Burning Desire

by semperprimrose

Summary:

Darlina Lourdes was raised in a world of soft silences, blooming gardens, and careful protection. Hogwarts, with its darkness and secrets, was never meant for her.

But fate has a habit of placing lambs before wolves...

Now under the watchful eye of her father's friend at Hogwarts, the feared and reclusive Potions Master, Darlina must learn more than just spells. She’ll learn what it means to want. To fear. To fall. And how desire can be as dangerous as any curse once awakened.

or

Girl meets man. Girl meets Hogwarts. Girl probably should’ve stayed homeschooled.

Notes:

Hello!

Along with other things that will probably stay unpublished for a very long time, I've been putting this aside for the past two years. Thankfully, with all of my free time in between breaks, I managed to find the drive to attempt finishing it at last.

I appreciate you trying it!
xoxo

Chapter 1: The Pinnacle of Summer

             REMINISCENT OF THE HIGHEST seat on a Ferris wheel when it stops turning, the first week of July hovers at the pinnacle of summer and the year itself. This week is characterized by an almost surreal stillness, with the air hot and heavy, seemingly suspended in time. The weeks that follow are a gradual descent into the cool embrace of fall, while those that precede it are an ascent from the gentle warmth of spring.

July's first week is oddly silent, marked by scorching noons, blank white dawns, and sunsets bursting with exaggerated hues. It's no wonder that summer holds a special place in Darlina’s heart; she cherishes the unique solace it brings.

Amidst the young lady’s wonted summer day, Darlina was crouched barefoot in the back garden, her wand poised to coax a bloom from an elusive flower. The familiar voice of Pharell Martine broke the tranquil silence. “I anticipated finding you here, Lady Darlina,” he called out.

She remained in her position, barely turning her head to give him a peek. "You know me too well, Pharell." His soft chuckle brought a smile to her lips. "I'm testing a new experiment today. Would you like to take a look?" she continued, her voice filled with the excitement of discovery.

"As much as I'd like to, I'm afraid I can't." Darlina raised an eyebrow, prompting Pharell to continue. "Lady Darlina, your father requested your presence in his office following the launch period. I urge you to wear something formal since a guest will be present."

Darlina ceased petting the sacred lotus and rose to her full height, facing the Lourdes' butler. “That’s unusual!” she exclaimed, her face flushed with delight. Over the years, she had become aware of her father's growing distance; he was often preoccupied with matters she believed were more important than her. Nevertheless, she never stopped yearning for his attention, a longing that only intensified with each passing day.

"Do you have any idea why he called for me?" she asked, her excitement at finally having a chance to speak with her father evident in her voice. Her grin widened as she noticed the fluffy slippers floating next to Pharell. She cleaned her feet and hands with a quick nonverbal spell and slipped them on.

Pharell's eyes twinkled with amusement. “Yes, but to avoid spoiling the excitement, I won't tell you.”

“Oh, come on!” she pouted.

“I’m sorry, Lady Darlina. I swear it will be something of worth. Do you wish for me to accompany you to his office?”

"Thank you, Pharell, but I'm sure I can handle it on my own; see you later!" she replied, shaking her head. Without waiting for his response, she darted off the lawn, intent on stopping by her room to change into something more appropriate.

“There will be no running, Lady Darlina!” Pharell called after her, his voice filled with concern. She heard him, but her excitement overrode any heed to his words as she turned away from the garden completely.

Darlina’s favorite spot in her home was located at the back of the manor, quite a distance from the rear threshold. Her fast steps allowed her to swiftly pass through the gazebo, its structure intertwined with climbing roses, and over a tiny bridge that spanned a small, shimmering pond. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly as she crossed, the water below rippling gently.

Finally, she could see the manor's threshold. The lone pavement cutting through the green grass seemed to welcome her with warmth. On a regular day, it would take at least ten minutes to reach the manor at a leisurely pace, but today it seemed to take barely two minutes— a pace driven by her eagerness and the anticipation of her father's request.

As she approached the entrance, her heart raced with excitement and curiosity about the unexpected summons.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

 

“Come in.”

Despite the lack of warmth in his voice, Darlina still found solace in the knowledge that he was her father. With a broad smile on her lips, she cautiously opened the door to his office. "Hello, Father," she greeted sweetly.

As the door swung shut behind her with a loud slam, she winced. "Sorry," she murmured, her gaze fixed exclusively on her father—Bentley Lourdes, the esteemed Minister of Magic. He sat behind an imposing mahogany desk, surrounded by towering shelves of ancient tomes and important documents. His presence, as always, was formidable.

"You may sit," he said, motioning to the seat in front of him.

"Oh, of course," she muttered, blushing as she quickly moved to the chair. She smoothed her dress nervously and sat down, her heart pounding with a mixture of excitement and apprehension.

After taking her seat, Darlina swept her gaze over the room. Only then did she notice the presence of another individual—a man clad in black—standing erect in front of a floor-to-ceiling window, holding a wine glass in his right hand.

It’s too early for that, she thought.

Despite the stark contrast to her own style, she found his choice of clothing intriguing. He must have sensed her staring because, before she knew it, he turned to meet her gaze. She gave him a bashful smile before quickly turning back to her father, who appeared to be rummaging through the nearly hundred parchments piled on his desk.

After a moment, her father seemed satisfied and extracted an envelope from the stacks, handing it to Darlina. She accepted it reluctantly, her curiosity piqued. The room, bathed in the golden glow of the afternoon sun, seemed to hum with anticipation as she took the parchment. The scent of aged paper and leather filled the air, blending with the faint aroma of the wine the stranger held.

Her father's office was grand and imposing, the tall windows offering a view of the lush gardens outside. As she glanced at the envelope, she couldn't help but feel a mix of anxiety and excitement about what lay ahead.

The room was quiet, too quiet for Darlina’s liking.

She turned the folded page over and stared at it with wide eyes, tracing her finger over the wax seal. "Father, is this intended for me?" she asked, her voice tinged with disbelief. Receiving a letter from him was a rare delight, but the timing puzzled her. She had long accepted that she would be homeschooled for the rest of her life. Why now, after her dream of Hogwarts had long since faded?

Bentley looked at her, his expression unreadable. "It is for you, child. Would you please open it?" he urged gently.

Her heart pounded as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, the rustle of the paper the only sound in the room. The man's presence by the window and the grand, imposing surroundings seemed to fade into the background as she read the words that would change her life forever.

It contained affirmations indicating her acceptance to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. As she read more, her mouth dropped open in astonishment. Lowering the parchment slowly, she turned her wide-eyed gaze to her father. "Am I going to Hogwarts, Father?!" she exclaimed, her voice brimming with eagerness. She felt like a child again, and not in a bad way.

"You are," he confirmed, his demeanor stoic. But for the first time in years, he truly looked at his daughter as she stood up from her seat and squealed with delight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” she repeated, clutching the letter tightly to her chest. In that moment, Bentley realized just how simple it was to bring joy to his daughter.

As the initial excitement subsided, Darlina cleared her throat and blushed at her exuberance. “May I be excused, then?” she asked, her voice more composed.

"Not before meeting your professor," Bentley replied.

Darlina opened her mouth to speak but stopped herself as the man from earlier approached her father's desk and gave a courteous nod.

"This is Professor Snape, child. The Potions Master of England. He's a dear friend of mine, so I know you'll be in good hands at Hogwarts," her father said, his voice trailing off. "And Severus, this is my daughter, Darlina Lourdes."

She beamed, her rosy cheeks glowing in the daylight. Offering her hand for him to shake, she said, "It's very lovely to meet you in advance, Professor Snape." Snape accepted her hand, his grip firm yet careful, her delicate hand feeling small in his.

Both men remained impassive during the introduction, prompting Darlina to break the ice further. "I am thrilled to learn more about potions, sir," she added, hoping to draw him into conversation.

Snape's expression softened slightly, though he remained reserved. "The pleasure is mine, Miss Lourdes."

Darlina's heart soared at the thought of the adventures ahead, feeling a sense of both excitement and reassurance at the prospect of starting this new chapter under the watchful eye of her father's trusted friend.

 

🦢

Notes:

Please, please, please, kindly leave a comment! It will absolutely make my day. 🎀

Chapter 2: The Beauty of Friendship

           DARLINA HAD MET WITH Professor Snape and her father a week prior. Surprisingly, she has occasionally caught glimpses of them in the manor, though it’s usually while she is stuck by Pharell's side. She is constantly pestering the Lourdes’ butler to listen to her endless babbling about her new way of life—which is exactly what she's doing just now. "The amount of emotions crashing into my heart right now makes me feel like I could blow up at any moment. Pharell, have you ever experienced anything similar?"

They were nearing the west wing, where her father frequently stayed with his duties. Darlina visited this side of the manor on occasion because it was where her small classroom was located, but she and her father never crossed paths. It was as if fate had its own way of separating them. "When the Sorting Hat was placed atop my head, yes, Lady Darlina," Pharell replied.

She exclaimed, more ecstatic than before, as she picked up on something she had long forgotten: Pharell was also a Hogwarts student. "You were in Ravenclaw, weren't you? How could I have overlooked such a crucial thing! Please, please tell me more about your school life. With a sliver of cherry on top?"

She trailed him like a stray puppy as he turned a corner. “Lady Darlina, you needn’t beg for it. I'd be happy to comply. However, I'm afraid there isn't much to learn," Pharell assured her, holding a scroll as they proceeded along the long corridor of Lourdes' manor. How he managed to stroll and converse with her while simultaneously crossing items off the list was a mystery she'd never solve.

“Nothing much to say? Puh-lease, you’re just saying that to get me off your back,” she teased, smirking playfully. "And let me tell you this, Pharell, I am not one to back off."

"Oh, I am so frightened," he replied, chuckling softly. “Go on, fire off your questions.”

She tapped her fingers across the fabric of her skirt and hummed. “Were the topics taught at Hogwarts challenging?” she finally inquired.

"The subjects are similar to what you're studying with your tutor. If you give each one precisely the right amount of effort, it won't be tough," Pharell assured her.

“How about the professors?” she asked with a smile. “Were they any good?” Pharell returned her smile. "Yes, they are. With the exception of a few.”

Darlina continued to ask him random questions that came to mind, like who his friends were, who the headmaster was when he was a student, his favorite place, quidditch, whether he had ever been placed in detention, and so on. About halfway through their conversation, he started opening a few doors from left to right and swishing his wand around. When he was satisfied, he closed them with a soft thud.

"Hmmm, what else can I ask? I feel like a detective trying to pry every piece of information out of you," Darlina mused aloud. Pharell merely smiled as he led them across the threshold of her 'little classroom'. He watched her gaze linger a little longer on the cream-colored door, her head following it even after they passed by. "Do you suppose you'd miss this, Lady Darlina?"

She shook her head, returning to her senses. "Pardon?"

"I was wondering if you'd miss your homeschooling days," Pharell clarified.

She responded quickly, "Of course I would. I've been so used to being at home all the time that going out for a long time seems bizarre.” she sighed, “Pharell, this is my safe haven. I'm with folks I adore. But I'd also like to see the world... out there, you know? Even if it is somewhat frightening to venture into the unknown."

Pharell abruptly halted his steps, his sudden pause prompting Lady Darlina to mimic his puzzled expression. "I am so proud of you, Lady Darlina," Pharell's voice wavered with emotion, his demeanor on the brink of tears. His nose crinkled in a familiar manner, and his emerald eyes glistened like dew-kissed bubbles.

