrays him. In equal measure, he’s aroused and appalled. 

If Moony could read his mind, he'd probably recommend a Mind Healer to purge him of his besotted thoughts. But James… oh, James would be a different kettle of fish entirely. He'd likely try to snap Sirius out of his ill-gotten fancy, going off about how some miscreant must’ve slipped him a piss-poor Love Potion and how they’d need to hunt the culprit down and thrash them within an inch of their life for such an audacious crime. He’d declare—loud enough for the entire castle to hear—that the infamous Black Madness had finally taken hold. And perhaps, for once, he’d be right. 

Perhaps Sirius had gone barking mad.

Then, she cinches her thighs around his waist, holding him securely in place as she shifts against him, one hand pressed to his chest to steady herself. She gazes down at him through a fringe of sooty lashes, blinking over eyes so impossibly dark they seem to drink in every bit of light around them.

The filtered, half-dying sun behind her head hangs like a golden pear. Sirius’s breath catches in his throat as he stares up at her, his eyes unwillingly tracing the contours of radiant healthy face. Tiny specks of light that seem to dance around her. 

For a fleeting moment, she looks almost… beautiful—a thought so absurd it nearly makes him laugh. Applying such a word to the infamous Snivellus Snape is nothing short of madness, and the ridiculousness of it jolts him of his frustration-laden rage at his own subconscious.

Before he can dwell on it further, his eyes snap wide in alarm as he notices the mudball—crafted with silent, wandless precision—hovering precariously above his head. Then, fastly, it slams down onto his face with a wet thwack.

Sputtering, Sirius growls indignantly, the sound muffled by the muck. “You bloody vicious banshee!”

“Fuck around and find out.”

Some of the vile sludge had invaded his mouth, and Sirius jerks his head to the side, spitting repeatedly to rid himself of the soupy clumps assaulting his tongue. His vision blurs as the mud seeps into his eyes, and the cold, sticky mess clinging to his hair and skin makes his head feel heavy as lead.

His jaw tightens. Sirius wraps his hands around her waist, his thumbs pressing into the firm lines of her abs as he flips them over with ease. She yelps, startled, as she lands flat on her back. He straddles her, pinning her firmly beneath him, his thighs locking her in place. One hand shoots out, capturing her slender wrists and pinning them above her head. Looming over her, his hair dripping with mud, he growls, "Seems you've forgotten your place, Snivelly." He wipes the mud from his own face onto his palm before flinging it back at her. The thick clump smacks her squarely, smearing her face in a layer of cold, sticky brown.

Her indignant sputtering is music to his ears.

“Let me go.” 

“What were you talking about?"

She freezes beneath him, wide-eyed and cornered, her breath shallow as she realizes there’s no escape. Sirius leans in closer, his voice low and biting as he begins to recount her words. “You said I died. That he—whoever he is—blamed you for it. Ilya or something, isn’t that what you said?”

Severina’s face remains impassive, cold as steel, but there’s a faint flicker—so brief it’s almost imperceptible—at the mention of the name. She repeats numbly, “Let me go.”

It’s the subtle way her expression tightens, the faint recoil at hearing the name from his mouth, that makes him hesitate. He has her where he wants her, pinned and vulnerable, the perfect moment to press her for answers.

“What promises—?”

“Piss off.” 

But before he can act, a sudden dark shape swoops down from the corner of his eyes. A crow tears through the air with a fierce whoosh, its wings cutting the silence like a blade. It dives toward him, its beak snapping wildly, talons stretched out and aimed for his head.

"Bloody hellhound!" Sirius ducks just in time, the bird's claws narrowly missing him. "Bugger off, you rotter!" he snarls, whipping his head around to follow its path.

But his distraction proves costly. Snape's long fingers dart up, closing around his loosened tie. With a deft, vicious tug, she tightens the fabric and yanks him down toward her. Before he can react, she arches her head back-and with brutal force, she slams her forehead into his. The sharp thud reverberates through his skull, leaving him momentarily stunned.

In his dazed state, he absently releases Snape’s wrists, both hands flying up to clutch his throbbing head, he swears loudly. 

Sirius’s first instinct is to retaliate, the temptation to finally straighten Snape’s hooked nose nearly irresistible. 

But before he can act, a sharp voice stops them. “Miss Snape! Mr. Black! What is the meaning of this? You are both out of line!”

Sirius jerks his head toward the speaker, his vision still swimming slightly. Through the stinging pain and the mortifying weight of his current predicament, his gaze lands on Professor Sprout. Her expression is a wild mixture of horror and disbelief as she surveys the scene before her.

Behind her, Hagrid’s towering form looms large, his broad shoulders tense with awkward confusion. His beetle-black eyes dart between the two of them—mud-caked, dishevelled, and tangled on the ground. His brows knit together, equal parts worried and thoroughly bewildered, before he abruptly lowers his gaze, looking anywhere but at them.

For a moment, time seems to stand still. Both Sirius and Severina let out a simultaneous, dumbstruck gasp, their mortification reaching new, unprecedented heights. They exchange a mortified glance, both equally red-faced and horrified, before scrambling to their feet in a clumsy, awkward mess.

Sirius, tangled in the deadly Tentacula vines, grabs hold of Severina as an improvised crutch, using her to extricate himself. As soon as he’s free, he shoves her toward the same writhing vines unceremoniously. 

Snape retaliates immediately, jabbing her elbow into his face and yanking his hair for balance as she fights to stay upright.

“Let me go, you flea-bitten cur!” 

“Oh, are you bloody kidding me? Stop shoving me, you snivelling, sour-faced bitch!” 

Before their bickering can escalate further, massive hands close around their scarves like iron pincers, yanking them apart.

“Enough, you two! Behave yerselves!” Hagrid bellows, holding them aloft like a pair of quarrelsome kittens, each dangling helplessly from his grip.

“He started it!” Snape blurts, pointing an accusatory finger at Sirius.

“She’s the one who started throwing punches! If anyone deserves an extra helping of detention, it’s that slimy—”

“Sirius Black, that’s enough!” Professor Sprout interjects, her voice rising with indignation. “Mind your language, young man!”

Sirius glares, muttering under his breath, “Slimy bitch…”

“Lewd cur,” Severina retorts.

“Severina Snape!” Sprout snaps, scandalised.

The wretched crow seizes the moment to deliver a sharp peck to his ear, and Sirius lets out an undignified yelp.

The bitch smirks. “Serves you damn well right.” 

"Ah, bugger off, Snivelly. You have lost the last shred of your sanity the day you figured out how to turn the shower tap on. Lousy git."

“I hope you rot away from a particularly nasty case of arse cancer, Black!”

The professor lets out a reproachful sound. Then she yells louder, “Enough! To the headmaster’s office, now.”