"Oh, Pharell, don’t you dare shed a tear! Your emotions are infectious," she teased, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone. Pharell had always been a pillar of kindness in her life, akin to a father figure, filling the void left by her biological father's shortcomings, especially during her formative years.

Their moment was interrupted by a voice calling out, "Pharell."

Well, speak of the devil…

Darlina turned to meet her father's gaze, unsurprised to find Professor Snape trailing behind him, as if caught in the wake of her father's presence. Yet another haphazard encounter with her father—these instances had become increasingly frequent since the month began.

Her father's stern eyes remained fixed on the butler as Darlina greeted him politely, "Good day, Father," she offered, her tone measured, "and Professor Snape."

The supposed professor inclined his head in acknowledgment. Darlina couldn't help but observe him with a hint of curiosity. She had never encountered this man before in her life, and now he seemed to be a constant companion to her father. Perhaps he had frequented the manor on numerous occasions in the past, but Darlina's sporadic interactions with her father left her in the dark about such matters. After all, she could count on one hand the number of times she saw her father each year.

She heard Pharell extend his greetings to the newcomers, a flicker of emotion evident in his eyes, which he quickly blinked away. "Follow me to my office, Pharell," Mr. Lourdes instructed.

A mischievous grin played across Darlina's lips as she observed Pharell's rapid blinking. "Of course, Mr. Lourdes. Will Lady Darlina be alright on her own?" he inquired, his concern for her well-being evident.

Just as Darlina was about to reply, her father's voice cut through the air, interrupting their exchange. "Undoubtedly, she is capable of walking by herself. And you, child?" Darlina straightened, her ears perking up at the rare acknowledgment of her presence. She had grown accustomed to her father referring to her simply as "child," never once using her name. She convinced herself that it was a form of paternal endearment, preferring to dwell on comforting thoughts rather than face the harsh reality. "Do not interfere with Pharell while he is attending to his duties again, understood?" Her father's voice remained as icy as ever as he issued his stern command.

Her smile faltered, her gaze momentarily dropping to the floor before meeting her father's unwavering stare once more. "I will try not to, Father." she replied, her voice tinged with resignation. 
 
“Do not just try and do it on your stead.”

She nodded, a gentle sigh escaping her lips as she absently twirled a strand of hair near her hips. "Understood, Father," she murmured softly.

As the sound of their departing footsteps faded, Darlina felt a sympathetic glance from Pharell, his warmth offering a fleeting comfort before he exited the hall. Darlina still wanders the halls, albeit it is now quieter, which has caused her feet to follow the sound of birds singing instead.

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

Few others her age shared the unique and vivid memories of Darlina's early years. Among those who did, Michael Barlowe and Clementine Harrington stood out like sore thumbs. The trio first met on an afternoon when Michael and Clementine ventured to try the swing behind the Lourdes' manor. To their dismay, they found Darlina already seated comfortably on the swing, gently swaying back and forth.

Michael, with his youthful bravado, decided to taunt her by giving the swing a hard push. Instead of getting upset, Darlina's face lit up with joy as she felt the exhilarating sensation of her small feet almost touching the sky. She giggled uncontrollably, her laughter ringing through the air.

Clementine, always the voice of reason, admonished Michael, who responded by stomping and pouting. With a touch of gentle authority, Clementine helped Darlina off the swing and then took a seat himself, as if it were a throne awaiting its rightful heir. He smirked confidently and declared, "I've got you both," leaving Darlina and Michael astonished by his audacity.

From that moment, the swing behind the Lourdes' manor became a place of countless shared adventures and a symbol of their unlikely friendship.

Their excitement to attend Hogwarts and experience all it had to offer was palpable. However, luck was not on their side, as Darlina was left behind to be homeschooled. The disappointment was mutual; Darlina might even argue that Michael and Clementine were more heartbroken than she was, their tantrums reflecting their frustration.

Despite the separation, their bond remained unbreakable. Though Darlina was mostly apart from the two, their friendship only grew stronger with time. It was as if nothing had changed—they remained the same close-knit friends who cherished their time together and pledged unwavering support for one another. Each summer, Michael and Clementine would visit Darlina's house, preferring to spend their holidays at the Lourdes' manor rather than their own homes.

Summers at the Lourdes' became a cherished tradition, filled with laughter, shared secrets, and adventures that deepened their connection. The manor echoed with their presence, a testament to a friendship that distance could never diminish.

Darlina was therefore not entirely shocked when a familiar voice pulled her from her dreams. “Fireball!” the voice exclaimed, just before a familiar weight landed on her back, nearly suffocating her beneath the covers.

“Michael!” she groaned, wriggling to free herself from the tangled duvet.

"Is that the appropriate greeting for your lovely friend?" he teased, making himself more comfortable as she felt him shift around on top of her.

“Get off so I can greet you properly, your highness!” she demanded, half-laughing, half-exasperated.

"Say please..." 

"As if," she muttered under her breath. She heard the door open, and another person, presumably Clementine, entered the room.

"What the hell are you doing, Mike?" Clementine's voice carried a mix of annoyance and amusement.

"Of course, I'm showing my love to our dearest!" Michael exclaimed happily.

"Love? She can hardly breathe under those heavy covers," Clementine responded with a frown. The sound of muffled footsteps approached the bed, and soon the weight was lifted off her, accompanied by Michael's incessant whimpers of "Ouch, ouch, ouch!"

"Are you still alive there, Lils?" Clementine asked with a hint of concern.

Darlina, tangled in the covers, struggled for a moment before managing to free herself. "Surprisingly," she replied. The warm sunlight streaming through her window embraced Darlina, and she welcomed it like an old friend. Speaking of friends, she glanced at the two who had made themselves cozy atop her bed. Reaching for a pillow on her right, she promptly smacked it over Michael's face. He looked aghast, his expression one of mock betrayal.

"Serves you right," Clementine remarked with a smirk.

"I swear, I have no one in this circle," 

"Blah blah blah… I’m not hearing anything..." Clementine teased.

She laughed at their interplay and scooted back until her head rested against the headboard. "It's still early. What are you two doing here?"

"I was bored," Clementine answered casually, shrugging his shoulders.

"Bored?" she echoed inanely, her eyelids half-closed, indicating she still felt like going back to sleep.

"He really was," Michael interjected, clearing his throat. "I was minding my own business when this lad cornered me, claiming we should bother you instead."

"Don't twist my words!" Clementine retorted. "Anyway, we should hang out outside for once before Mike and I leave for Hogwarts."

Darlina jolted awake, her mind racing with excitement. Oh my goodness. The great news! I haven't told them yet. "You'd better face Uncle Bentley's wrath then. Ask for his permission," she heard one of them say, but she made no attempt to join in their conversation. Her thoughts were consumed with the dilemma of whether to share her news or keep it a secret for a delightful surprise.

"You're accompanying me," 

"Hell no!" 

Darlina weighed her options carefully. On one hand, the thought of surprising them and finally getting retaliation for their countless pranks was tempting. The excitement of seeing their reactions danced in her mind. But on the other hand, sharing the news now would mean they could all celebrate together, perhaps even embark on a shopping spree for school supplies.

"What is causing you such fear?" Clementine's voice broke through her contemplation.

"I have no fears whatsoever." Michael replied cryptically.

Darlina ultimately chose to go with the latter option. Interrupting the two, she could barely contain her grin. "Guys," she began, her excitement palpable.

Their attention immediately shifted to her, and Michael couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of her expression. Leaning his head on his palm, he remarked, "I can see that grin of yours almost bursting."

"Oh, you'd probably even cry happy tears if you knew what I knew!" Darlina shot back, her eyes sparkling with mischief. 

Clementine straightened up eagerly, urging, "Tell us, come on, Lils."

Darlina allowed a moment of suspense to fill the room before she burst out with a grin that illuminated her entire face. 

"I'm going to Hogwarts!"

Their jaws poised to drop, the two boys stared at her in disbelief, then exchanged incredulous glances before turning back to her. Chaos erupted. "No freaking way!" Michael shrieked, leaping up and clutching the pillow she used to smack him with just minutes ago. "Lina, I'm already imagining all the mischief we could get up to at Hogwarts, so you better not be pulling our legs with this." 

"I'm not that mean, Mike!" Darlina protested, her lower lip jutting out in a playful pout.

"Of course you're not, you're our little baby," Clementine chimed in, his voice trembling unexpectedly. Darlina and Michael exchanged surprised glances as they realized their usually composed friend was in tears.

"Oh, Clem," Darlina murmured sympathetically, moving closer to him as he sat at the edge of the bed.

"It's tears of joy, don't worry," he reassured them, attempting to chuckle through his emotions.

"Silly, I know. I just want to give you a hug!" Darlina exclaimed warmly, reaching out to embrace her tearful friend.

"Come here then," Clementine said softly, pulling Darlina into a comforting embrace.

"Am I not a part of that seemingly very warm hug?" 

"Nope," they both chimed in unison, eliciting a playful scowl from Michael. Darlina turned to face him and playfully stuck out her tongue.

After letting out their bursts of excitement by discussing everything and anything all at once, Clementine proposed the idea of accompanying Darlina to Diagon Alley to acquire her school supplies. This meant they would need her father's approval, a prospect that typically left Michael grumbling. However, Clementine reasoned that Darlina's father would likely be more lenient this time, given the importance of her academic needs.

As usual, Clementine's intuition proved correct. Before long, the trio found themselves in Diagon Alley, bustling with witches and wizards going about their day.

"Are we going to... survive?" Darlina murmured, noticing the crowd of people squeezing past each other in the bustling Diagon Alley.

"Lina, this is exactly how things were here when school was about to start. How many times have you and your butler visited this place, anyway?" Michael asked.

"They go almost every year," Clementine remarked, navigating through the throng of people. "But it wasn't this packed." He made sure to maintain their personal space as they moved along the street. "It must be because he selects the day when it's not as busy as usual."

"Hmm, most likely..." Darlina agreed, scanning the crowded alley with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension.

"Come to think of it, the three of us have never been to Diagon Alley together before," Michael murmured, his arm draped around Darlina's shoulder. "Uncle Bentley is so strict about it. Thankfully, he seems to be loosening up a bit lately; I didn't think he'd grant you this much freedom so easily!"

Clementine led the way toward a particular store, walking a few paces ahead of them. 

"Shhh. I've managed to negotiate some liberties."

"You always say that to yourself, Lina. Anyway, take a look!" Michael whispered excitedly, nodding towards a shop. Darlina turned her gaze towards it, her eyes widening in astonishment. "Oh my goodness!" she exclaimed.

Glancing back, Clementine inquired, "What's got you two so worked up?"

"Ice cream!" Darlina realized with a jolt that Florean Fortescue's parlor had completely slipped her mind. "That sounds like a perfect place to start," she exclaimed, pushing Michael's arms aside and wrapping her own around Clementine's.

"But we haven't even bought anything yet," Clementine protested.

"Exactly why we should start with the delicious ice cream. Right, Mike?" Darlina grinned mischievously as Michael laughed and appeared by her side. "Indeed, Lina," he agreed.

"You guys are such kids," Clementine teased, but there was a warmth in his tone that belied his words.

She smiled, teasingly remarking, "You’re used to it.”

Undoubtedly, the entire day seemed to blur together in a whirlwind of excitement and laughter. But as Darlina headed home, she couldn't shake the warm buzz in her heart, accompanied by a tote bag that would surely burst at the seams if it weren't for the extension and featherweight spell cast upon it. 

🦢

Chapter 3: The Beginning of a Journey

           THE ENCHANTED REALM HELD a tantalizing allure, beckoning Darlina with its promises of the extraordinary. However, nothing in her wildest fantasies prepared her for the peculiar means of entry—being propelled into a new universe by crashing into a wall, a directive she reluctantly followed at Pharell's insistence. Despite the initial shock, the transition from the mundane to the mystical unfolded seamlessly as they emerged into the magical world. Their arrival coincided perfectly with the resounding blast of the Hogwarts Express's horn, its echo reverberating through the tunnel with an almost otherworldly intensity.

"Are you well, Lady Darlina?" Pharell's voice bore a hint of concern, his gaze lingering on her as she shuddered.

"Yes, just... not accustomed to the clamor," she replied, meeting his gaze unwaveringly. "I'll adjust, I'm sure. And I'll heed my father’s advice; I'll be fine."

Pharell reassured her with a gentle nod. "Remember the protocols, Lady Darlina." His voice softened to a whisper, carrying a tinge of melancholy. "I'll miss being in your service."

Darlina's face blossomed with warmth as she leaned in to plant a tender peck on Pharell's right cheek. Pulling back slightly, she spoke with a hint of urgency, "I'll miss you too. Please take care of my father and yourself." Her words were filled with genuine concern.

Returning her smile, Pharell affectionately placed a hand on her head as she glanced around, taking in the wondrous surroundings. For a brief moment, they lingered in each other's presence, savoring the precious minutes they had left together.

Eventually, Pharell's hand fell away, and he gently tapped her shoulder, directing her attention towards the waiting train. "Perhaps it's time to board the train now, Lady Darlina?" he suggested, his voice soft yet encouraging.

Her cheeks blazed with a scarlet hue, betraying her inner turmoil despite her outward excitement. Anxious tendrils wound around her heart, causing it to pound fiercely against her chest. With a tightness in her throat, she pressed her lips together, fearing Pharell might discern the frantic rhythm of her heartbeat and whisk her back to the safety of the manor.

"Lady Darlina?" Pharell's voice pierced through her thoughts.

She nodded absentmindedly, her mind consumed with worries. "Oh, um... yes. Yes, I suppose I would now, Pharell." Darlina carefully relieved Pharell of the burden of the two enormous bags. Just as she began to move away, Pharell caught her wrist, halting her in her tracks. She raised a quizzical brow, silently prompting him to speak.

"Will you be accompanied by Sir Clementine and Sir Michael?" he inquired, his tone tinged with concern.

"We promised to find each other inside," she reminded him softly. Pharell's expression softened, and he released his grasp on her.

“Have all the luck in the world, Lady Darlina,” he wished her sincerely, his voice carrying a hint of wistfulness.

A silent farewell hung between them as she made her way towards the entrance of the train. Standing to the side, she observed the flurry of activity as students of Hogwarts hurried inside, their laughter and chatter filling the air. Some dashed past, their excitement palpable, while others playfully jostled one another in their eagerness to board.

Taking a deep breath, Darlina seized the opportunity to enter the train without further delay. With a swift motion, she clutched her luggage tightly, determined not to let the chance slip away.

Her gaze darted back and forth incessantly, scanning the length of the platform.

Left. Right. Repeat.

Unfortunately, the bustling crowd of students made navigation difficult, forcing them to squeeze past one another in the narrow aisle. Darlina soon realized that nearly every compartment was occupied. After ten minutes of fruitless searching, a twinge of discomfort began to gnaw at her feet. Where are Michael and Clem? she wondered anxiously, tightening her grip on her bag. With each step, her heart pounded louder in her chest, the fear of being left behind creeping in.

As she neared the end of the train, panic threatened to overwhelm her.

What if I couldn't find my friends? Where would I sit?

Desperation clouded her thoughts as she frantically scanned each compartment for any sign of familiarity. Just as hope began to dwindle, her eyes caught sight of a figure clad in Slytherin robes emerging from a compartment. A Slytherin? Darlina's mind raced with possibilities. Perhaps this student knew the whereabouts of Michael and Clem; after all, they were fellow housemates.

Summoning her courage, Darlina swallowed down her nerves, a physical manifestation of her determination. With a deep breath, she interrupted the boy, "Excuse me?"

His gaze shifted to hers, and to her dismay, it felt as though he could pierce her with a mere glance, his hostility palpable despite her innocent inquiry. What an odd individual, she thought, taken aback by his demeanor. As he begrudgingly acknowledged her presence, his response was curt, almost disdainful. "What is it you need, girl?" he spat, his hand still gripping the compartment door tightly. Instinctively, she took a step back, unnerved by the intensity of his scowl.

Summoning her courage, Darlina pressed on, her voice steady despite her rising unease. "Do you happen to know Michael Barlowe and Clementine Harrington?"

There was a flicker of recognition in his eyes before he replied brusquely, "No."

She lingered for a moment, hoping for more, but his impatience grew evident as he demanded, "If you have nothing else to say, kindly step aside. You're blocking the path."

With a bashful grimace, Darlina offered a timid smile as she and the boy passed each other. Yet, her chest felt burdened, a weight pressing down on her with each step as she wandered aimlessly towards the end of the train. Slumping against the wall, she entertained the fleeting notion of banging her head against it in frustration. Where could Michael and Clem be? Surely, they must be nearby... The urge to retreat home tugged at her, the outside world suddenly feeling daunting and unfamiliar. "Absurd thoughts," she chided herself, shaking her head in disbelief. She wouldn't let her resolve waver just because she couldn't find her friends or a place to sit.

Just as she contemplated retracing her steps, a compartment to her left unexpectedly swung open. Startled, she turned to see who had emerged, only to find herself face to face with none other than Professor Snape.

Her heart skipped a beat at the sight of the familiar face. "Professor!" she exclaimed, a broad smile lighting up her features. However, instead of returning her enthusiasm, the man merely arched an eyebrow in response to her greeting. Confusion knit her brow as she awaited his next move. With an impatient sigh, he gestured for her to enter the compartment. Reluctantly, she complied, lugging her belongings inside.

As the door clicked shut behind her and the privacy curtain descended, shielding them from curious onlookers, Darlina found herself standing awkwardly in the middle of the compartment. She bit her lip nervously, clearing the lump from her throat before speaking.

"Thank you," she murmured softly, her gaze flickering briefly towards him.

He tutted in response, correcting her with a terse reminder, "Professor Snape."

Darlina raised an eyebrow in confusion, determined to maintain eye contact with the man. "I know, sir. We've met before," she responded confidently.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his features, prompting Darlina to quickly correct herself after realizing her misunderstanding seconds too late. Her gaze fell to the floor as she repeated her gratitude, this time addressing him properly. "Sorry, uhm... Thank you, Professor Snape," she murmured.

Turning her attention to the compartment, Darlina surveyed the space, noting the overhead racks above the seats as the best option for storing her belongings. With practiced ease, she retrieved her wand from its snug spot in her skirt pocket. "I was searching for my friends," she explained, hoping to alleviate any tension.

In response, Professor Snape hissed softly, his tone icy. "You're certainly free to go if you must."

Darlina offered a sheepish smile to the man. "Yeah... no. I'm not having much luck finding them anyway; it seems wiser to just stay put," she admitted, noting the sour expression on Professor Snape's face. "If that's not too much of an inconvenience for you, professor?" she added, hoping to ease the tension with a touch of politeness.

With her wand held firmly in her hand, she softly murmured an incantation, summoning her bags to levitate from the ground. They glided effortlessly into the air and were swiftly stowed onto the spacious racks overhead.

Professor Snape's expression remained unreadable, but Darlina couldn't shake the feeling of uncertainty that lingered in the air.

As Darlina settled in, ready to make herself more comfortable, the train suddenly lurched to a stop. The abrupt halt caught her off guard, leaving her no time to steady herself. In an instant, she felt herself tumbling forward, not towards the floor, but onto her professor's lap.

Wide-eyed, her lips parted in shock as her hands landed with a thud against his broad chest. Heat rushed to her cheeks, painting them a rosy hue as embarrassment flooded through her.

Stammering out an apology, Darlina felt the sting of tears prickling at the corners of her eyes. His demand for her to move cut through the awkward silence, his voice sending shivers down her spine, eerier even than her father's.

Without a moment's hesitation, Darlina scrambled to regain her footing, quickly settling into the seat across from him. With a shaky hand, she fanned her flushed cheeks, desperately seeking respite from the heat that seemed to radiate from her embarrassment. Avoiding his piercing gaze, she focused instead on the transparent surface before her, unwilling to confront the intensity of his scrutiny.

The tension in the air lingered, heavy and oppressive, as Darlina struggled to shake off the awkwardness of their brief encounter. Unable to bear the weight of the silence, her gaze drifted upwards to the luggage racks above.

Severus Snape.

His full name hung in the air like an unspoken decree, a reminder of the authority he commanded.

Sensing the heavy silence lingering between them, Darlina sought to dispel the unease by breaking it with her voice. "Professor, may I ask you something?"

“No,” came the immediate, curt response.

Dumbfounded, Darlina stared at him, taken aback by his abrupt refusal. Her reaction must have struck him as odd, for he then rolled his eyes in apparent annoyance and begrudgingly relented, “Proceed with your question.”

“Okay, so Pharell mentioned that a sorting hat will be placed on top of my head to determine which house I belong to,” Darlina remarked, a hint of uncertainty in her voice. He tilted his head, prompting her to continue. “So, my concern is whether I'll be sorted in front of all the students, or if there's a more private setting, like an office where it can happen?”

He paused before responding, his expression thoughtful. “There is indeed a way for you to be sorted privately. In fact, Minerva is likely to accompany you to the headmaster's office before the feast begins.”

“Minerva?” Darlina echoed, her curiosity piqued.

"The person teaching you Transfiguration is Professor Minerva McGonagall," he informed her, his tone clipped.

"Oh... and one more thing..." Darlina began tentatively, but she felt the weight of his stare intensify, making her wish for the ground to swallow her whole. Though his expression didn't quite morph into a scowl, she sensed the tension building.

"Uh, never mind," she backtracked quickly.

"Miss Lourdes, kindly convey whatever is on your mind," he prompted, his voice firm but not unkind.

"No worries, sir. It's insignificant,” Darlina replied, attempting to brush off her previous hesitation.

He raised an eyebrow in a manner that made her gulp nervously. Summoning her courage, she continued, "Would you please guide me until we reach Hogwarts? As I mentioned previously, I can't seem to find any of my pals…”

He reached for a book, his expression unreadable. “I suppose I can't dismiss you," he conceded, his tone tinged with reluctant acquiescence.

She beamed, finally allowing herself to slump back into her seat as she examined the book her professor held. The Oracle in the Heart... an intriguing choice. Why is he reading it? she wondered.

His deep voice sent a shiver down her spine as he reprimanded her, "It is impolite to interfere in someone else's affairs."

She quickly brought her palm to her mouth, realizing with dismay that she might have spoken her thoughts aloud. "Sorry," she quivered, dropping her hand to twirl a lone strand of hair nervously.

She let her hair cascade down her back as usual, ignoring Pharell's repeated suggestions to cut it short. She cherished the way it danced in the breeze, each strand reflecting the sun's light like waves of pure earth. Her hair moved freely, enhancing her serene demeanor with its natural grace.

She absentmindedly twirled a strand of hair around her finger as she remarked, "I read that book before." The Oracle in the Heart had been one of the few books she had made an effort to engage with, though she had abandoned it halfway through. The title had drawn her in, leading her to believe it was the lighthearted fare she was accustomed to. To her surprise, it delved into darker themes that her young heart struggled to process.

"I do not recall asking for your experience," his voice rasped, breaking the silence. Startled, she tore her gaze away from the window to meet his intense stare. "Pardon?"

“You might want to get your head out of the gutter, and shut up once and for all, Miss Lourdes,” he admonished, his tone cutting and final.

It dawned on her that she had once again engaged in conversation with him. "Gosh, I can’t seem to control my mouth," she admitted with a sheepish smile. "Sorry. I can’t help talking sometimes. It’s a habit. I enjoy speaking with people."

“Well, find someone who enjoys listening to you ramble, just make sure it’s not me,” he retorted curtly.

She blushed at his response, offering a timid reply. "All right…"

With that, the remainder of their journey passed uneventfully. Her professor seemed unperturbed by their exchange, thankfully. Despite her desire to continue their conversation, she lacked the courage to do so. Leaning her head against the window, she released a dejected sigh and resigned herself to quietly observing the long journey to Hogwarts.

 

 

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A gentle nudge jolted Darlina from her reverie. "Pharell, just give me a minute, please!" she exclaimed, swatting the hand away from her shoulder. Though the touch felt rougher than her butler's, she didn't bother to open her eyes to the oddity.

"I am not your butler, Miss Lourdes," came the crisp response.

Darlina's eyes widened like a deer caught in headlights. Instantly, she sprang to her feet, memories of the entire day flooding back. She was prepared to apologize yet again for the hundredth time, however, Professor Snape raised his palm, halting her before she could speak.

"We've reached Hogsmeade. Do you intend to remain here?"

Her response came as a stifled yawn, followed by a slow shake of her head, punctuated by equally languid blinks.

"Professor, I assure you, that's not my intention at all. I'm grateful for the wake-up call. Are we truly in the renowned all-wizarding village of Britain? The very same place students occasionally visit on weekends? I recall..." Her words trailed off as she noticed her professor abruptly exiting the compartment, leaving her alone and somewhat bewildered.

She quirked an eyebrow, dismissing the interruption of her incomplete statement and the lack of response from her companion. Instead, her attention was drawn to the sight of his abandoned bags. With a swift movement, she darted out of their compartment, forsaking her own belongings in her haste. "Professor Snape!"

"Your luggage, sir," she uttered, her fingers gripping the fabric of his sleeve as she caught up to him. However, he promptly recoiled, withdrawing his arm from the grasp of the wide-eyed girl.

Deep furrows etched across his forehead, betraying his irritation.

"Just leave your luggage here; it will be transported to the school separately, directly to the dormitories," he explained, his patience thinning with each word.

"Ah, splendid!" she exclaimed with genuine relief.

Snape pivoted sharply, emitting a terse grunt. "Follow me," he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. Eagerly, she fell into step behind her potions professor, her anticipation palpable. His gaze frequently flickered back to ensure she obediently trailed his lead.

"Is this truly... Hogsmeade?" she queried, her gaze wandering over the brightly illuminated shops that lined the cobblestone streets. Yet, her inquiry was met with silence. Inhaling the gentle evening breeze, she absorbed the picturesque scene of quaint cottages dotting the landscape.

"Pharell mentioned this village to me, along with the Hogwarts Houses. Ravenclaw," Darlina remarked as she took a step forward. "Gryffindor," another step followed. "Hufflepuff," she muttered, progressing further. "And Slytherin."

"What house do you belong to, Professor?" she asked, a grin playing on her lips as she stretched her arms while trailing behind Snape. With no indication of a forthcoming answer, Darlina embarked on a guessing game. "Are you a Ravenclaw? Pharell is also in Ravenclaw; they're renowned for their sharp wit, aren't they?" Snape remained stoically silent, but she persisted. "Or perhaps you're a Hufflepuff! My friends seem to think there's a strong chance I'll be sorted into that house. What's your opinion, Professor?"

"I suggest you keep your mouth closed for the greater good," Snape retorted sharply.

Somewhat stung by his words, Darlina fell into a subdued silence for the remainder of their journey. It didn't take more than three minutes before they halted in front of a waiting carriage. She observed another carriage nearby, moving seemingly of its own volition. Settling into the carriage, Snape observed as Darlina mimicked his actions.

"Wow..." she breathed, her eyes gleaming with excitement as the carriage began to move. It felt as though an invisible force propelled it forward, reminiscent of how Muggles utilized their vehicles for transportation. Snape frowned at Darlina's astonished reaction. "It's just like... cars!" she exclaimed, unable to contain her amazement.

Snape grunted in response to Darlina's exclamation.

"Are you familiar with cars?" she inquired, gently tucking a loose strand of her brunette hair behind her ear, her gaze drifting up to the twinkling night sky.

"Could you tell?” Snape retorted sarcastically.

Darlina's gaze dropped to her shoes, a nervous energy emanating from her as she launched into an explanation of cars and their mechanics. Surprisingly, Snape found himself captivated by her animated chatter, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. He watched as she bounced with enthusiasm in her seat, her eyes alight with excitement, reflecting the glow of the moon above.

 

🦢

Chapter 4: The Abode of Darlina

           DARLINA FOUND HERSELF GUIDED by a tall, stern-looking witch, her black hair tightly bound in a bun. She complied with Snape's instructions, standing rigidly beside the imposing threshold of the entrance hall amidst a throng of other students. Then, Snape departed, leaving her feeling like a solitary figure amidst a sea of smaller children. She couldn't help but feel a pang of betrayal; after all, Snape had hinted that she would undergo a different sorting process from the rest.

However, her sense of isolation was short-lived. After what felt like an eternity of waiting, the stern-faced witch finally swept her away from the crowd.

"I am your Transfiguration Professor and the head of Gryffindor House, Professor McGonagall," the woman announced with authority.

Darlina's face lit up with recognition. "Oh, so you're the witch Professor Snape mentioned..." A twinkle of excitement danced in her eyes. "Lovely to meet you, Professor!" she exclaimed warmly.

McGonagall returned her smile, though her strict demeanor remained evident. "I suppose you're Darlina Lourdes?"

"Indeed, I am," Darlina replied brightly, her eyes wandering around the grand hall. Although she was accustomed to living in a manor with a similar castle-like ambiance, she couldn't help but be enchanted by the magnificence of Hogwarts. The jumble of towers and battlements gave the school a slightly intimidating, yet undeniably magical allure. Her home, grand as it was, paled in comparison to the sheer size and majesty of Hogwarts.

"Follow me, Miss Lourdes," Professor McGonagall instructed. As Darlina glanced back, she noticed the first-year students beginning to move from their initial positions, their faces a mix of excitement and nervousness.

"Where are we heading, Professor McGonagall?" Darlina inquired, trying to mask her curiosity with calmness.

"To Headmaster Dumbledore's office," McGonagall replied briskly.

Darlina nodded, feeling a sense of relief wash over her. The idea of being the center of attention, even for a few minutes, was overwhelming. Now, away from the prying eyes of the other students, she felt she could finally breathe properly. They passed numerous chaotic paintings and winding corridors that seemed never-ending, marching in silence until they turned a corner. McGonagall finally stopped before a large, intricately carved grotesque with a spout.

"Gargoyle," Darlina intoned, indicating the stone figure that guarded the entrance.

"Yes, Miss Lourdes. It is a gargoyle. Dare say you've seen one before?" McGonagall asked, her tone softened with a hint of curiosity.

Darlina clasped her hands in front of her, sharing an amused look with McGonagall. "Hmm, you could say that. I've even brought one to life. It was a fantastic experience!"

"Piertotum Locomotor," they both muttered in unison.

"I've always wanted to use that spell," McGonagall admitted with a bright smile.

"Then you shall, Professor. It's nothing harmful," Darlina replied cheerfully.

McGonagall cleared her throat, trying to suppress a smile that threatened to break across her stern face. "Acid Pops," she announced. The gargoyle sprang aside, revealing a slowly ascending circular staircase. Darlina eagerly stepped onto the stair, her eyes wide with amazement at the magical sight.

"Careful," McGonagall cautioned.

"Yes, Professor McGonagall," Darlina responded, her excitement barely contained as they began their ascent.

Reaching the top of the staircase, they found themselves before an oaken double door. Darlina stepped aside as McGonagall knocked three times before opening it and guiding her inside. She was immediately struck by the sight of an older man, tall and thin, with a flowing silver beard and hair that could likely be tucked into his belt. His long, crooked nose suggested it had been broken at least twice.

"Headmaster Dumbledore?" she greeted with a smile.

Her eyes wandered around the large and beautiful circular room, which was full of curious little noises. Silver instruments stood on spindle-legged tables, whirring and emitting small puffs of smoke. The walls were adorned with portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses—Darlina assumed—all gently snoozing in their frames. An enormous claw-footed desk dominated the room, and on a shelf behind it sat a shabby, well-worn wizard's hat. The scene was both magical and mesmerizing.

"Miss Lourdes, how are you finding Hogwarts so far?" Dumbledore inquired with a warm smile.

"Splendid, sir. I am delighted to explore every inch of it," Darlina replied enthusiastically. She watched as McGonagall levitated a chair to the middle of Dumbledore's office.

"I grant you permission to do so," Dumbledore continued, his voice filled with such good cheer that it brought a sense of solace to Darlina. "However, you must always be careful about what you delve into."

"Yes, Headmaster. I completely will," Darlina assured him, her eyes sparkling with excitement and respect.

"Now, now, why don't you take a seat, Miss Lourdes... Time is running out. You are already aware of the four houses within Hogwarts, yes?" Dumbledore said, gesturing toward the chair with an inviting palm.

Darlina did as she was told, straightening the back of her skirt before settling into the surprisingly comfortable chair. Her smile never wavered, even when she noticed the item in McGonagall's grasp—the very same hat that had sat on Dumbledore's shelf moments earlier.

"I am aware, Headmaster."

"Very well," Dumbledore replied, his eyes twinkling with a mix of wisdom and kindness.

 

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Darlina felt like a fish out of water as she fiddled with the cravat that had come untucked from her knitted sweater, her fingers absentmindedly caressing the necklace her father had given her. Her gaze wandered around the hall, searching in vain for her friends, whom she was sure would be easy to spot given their height. Much to her dismay, they were nowhere in sight.

She had awkwardly chosen a seat between two younger wizards, noting the yellow lining of their robes. Trying to calm her nerves, she moved her hands slowly to add vegetables to her plate, determined to gulp down her fears just as she had done earlier. She still couldn't fathom how she had managed not to stumble while walking beside McGonagall and Dumbledore as they entered the Great Hall. Nor could she understand how she had managed not to pass out when the Sorting Hat was placed on her head. The memory of the hat speaking directly into her mind, with two pairs of eyes watching her intently, was still vivid. Yet, she had endured it all, and here she was, ready to embrace whatever came next.

She nearly tossed the hat aside; no one had ever given her anything so hideous before. However, she restrained herself, knowing it would be disrespectful to both the Headmaster and the hat itself—assuming it had feelings, as it did talk, after all. Throughout her conversations with Pharell about the Sorting Hat, she had envisioned something bright and colorful. Perhaps a pink hat? But reality hit her hard when she saw the actual hat.

The four walls of Dumbledore's office were enveloped in silence until the hat finally declared her house.

Hufflepuff.

Her friends were right, as was her instinct.

She smiled softly, the moment replaying in her mind like a broken record. When she had taken her seat at the Hufflepuff table, several of her new housemates greeted her warmly. Even after Dumbledore concluded his speech, which mentioned Darlina Lourdes's recent arrival at Hogwarts, the entire Hufflepuff table erupted into applause, welcoming her with open arms.

Apart from that, nothing particularly noteworthy occurred.

As they ate, any attempts at conversation were quickly cut short. Darlina's father had always emphasized the importance of not speaking while eating, deeming it impolite. After she inadvertently replied to someone while eating, she felt awful. Determined to adhere to her father's teachings even in his absence, she made a concerted effort to avoid speaking to anyone else. She couldn't help but wonder why others were allowed to talk while eating, her uncertainty lingering as they all seemed to enjoy their meals more while engaged in conversation. Nevertheless, she kept her head low, too shy to meet anyone's eyes.

The students soon dispersed, with the house prefects leading the way. Darlina quietly trailed behind her fellow Hufflepuffs as they received essential information from the older students.

"Does anyone have any questions?" the prefects inquired.

The response was a chorus of joyful "No's." Then, one of the prefects, whom Darlina later learned was named Annina, turned to her. "And what about you, Darlina? How are you finding things here?"

With a shy smile, Darlina replied, "Thank you, I'm managing just fine."

Annina chuckled, bringing the conversation to a close and wishing everyone a restful night's sleep. Gradually, each person departed, leaving Darlina to make her way to her dorm. It wasn't until she arrived that she realized she would be sharing a room with essentially strangers. A shiver ran down her spine.

Surveying her two bags beside an unoccupied bed, Darlina realized she still had plenty of energy to finish settling in. After all, she had slept for virtually the entire journey to Hogwarts. Despite the girls' sincere efforts to coax her out of her shell, Darlina could only manage hesitant grins and brief answers. It seemed the other girls were already close friends.

She couldn't help but pout at the memory of Snape instructing her to find someone else to chatter with, yet she found herself unable to comply.

Darlina was not accustomed to engaging in conversation with anyone her age, except for Clementine and Michael. Engaging with others outside of this close-knit trio felt daunting and unfamiliar. They had become her safe haven in the turbulent world of adolescence. To Darlina, they didn’t really count as friends in the traditional sense, but as part of her extended family.

🦢

Chapter 5: The Maze of Dungeon

     DARLINA STIRRED FROM HER slumber with the first rays of dawn, a sense of purpose propelling her into action. With nimble fingers, she set about the task of tidying her bed with precision and care until satisfaction settled upon her.

Once her chores were complete, Darlina went outside to eat breakfast in the great hall. She had convinced herself that she could navigate the labyrinthine corridors alone, relying on her memory of yesterday's route. Yet, despite her best efforts, each turn seemed to lead her further astray, the corridors twisting and turning in a disorienting dance.

"I am utterly doomed," she lamented silently, a pang of anxiety creeping into her thoughts. The hour was still early, the castle silent and devoid of life. Not a single soul had crossed her path, leaving Darlina to wander the empty halls alone with her growing sense of unease.

Deciding to turn her predicament into an opportunity, Darlina resolved to explore the halls of Hogwarts instead. That was until she finally saw the immense threshold of the hall. Relief washed over her, banishing her earlier worries. "Perfect," she murmured to herself. As she approached, Darlina noticed the grand doors already ajar. With cautious steps, she navigated the hall, eyes scanning for an empty seat. Eventually, she settled at a solitary spot near the edge of a long table, the hum of conversation surrounding her.

Darlina allowed her gaze to roam the hall, taking in the sea of unfamiliar faces adorned with warm smiles. Her attention was drawn to the elevated platform where the professors sat, engaged in lively discussions. Among them, Professor Snape's penetrating stare met hers, prompting an involuntary twitch of her lips into a smile that seemed to stretch for miles. Hastily tearing her gaze away, she observed the other professors conversing animatedly with their colleagues nearby.

While Darlina savored the succulent sweetness of mango cubes, her tranquil moment was shattered by the boisterous arrival of a small group. She turned her attention towards the open doorway, where two familiar figures stumbled in, accompanied by a goblin. Michael, his face flushed and beads of sweat glistening on his brow, waved a hand in a futile attempt to cool himself, while Clementine struggled to regain his composure.

Amidst the chaos of their entrance, Michael's gaze swept across the room until it locked onto Darlina's, igniting a tumult of emotions within him. A mixture of relief and joy flickered across his features as he hastened towards her table, his footsteps echoing with urgency. Darlina watched him approach, her eyes wide like a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming storm.

"Goodness, we were worried about you," Michael murmured, planting a gentle kiss on Darlina's forehead before settling into the seat beside her. Though she longed to respond, her lips remained sealed, the weight of her father's admonishing voice echoing in her mind, stifling her words.

Across the table, Clementine appeared, gesturing towards Darlina's plate. "Let her eat in peace. You know she doesn't like to talk while she's eating."

"I know, I know," Michael sighed, acknowledging Clementine's reminder with a nod of understanding.

They ate in companionable silence, the trio lost in their own thoughts as they waited for Darlina to finish her meal. In what seemed like no time at all, she pushed her plate away.

"First of all, we're deeply sorry, Lina," Michael began, his tone heavy with remorse. "We were both late and missed the Hogwarts Express. That cursed wall closed on us."

Before Darlina could respond, Clementine interjected, eager to explain their unexpected arrival. "But we managed to get here with the help of Professor Flitwick. He's the goblin who escorted us," he explained, casting a glance towards the neighboring table before returning his attention to Darlina. "He's our Charms Professor."

Darlina's expression softened as she processed their words. "So that's why I couldn't find you guys yesterday," she murmured, a hint of disappointment tugging at her lips.

"Yes, we're truly sorry, Lina," Michael reiterated, his voice laced with genuine concern. "You seemed to handle it all rather well, thankfully. How's everything sinking in? And goodness, I had a feeling you'd end up in Hufflepuff!" he exclaimed, playfully squeezing her cheeks.

"Black and yellow suits you perfectly, Lils," Clementine chimed in with a teasing grin. "Although it would've been even better if you were in our house... but that was wishful thinking."

Darlina returned their banter with a wide grin. "Everything's been going smoothly," she replied. "And don't worry about yesterday. Professor Snape came to my rescue," she added, a vivid image of her stumbling into his lap flashing through her mind, causing her cheeks to flush with embarrassment.

"Helped you?" Clementine inquired, idly twirling his spoon between his fingers.

"Yeah, he did," Darlina confirmed with a nod. "I ended up in his compartment because it was the only one with space left, and he graciously offered to share."

"Graciously?" Michael scoffed, a grimace forming on his face. "More like begrudgingly. I can't imagine spending a day stuck with that grump." The mere thought sent shivers down his spine; it would surely qualify as the worst day of his life.

Darlina shook her head, a gentle smile playing on her lips. "It wasn't ruined at all. I was perfectly content," she insisted, puzzled by Michael's reaction. "What's gotten into you, Mike?"

"Nothing, I just miss you, my pumpkin pie!" Michael exclaimed dramatically, enveloping Darlina in a tight side hug.

“Stop harassing Lils, you ass.” a grape bounced on Michael’s head, eliciting giggles from Darlina as their playful banter resumed.

"Oh, I have a question!"

"Hmm?" they both responded in unison.

"What house is Professor Snape in? I asked him yesterday, but he didn't say anything," Darlina revealed.

Michael's expression turned incredulous. "You asked him?" he exclaimed, clearly taken aback.

Darlina pouted in response. "Why are you so surprised?" she countered. "I just want to know."

"Lils, he's our head of the house. That man is a Slytherin through and through,"

Michael chimed in with a thoughtful expression, "That makes me wonder... Why did he let Lina ride with him? Professor Snape loathes everyone. Sure, he's milder with us Slytherins, but it's still surprising for him to act kindly towards a student."

Darlina leaned her head against Michael's shoulder, a faint smile playing on her lips. "Probably because he and my father are friends," she mused softly.

"What—?" Michael began, his curiosity piqued.

Darlina hummed softly, her expression thoughtful. "I only found out recently too," she admitted.

Clementine nodded in understanding. "You know what, I totally get why he and Uncle Bentley get along so well," he remarked, a knowing glint in his eyes. He smoothly changed the subject. "Anyway, we should meet up later and give you a tour so you won't get lost."

"I never get lost!" Darlina retorted defensively.

"Says who?" Michael challenged with a playful smirk.

"Says I!" Darlina shot back, her confidence unwavering.

"Oh, come on, Lils. You have no sense of direction whatsoever. You got lost in our manor a year ago," Clementine teased with a chuckle. "We've been friends for what? Almost a decade. You visit our manor every year!"

Darlina blushed deeply. "Don't remind me, please. I'm trying my best."

"Aww, she's trying her best!" Michael mocked, reaching out to squeeze her cheeks once again.

Clementine glanced past their group, lifting his head to acknowledge the approaching figure. "Professor Snape, good morning," he greeted respectfully.

Darlina moved away from Michael, pivoting gracefully to face the imposing figure of Professor Snape. Despite his icy gaze, she greeted him with a warm smile. "Hello, Sir!"

However, Snape seemed to ignore her, causing a twinge of disappointment to flicker across her expression. "Mr. Harrington, Mr. Barlowe," Snape addressed them curtly, his tone conveying a sense of authority. "These are your timetables for the year. Mr. Harrington, immediately come to my office in your free time."

"Sure do, Professor," Clementine responded dutifully.

With a decisive nod, the man in black swept away, his robes billowing behind him as he made his way toward more of his Slytherin students.

"Dear little head boy, are you already exhausted?"

Clementine rolled his eyes playfully. "Shut up, I enjoy this as much as you enjoy partying. I swear, at some point, I'd snitch the location of your parties if you keep pestering me."

"You already did, plenty of times, might I say!"

"Come on, that was all due to Professor Snape's wits. I didn't utter any direct information," Clementine defended himself with a casual shrug.

"I want to try partying," Darlina suddenly murmured, her voice tinged with curiosity.

"Oh, you certainly don't. Don't flash me that grin, Mike. Stop giving her bad ideas," Clementine interjected, shooting Michael a warning glance.

"What? I'm not grinning," Michael protested innocently, though a playful twinkle danced in his eyes.

Their banter continued, with Darlina chiming in here and there, laughter bubbling between them like the carefree chatter of children. Their playful mood was interrupted when they were approached by a woman named Pomona Sprout, a name that rang familiar in Darlina's ears. She was certain she had heard it somewhere before. It soon became apparent that Pomona Sprout was the Hufflepuff head of house. They engaged in a brief conversation before she handed Darlina her timetable.

A minute later, Darlina found herself staring at her friends as they compared their schedules to hers. A surge of excitement washed over her when she realized that her first-ever class was with Clementine, which is advance potions. That meant they would be taught by the one and only man in black who had dared to ignore her earlier. She pouted, feeling a twinge of disappointment once again sinking in at the realization that their brief encounter in the train hadn't brought them any closer. Despite this, she soon found herself walking beside Clementine after they said their goodbyes to Michael. Lost in admiration of the moving staircase, Darlina was gently guided forward by Clementine, who tugged her along with a gentle insistence.

"Where are we going?" Darlina inquired, her curiosity piqued.

"The dungeons. That's where potions reside. It's also where Slytherin’s dormitories are located." Clementine explained.

"It feels like a maze here," Darlina murmured to herself, taking in the dimly lit corridors and twisting passageways.

"Yes, that's why you should get familiar with it, Lils," Clementine remarked gently. "Mike and I won't always be by your side."

She sighed, shivering slightly. "Yes, I know... It's quite cold here. How did you guys ever survive?" Darlina's breath formed wispy clouds in the chilly air, and the hairs on her exposed legs stood on end. Her skirt, stopping mid-thigh, left a strip of skin vulnerable to the cold, while her high-knee white socks offered minimal protection, stopping just above her knees.

"We're actually dead now. The cold is preserving our bodies better,"

"Very funny, Clem," Darlina replied with a wry smile.

"Don't be nervous," Clementine reassured Darlina.

"I am not..." she protested weakly.

"You've been twirling your hair for minutes now," Clementine pointed out gently.

Caught, Darlina blushed. "Okay, maybe I am, a little bit... or a lot..."

"Just try your best and you'll be fine, Lils," Clem encouraged, raising his fist in a playful 'fight' gesture.

Darlina smiled. "I'll try."

After several minutes of continuous walking, they finally reached their destination. It was a room that seemed to resemble a snake's den. It was spacious enough to accommodate at least twenty students, with walls lined with pickled animals preserved in glass jars. In one corner, a basin stood, into which ice-cold water poured from a gargoyle's mouth. Opposite it was a cupboard stocked with student supplies. At the front of the room, a blackboard awaited the Potions Master's instructions.

The atmosphere was especially chilly, causing Darlina to shiver as she imagined what it would be like to endure the dungeons' cold during winter. She settled beside Clementine at the front of the class, as Clementine had insisted. Heavy footsteps echoed through the quiet dungeons, and before she knew it, the door closed with a loud thud.

This was it.

Her first class awaited.

As Professor Snape made his grand entrance, the heavy swish of his billowing black cloak commanded the attention of the room, instantly silencing the chatter among the students. His piercing gaze landed on Darlina, who sat poised with her quill hovering over her parchment, prepared to capture every word.

"Miss Lourdes," his voice resonated with a deep, authoritative tone, sending a shiver down the spines of those present. "Could you enlighten the class on the significance of incorporating powdered moonstone into a potion?"

Darlina met his intense stare head-on, her thoughts racing as she delved into her reservoir of knowledge. "Powdered moonstone serves as a crucial ingredient, often sought after to amplify the efficacy of potions, especially those crafted for healing or fortification," she responded, her voice carrying a subdued confidence.

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of Professor Snape's lips, a rare indication of his approval. "Correct," he conceded, his tone begrudgingly acknowledging Darlina's grasp of the subject matter. "However, remember that knowledge alone is insufficient. Precision and meticulous attention to detail are indispensable in the art of potion-making."

Darlina nodded earnestly, her determination burning brighter as she resolved to exceed expectations. "Yes, Professor. I'll be sure to keep that in mind."

As the lesson progressed, Professor Snape continued to single out Darlina, presenting her with a series of challenging inquiries that probed the depths of her understanding of potion-crafting. With each response, Darlina's confidence swelled, buoyed by the professor's tacit approval. Surprisingly, she found solace in Snape's commanding presence, his authoritative voice instilling a sense of reassurance amidst the intellectual rigors of the classroom.

While Professor Snape delved into the intricate properties of dragon blood, a fresh topic for their inaugural lesson, Darlina remained steadfast in her focus, meticulously recording every detail with the scratch of her quill against parchment. Beside her, Clementine leaned closer, his words barely audible above the professor's monotonous drone.

"Lils, are you alright?"

Darlina offered a nod, a subtle grin adorning her features. "Yup!”

After potions class ended, Darlina glanced at Clementine, who was already exchanging banter about their next class. She hesitated for a moment before speaking up.

"Uh... Clem?" Darlina's voice was soft, causing him to pause. "Could you go on ahead without me? There's something I need to discuss with Professor Snape."

Clementine raised his eyebrow, a puzzled look showing across his face before nodding in agreement. "Are you sure?”

"Yes, of course. I'll catch up with you later."

Clementine smiled, “Don't get lost on the way.”

As he walked away, Darlina took a deep breath, steadying herself before approaching Professor Snape, who was meticulously gathering his papers at his desk. The classroom was empty now, the soft echo of footsteps in the corridors outside are the only sound breaking the silence.

"Professor Snape," Darlina began, her voice slightly trembling with nerves, each word measured carefully. "I just wanted to thank you for letting me sit in the compartment the other day on the Hogwarts Express. It meant a lot to me." Her heart pounded in her chest as she waited for his response, the memory of his stern gaze still vivid in her mind.

Professor Snape glanced up at her, his expression unreadable, his dark eyes briefly locking onto hers before returning to his papers. "It's my job as your professor to ensure your safety and well-being, Miss Lourdes," he replied curtly, his voice as cold and precise as ever, before turning his attention back to his work.

"Of course, Professor. Thank you again," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. With a sigh, Darlina exited the potions classroom. As she stepped into the hallway, she was startled to find Clementine still waiting for her. The flickering torches cast long shadows, adding an eerie atmosphere to the already somber scene.

"Why are you still here?"

“I figured I'd wait for you. Besides, you more likely need a hand in finding your next room.”  Clementine spoke, smiling a little.

Darlina couldn't help but smile. "Thank you… But you should really go for your next class. You might be late. I can handle myself."

Clementine shrugged nonchalantly "Eh, I don't care about being late, even just this once,"

As they walked side by side through the winding halls of Hogwarts, the ancient stone walls echoing with the faint hum of distant voices and the rustle of robes, Clemestine broke the silence. “What was that about?” he asked, glancing at Darlina.

“What are you talking about?” Darlina replied, her eyes forward but aware of the sideways glances from Clementine.

“You stayed behind because?” Clementine prompted, his brow furrowed as he tried to piece together Darlina's interaction with Snape.

“Oh, I thanked Professor Snape for yesterday,” Darlina explained, her voice casual but tinged with lingering nerves. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, trying to shake off the encounter.

“Oh,” Clementine said, his tone shifting to one of understanding.

“Yep,”

The duo continued their walk, the corridors alive with the faint whispers of portraits and the occasional flutter of passing owls. The flickering torchlight cast dancing shadows, adding a sense of enchantment to the moment.

 

 

🦢

Notes:

I don't want to come across as a domineering writer but PLEASE leave a comment down below or I'd cry my heart out— just kidding! But no, really. I'd be more than happy if I knew someone still reads this •^•.

Chapter 6: The Fortnight of a Beginning

       TWO WHOLE WEEKS PASSED in the blink of an eye. Darlina couldn’t believe she had survived that long! To be quite honest, she was beginning to grow accustomed to everything around her—from the bustling corridors filled with students to the unique Hogwarts culture that seemed to pulse through every stone of the ancient castle. The initial overwhelm had faded, replaced by a growing sense of belonging.

It helped that Clementine and Michael were always by her side, guiding her through the labyrinth of Hogwarts life. Their overbearing presence was both a comfort and a necessity. They were fiercely protective of Darlina, knowing well that her trusting nature and boundless kindness often left her vulnerable. She was the polar opposite of them, really. Where they were cautious and skeptical, she was open-hearted and naïve. It was no secret among their small circle that Darlina had a tendency to be a bit too generous with her trust, often seeing the best in people who didn’t always deserve it.

And so, she became their little gremlin. It was an affectionate nickname, though it always made Darlina roll her eyes with a smile.

She felt like she was really starting to fit in at Hogwarts, finally finding her place among the bustling student body. But that sense of belonging always seemed to vanish whenever it was time for Defense Against the Dark Arts. The moment the class began, a familiar wave of anxiety would wash over her, making her feel like an outsider once again.

Speaking of the class, as expected, Darlina couldn't manage the one task assigned to her: protecting herself. It wasn’t that she didn’t try, but the very idea of causing harm to another being—even in defense—went against everything she believed in. How could anyone expect her to use her magic against someone, especially when she was usually paired with Clementine or Michael? They were like family to her, and the thought of inflicting pain on them, even in a controlled setting, was unthinkable. It just didn’t make sense.

But this time, things were different.

Today, she wasn’t paired with Clementine or Michael. Instead, she found herself standing across from a random bloke. Her heart raced as she recognized him. It was the blond boy with the perpetual scowl, someone she’d only spoken briefly with when she was searching for her friends on the Hogwarts Express. His grumpy demeanor and sharp, narrowed eyes had stuck with her, though she hadn’t given him much thought since that day.

Now, here he was, her partner in the Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson, and Darlina felt a knot of anxiety tighten in her stomach. She wasn’t sure what to expect from him. Would he be kind? Or would he treat her with the same gruff attitude he showed at the train?

The boy stood opposite her, his expression unreadable, though there was a certain sharpness in his gaze that made Darlina uneasy. He didn’t seem the least bit bothered by the idea of a duel... if anything, he looked almost bored.

“Alright, on my count,” Professor Grimshade’s voice echoed through the room, snapping Darlina out of her thoughts. The other students around them were already preparing, wands at the ready, and Darlina could feel the pressure mounting.

She swallowed hard, clutching her wand tighter, trying to remember the spells they’d practiced. But her mind kept drifting back to the boy in front of her. The way his blond hair fell across his forehead, the way his lips were set in a thin line, as if he was constantly displeased with the world. She didn’t even know his name, but here she was, expected to duel him.

“Three… two… one…”

“Expelliarmus!” The boy’s voice rang out, his wand moving in a swift, precise motion.

Darlina barely had time to react. The force of his spell hit her squarely in the chest, and she stumbled backward, her own wand slipping from her grasp and clattering to the floor. The impact wasn’t strong enough to knock her down, but it was enough to jolt her. The boy’s expression didn’t change as he lowered his wand. He seemed even more annoyed now, as if her failure had somehow inconvenienced him.

Professor Grimshade approached, “Miss Lourdes,” he said gently, “you need to remember that defense is just as important as any other aspect of magic. Hesitation can be dangerous.”

“I know,” Darlina mumbled, bending down to retrieve her wand. “I’m sorry…”

The boy scoffed, rolling his eyes as he turned away. “Pathetic,” he muttered under his breath, though Darlina wasn’t sure if it was directed at her or just a general observation.

“Why don't you two try again?” Professor Grimshade suggested, his tone encouraging but with a hint of urgency. Darlina gave a shy nod, forcing herself to focus. She glanced around the room, watching as her classmates engaged in their duels. The air was thick with spells—flashes of light and bursts of magic criss crossing between students. Everyone seemed so absorbed in their practice, completely in tune with their opponents. Even Michael and Clementine, who were usually her safety net, were paired with other students and looked utterly focused on their duels.

Darlina sighed, trying to steady her nerves. She turned back to her partner who was already standing with his wand at the ready, looking more impatient that they had to go through this again. “Can we please try again?” Darlina asked, her voice almost pleading. She hoped he might show a bit of understanding, maybe go easy on her this time. But his eyes only narrowed, and he gave a curt nod.

“Fine,” he said flatly, positioning himself for the duel. “But don’t expect me to hold back.”

Darlina’s heart sank at his words, but she pushed the fear aside, gripping her wand tightly. She knew she needed to try harder, to at least defend herself this time. But the pressure was overwhelming, and as they prepared to start, the anxiety clawed at her, making it hard to concentrate.

“On my count,” Professor Grimshade began, and Darlina tried to steady her breathing.

“Three… two… one…”

This time, Darlina was determined to act first. She raised her wand, her mind racing to remember the incantation. But just as she opened her mouth to cast the spell, her partner’s voice rang out sharply.

“Stupefy!”

The stunning spell shot toward her. Panicking, Darlina tried to conjure a shield, but her words tangled on her tongue. The shield charm fizzled out before it even fully formed, and the spell hit her squarely in the chest.

Everything went black for a split second, and she crumpled to the ground, the impact sending a jolt of pain through her back as she landed. The room fell into a stunned silence as the duel came to an abrupt halt. Darlina lay there, gasping for breath, the embarrassment and frustration washing over her in waves.

Professor Grimshade quickly knelt beside her, helping her sit up. “Miss Lourdes, are you alright?”

Darlina nodded weakly, though tears were starting to well up in her eyes. She had failed again, making her feel small and inadequate. Clementine and Michael were at her side in an instant, having abandoned their own duels to rush to her. “Darlina!” Clementine exclaimed, his eyes wide with concern. “What happened?”

Michael, kneeling beside her, gave the blond boy a withering glare before turning his attention back to Darlina. “Are you okay? You don’t have to keep doing this if it’s too much.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine. Thank you,” Darlina replied, her voice trembling slightly as she pulled herself together. She glanced around the room, feeling the weight of all the eyes on her. Her classmates had paused their duels, their attention once again focused on her, and she could feel the heat of embarrassment rising in her cheeks.

She sighed, trying to shake off the lingering sense of failure, and turned to Professor Grimshade.

“Could I please be dismissed early?”

He hesitated for a moment, then nodded. “Just this once, Miss Lourdes. But remember, persistence is key.”

Darlina forced a smile, grateful for the reprieve. “Thank you, Professor.”

Turning to Clementine and Michael, she pulled them into a quick, tight hug. “I’ll see you guys later,” she said, trying to inject some brightness into her voice, though it was clear to her friends that she was struggling.

Clementine gave her a reassuring squeeze.

Michael gently ruffled her hair. “Don’t beat yourself up, okay? We’ve got your back.”

Darlina nodded, her smile more genuine now, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. As she left the classroom, she could still feel the stares of her peers. But she kept her head held high, reminding herself that it was okay to have bad days, that everyone struggles sometimes.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina sighed softly, her quill suspended in midair as she stared blankly at the parchment before her. The ideas that had flowed so easily earlier now seemed to have dried up. She glanced around the massive Hogwarts library, its towering shelves packed with centuries of knowledge. She had chosen a secluded spot by the window, where the chairs were designed for solitary students, and the tables were small, almost discouraging company.

The sunlight filtered through the stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the floor, but Darlina barely noticed. She was lost in thought, her mind drifting away from the half-finished essay on magical art techniques. Frustrated, she placed her quill down and decided to stretch her legs and clear her mind. Perhaps a stroll through the aisles would help spark some inspiration.

The library was eerily quiet, the only sounds being the occasional rustle of parchment or the distant creak of ancient shelves. As Darlina wandered through the aisles, her eyes scanned the spines of the books. She reached the section on artistic spells and enchantments, where the books seemed older, dustier, as if forgotten by time. One title caught her eye: Brushstrokes & Beyond: Exploring the Depths of Artistic Vision.

Standing on her tiptoes, she reached for the book. Just as her fingers closed around the spine, she felt a sudden pressure on her shoulder. A hand, cold and unexpected. Darlina let out a terrified squeal, her heart leaping into her throat as she spun around, eyes wide with fright.

It was Michael, bent over with laughter, his arms wrapped around his stomach as he struggled to keep quiet in the silent library. His brown hair fell into his eyes as he grinned at her, obviously pleased with himself.

“Mike!” Darlina whisper-shouted, her voice a mixture of relief and irritation. “You scared me half to death!”

“Sorry,” Michael managed between chuckles. “It was just too funny.”

“To you,” she huffed, her heart still pounding from the scare.

“Oh, come on, Lina. You should have seen your face!” he teased, his grin widening.

“You can’t just do that, Mike. I might’ve screamed louder and gotten us both in trouble.”

Michael’s expression softened, and he reached out to gently grasp her wrist. “I’m sorry, Lina,” he said, his voice sincere despite the playful pout on his lips. “I didn’t mean to really scare you.”

Darlina rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. She pulled her wrist free and finally managed to tug the book from the shelf. “You’ll get no sympathy from me,” she said, trying to sound stern as she walked past him

“Hey! What’s that about?” Michael hushed after her, clearly not ready to let her off the hook.

“I was just teasing you back,” she replied, glancing over her shoulder. “Serves you right for shocking me like that.”

“So, you’re not mad?

“Of course not! Why would I be mad over something so silly?”

“Silly, huh?” Michael’s mischievous grin returned as he reached out and playfully looped his arm around her neck, tousling her hair.

Darlina shrieked in protest, her hands flying up to push his arm away, but Michael was too strong. “This is ridiculous!” she exclaimed, laughing despite herself.

“This is ridiculous.”

Darlina turned only to see Clem standing behind them, his usually calm demeanor replaced with a look of mild irritation. He held a thick book in one hand, and with a swift motion, he brought it down on Michael’s head with a dull thud.

“Ouch! Whathe fu—” Michael began, rubbing his head.

“Clem!” Darlina exclaimed, slipping out of Michael’s grasp to hide behind Clem, who patted her head protectively.

“What the fuck, man? That hurt,” Michael complained, still nursing his head.

“It better have. You two are causing a disturbance in the library,”

“Both of us?” Darlina protested, peeking out from behind Clem. “It was only Mike!”

“Hey—” Michael started to object, but Clem cut him off with a raised hand, his voice calm but firm.

“Lils?” Clem’s tone softened as he addressed Darlina, his gaze concerned.

“Yep?” she replied, tilting her head curiously.

“Are you okay now?” Clem asked, his voice laced with genuine worry. Darlina knew exactly what he was referring to. The unsettling incident during their Defense Against the Dark Arts class the day before.

Darlina smiled softly, “We talked about it yesterday already, Clem, I’m fine. Seriously.”

Clem studied her for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Promise?”

“Pinky swear,” she said, grinning as she extended her pinky toward him.

Clem’s serious demeanor cracked slightly as he hooked his much larger pinky around hers. “Pinky swear,” he echoed, his voice lightening. Michael, not wanting to be left out, quickly extended his own pinky to join in, but the duo broke off just before he could.

“Hey, no fair!” Michael protested, faking a pout. “I wanted to pinky swear too!”

“Too slow,” Darlina teased, sticking her tongue out at him playfully.

Michael crossed his arms, pretending to sulk. “You two always gang up on me.”

Clem’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Maybe if you didn’t spend so much time scaring poor Lils, you wouldn’t miss out on these important moments.”

Michael rolled his eyes, but there was no malice in his expression. “Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’m the bad guy."

Darlina laughed, “You’re not the bad guy, Mike. Just a bit of a troublemaker.”

“And proud of it,” he said with a grin, puffing out his chest.

Darlina gave Clem a quick hug before skipping back to her spot by the window. She shot Michael one last playful look, sticking her tongue out at him again as she settled down.

“I’ll get you back for that, Lina. Just you wait.”

Darlina just shook her head, already diving back into her essay. As she dipped her quill into the ink, the library returned to its serene silence, save for the occasional rustling of pages and the soft scratching of quills. Clem took a seat beside her, opening his own book with a contented sigh. Michael, still grinning, plopped down nearby and pretended to study, though it was clear he was more interested in planning his next prank.

For a few peaceful moments, the three of them worked in companionable silence. But then, Michael suddenly leaned over, whispering conspiratorially, “Hey, Lils, how about a break soon? Maybe we can sneak into the kitchen and grab some snacks?”

Clem didn’t even look up from his book. “Don’t even think about it, Mike.”

Darlina just giggled softly. With renewed focus, she dipped her quill in ink and returned to her essay, the words now flowing effortlessly onto the parchment.

 

 

🦢

Chapter 7: The Voyage of a Bored Girl

         IT WAS NO SECRET that Darlina had an unwavering adoration for flowers and plants of all kinds. The vibrant colors, the delicate petals, the way each bloom seemed to carry a secret all its own—she loved them all. So, when she discovered that a forest lay just beyond the castle grounds, even if it was forbidden, she found the temptation impossible to resist.

The allure of the dense, shadowy trees, the promise of undiscovered wildflowers, and the possibility of rare herbs nestled within the undergrowth made her decision inevitable. The rules forbidding entry seemed insignificant compared to the call of nature's beauty waiting to be uncovered.

By mid-September, slipping away to the forest had become a cherished habit, a secret ritual she held close. The path she took, winding through the edges of the castle’s grounds, had grown familiar under her feet. The rustle of leaves, the scent of damp earth, and the occasional burst of color from a hidden flower patch welcomed her like an old friend each time she ventured in.

For Darlina, the forest was more than a forbidden place; it was a sanctuary where she could lose herself in the wonders of nature and feel a connection to something larger than the world within the castle walls.

After her Charms class, Darlina found herself with a luxurious five hours of free time, which is a perfect opportunity to lose herself in the embrace of her beloved forest. Excitement bubbled within her as she thought about the afternoon ahead. She practically bounced down the corridor toward her dormitory. Once inside, she moved with purpose, grabbing her cherished camera from its usual spot on her desk. The sleek, well-worn device had captured countless moments of beauty, and today would be no different. She could already imagine the shots she’d take, the delicate details of leaves and blossoms preserved forever in her photographs.

As she packed her bag, she included a few essential items—a small journal for sketching and jotting down notes, a bottle of water, a light snack, and a soft, worn blanket to sit on if she decided to rest. With everything packed, Darlina took a moment to glance out the window, where the sun hung in the sky, casting a golden glow over the grounds.

There was a noticeable spring in her step as Darlina walked through the quiet halls of Hogwarts, her excitement bubbling just beneath the surface. Sunlight filtered through the tall, arched windows, casting patterns of light and shadow across the floor, adding to the sense of magic that always seemed to linger in the air. However, as she rounded a corner, her cheerful stride faltered slightly. Her eyes were instantly drawn to Professor Snape’s piercing gaze, as if pulled by an invisible force. The corridor suddenly felt narrower, the air charged with an unexpected tension. His dark, intense eyes locked onto hers, unreadable as ever.

Darlina’s smile didn’t waver. On the contrary, it brightened as if trying to dispel the gravity of the moment. “Good morning, Professor!” The words seemed to echo in the stillness of the hallway. The man barely acknowledged her with a curt nod. He moved with a commanding presence, his robes billowing behind him. Darlina's smile slightly faltered, and her shoulders slumped ever so slightly, the buoyant energy she had carried moments before draining away.

It was the same every time she greeted him. His dismissive responses, the way he seemed to look right through her, as if she were little more than a shadow in his world. Almost ignored, but not completely. She sighed softly, her heart heavy with a familiar twinge of disappointment, and continued on her way.

In a matter of minutes, Darlina was stepping into the embrace of the Forbidden Forest. The air here was cooler, carrying the earthy scent of damp soil mingled with the crisp fragrance of pine. The light filtering through the canopy above created a soft, dappled effect on the forest floor, adding an ethereal quality to the surroundings. She cradled her camera with care, capturing the scenes that called out to her with their quiet beauty.

Clusters of wild bluebells caught her attention first, their delicate petals shimmering with morning dew like tiny sapphires nestled among the undergrowth. Nearby, a thicket of ferns unfurled their leaves toward the sun, the intricate patterns of their fronds casting delicate shadows on the ground. Towering trees surrounded her, their ancient trunks stretching endlessly upward, their branches swaying gently in the breeze.

As she wandered deeper, a small patch of forget-me-nots caught her eye. The tiny, sky-blue flowers were a poignant reminder of her mother, a woman she only knew from Pharell’s stories and photographs taken long ago, who seemed to love flowers as much as her, the very same woman that unknowingly nurtured her love for photography. The sight stirred a familiar ache in her heart, a mix of longing and love that she could only express through the lens of her camera. With a bittersweet smile, Darlina knelt to capture their fragile beauty, knowing that in this moment, she was connected to her mother in a way that transcended time and place.

Later, she strayed from her usual path, her curiosity leading her deeper into the heart of the forest. She soon found herself in a secluded grove, dominated by an ancient willow tree that stood sentinel in the quiet clearing. The tree’s long, drooping branches cascaded downward, creating a natural canopy that enveloped the space in a hushed, almost sacred atmosphere. Darlina moved slowly beneath the willow's arching boughs, the rustling leaves brushing against her. The green curtain of foliage swayed gently in the breeze, casting shifting patterns of light and shadow on the ground. It was as if the tree itself was alive, breathing in rhythm with the forest around it. The soft rustle of the leaves mingled with the distant sounds of the forest.

She found a comfortable spot at the base of the tree, its gnarled roots providing a natural seat. As she settled there, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. Here, she was alone with her thoughts, the gentle sway of the branches above her lulling her into a state of quiet reflection. Darlina continued to take pictures, the soft clicks of her camera blending seamlessly with the tranquil stillness of the grove. Each press of the shutter captures the timeless beauty of her surroundings. From the gentle sway of the willow branches to the dappled sunlight filtering through the leaves.

After a while, she lowered her camera and leaned back against the sturdy trunk, letting the coolness of the wood seep into her skin. Her thoughts began to drift, carried away by the serenity of the moment. How strange it was, she mused, that my life had changed so swiftly and so drastically. It seemed only yesterday she had been a homeschooled girl, her world small and familiar, confined to the comforts of home.

The wizarding world had always felt like a distant dream. And now, here she was... a student at Hogwarts, a place she had once thought existed only in Pharell’s tales. Every day brought something new, something wondrous. She found herself delighting in the smallest of things... a spell learned, a potion brewed, a moment spent with friends in the bustling halls of the castle.

Her thoughts wandered to her Potions professor. A flicker of something unfamiliar stirred within her, but she quickly pushed it aside.

Her father's best friend, yet he seemed to go out of his way to avoid her. It didn’t make sense... But as she thought about it more, she realized it was almost expected. Her own father had barely spoken to her in years, their conversations limited and strained except for the recent events. If her own father didn’t show much interest in her, why would his closest friend be any different? The realization made her feel foolish but the thought still lingered, if she could have Pharell’s attention, why couldn’t she have Professor Snape’s? After all, both men had been close to her father.

Great, she thought with a pang of frustration, the lack of attention from her father was making her unnervingly sensitive with everyone around her. Particularly those who were intricately connected to him. It felt as though his absence had magnified her need for validation.

Her thoughts drifted to her less-than-stellar performances in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and her heart sank. She’d never been the most confident in that class, and the thought of it often brought her close to tears.

She remembered the endless drills and the way her hands trembled when she tried to cast a spell correctly. The frustration and embarrassment were almost overwhelming, and the idea of not measuring up felt like a personal failure.

Before she knew it, the gentle, rhythmic symphony of the forest had woven its calming magic around her. The soft rustling of the willow's leaves, the distant murmur of the stream, and the occasional call of a woodland creature created a soothing lullaby that seemed to embrace her. The steady cadence of nature’s sounds, combined with the cool, tranquil air, eased her into a deep and restful slumber. She sank into the comforting embrace of the forest floor, the softness of the moss beneath her a gentle cushion. The serene atmosphere, unmarred by the worries of the outside world, lulled her into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

She was jolted awake by the warmth of the sun streaming through the gaps in the willow’s branches, its rays gently nudging her from sleep. Her eyes flew open as the realization of the time hit her with startling clarity. She glanced at her wristwatch, and a surge of panic swept over her. She had not only missed lunch but was now a quarter of an hour late for her Advance Potions class.

Frantically, she scrambled to gather her scattered belongings, her movements quick and clumsy as she shoved her camera and other items into her bag. Her heart raced, pounding heavily against her ribs as the urgency of the situation set in. She darted toward the castle, her legs moving faster than they ever had before, each step echoing her mounting anxiety. The lush greenery of the forest blurred around her as she sprinted, her mind focused solely on making it to class before the professor’s wrath descended upon her.

By the time she reached the Potions classroom, she was breathless, her chest heaving with every hurried breath. Her usually neatly styled hair was a tangled cascade of disarray, and her uniform was rumpled and disheveled. A smudge of earthy brown soil marred her pale stockings, evidence of her frantic dash through the grounds. Despite her disheveled appearance, she paid it no mind, her focus solely on the impending class.

With deliberate care, she eased open the door, wincing as its hinges groaned loudly in protest. The classroom fell into an eerie silence, the only sound the subtle rustling of robes as every student’s gaze turned to her. The room seemed to hold its breath, and she found herself struggling intensely to maintain eye contact with the man standing at the front. His intense, unwavering gaze seemed to pierce through the dimly lit room, amplifying her sudden, overwhelming sense of self-consciousness.

“I apologize for being late, Professor. I—” she began, her voice quivering slightly as she spoke.

Professor Snape’s eyes were as cold as ice, and he crossed his arms with an air of disdain as he looked down at her. His gaze lingered on her disheveled appearance.

“Miss Lourdes,” he began, his voice a dangerous whisper that dripped with contempt, “it appears you have deluded yourself into believing that the rules are mere suggestions, applicable only to those less fortunate than you. How quaint.” He let the silence hang, the weight of his words heavy in the air.

"Less fortunate than me?" Her eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Sir—”

Before she could finish, Professor Snape shot her a sharp glare, his eyes darkening in warning. The unspoken command to be silent was clear, and she immediately clamped her mouth shut.

“Fifteen points from Hufflepuff for your pathetic display of disregard for punctuality. Perhaps next time you’ll remember that the world does not revolve around your whims. Now, take your seat before I deduct more points to the tally for your insolence.”

Darlina’s face burned with embarrassment as she quickly nodded and scurried to her seat. As she settled into her chair, she dared a glance at Professor Snape. His expression was unreadable as he turned back to the blackboard.

She felt a gentle yet urgent hand grasp her own, and her eyes darted to her friend Clementine, who wore a look of deep concern. Clementine’s fingers worked deftly to smooth the tangled mess of her hair and straighten her crumpled uniform, his movements quick and purposeful in an attempt to mitigate the damage. The warmth of Clementine’s touch was a small comfort amidst the overwhelming embarrassment, and she could see the genuine worry in her friend's eyes as he tried to help her regain some semblance of composure.

The lesson resumed, but Darlina found it hard to focus. Her mind kept drifting back to the forest, the peacefulness of the willow tree, and the way the sunlight had filtered through the leaves. She longed to be back there, away from the scrutiny of her peers and the disappointment in Snape’s eyes.

As the class drew to a close, Professor Snape called her name again. “Miss Lourdes, a word.”

Clementine quickly patted her reassuringly. Darlina attempted to smile, but it was difficult when her heart sank as she made her way to Professor Snape’s desk, her head bowed slightly.

“Your carelessness today was unacceptable,” he said sternly, his dark eyes boring into hers. “This is not the behavior I expect from you.”

“I’m sorry, Professor,” she murmured, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

“An apology alone will not suffice,” Snape retorted, his voice dripping with disdain. “You will be serving detention tonight, fifteen minutes after dinner. Consider it a lesson in responsibility.”

Darlina looked up, only to be met with the intensity of his gaze. Her throat tightened, and she swallowed hard.

“Do you comprehend the gravity of this, Miss Lourdes?” Snape’s eyebrows arched in a skeptical arch.

Her hands clenched nervously in front of her. She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. “I understand, sir,” she managed to say, her voice trembling slightly.

“Good,” Snape said, his tone not softening. “Ensure that you use this opportunity to reflect on your conduct. I expect improvement.”

 

 

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The moment Darlina stepped foot outside, Clementine was there, waiting with open arms. Without a word, she slumped against him, burying her face in his chest. The world around her blurred as tears began to stream down her face, emotions surging uncontrollably. She couldn’t quite pinpoint what she was feeling, it was as if every emotion she had ever buried was now bubbling to the surface, all at once.

Clementine held her close. He simply caressed her back in slow, soothing circles. “It’s okay, Lils,” he whispered, his voice low and comforting. “Let it all out.”

She let out a muffled sob, her fingers clutching the fabric of his robe. “I could tell Professor Snape was disappointed. I’m falling behind in Defense Against the Dark Arts, too. I just… I feel like I’m failing at everything.”

“It would be fine,” he said softly. “Snape’s always hard on everyone, Lils.”

“But it’s different with me,” Darlina whispered. “I’m supposed to be better. I don’t want him to think I’m not trying… What if he tells my father? What if he thinks I’m not ready and sends me home?”

Clementine’s heart ached seeing her like this. “Lils, you’re just starting to adjust to this new setup,” he said gently. “You were homeschooled your whole life. Coming to Hogwarts is a big change. It’s normal to make mistakes, to struggle a bit. It’s part of life.”

She sniffled, her tears slowing down as she listened to his words. “I just don’t want to disappoint anyone… especially not my father.”

“You’re not disappointing anyone,” Clementine reassured her. “Your father knows how strong and capable you are. And Snape… Well, he’s not going to snitch on you because of one late class. You’re one of the brightest students here, Lils. You just need time to adjust.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“I am,” Clementine assured her. He gently guided her away from the bustling corridor, leading her down a quieter path. She let him take the lead, trusting him to find a place where she could finally breathe.

They eventually reached a secluded courtyard, hidden from the rest of the school by tall hedges and flowering vines. The air was cool and fresh, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of blooming roses. Darlina took a deep breath, the tension in her chest easing slightly as she looked around.

Clementine led her to a stone bench beneath a sprawling oak tree. They sat down together, the silence between them comforting rather than awkward. For a while, neither of them spoke, simply sitting side by side, listening to the rustling leaves and distant bird songs.

 

🦢

Chapter 8: The Moments of Trembling Nerves

           A PLATE OF STRAWBERRIES covered in rich, dark chocolate was presented to Darlina by none other than Michael. She stared at him, mouth agape, as the scent of the dessert filled her senses.

He arched his eyebrows playfully. "A hug will suffice, thank you very much." He nudged the plate closer to her, flopping across from her with a sigh as if he'd just completed a grand quest.

Moments ago, her appetite had been nonexistent, her fork aimlessly pushing around the food on her plate. But with the dessert in front of her, her stomach suddenly grumbled, demanding attention. For the first time that day, a genuine grin spread across her face. She eagerly picked up one of the strawberries, taking a big bite. After a few moments of enthusiastic chewing, she raised her hand with a thumbs-up.

“I didn’t take you for someone so sweet, Mike,” Clementine teased, reaching over to poke one of the strawberries with his fork. He bit into it, his eyes widening in delight. “Honestly, where’d you get these?”

“From the kitchen, of course. I’ve got connections,” Michael said with a shrug, leaning back with a smug expression. “The house-elves and I are basically best mates.”

Clementine snorted, “I’ll keep your secret safe if you promise to get me my own plate next time.”

“Dream on, Clem,” Michael huffed, though there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

As the two began to bicker, Darlina let the noise fade into the background, focusing on the comforting sweetness of the strawberries. Her earlier meal sat untouched and now pushed aside, forgotten in favor of the decadent dessert. She’d always been more comfortable at the Hufflepuff table, and today was no different. Yet, despite the familiar surroundings, she felt a lingering tension, a discomfort that had been with her since her Potions class earlier.

Usually, Darlina would occupy herself by glancing around the Great Hall as she ate, which is an ingrained habit from her father's strict rule about not talking during meals. But today, her eyes stubbornly avoided the front of the hall, where the professors sat. She knew that if she looked, she might meet the piercing gaze of her Potions Master. Their eyes often met at the most unexpected moments, and she couldn't handle that intensity right now.

She sighed softly, toying with another strawberry.

“Feeling better now?” Michael’s voice cut through her thoughts, pulling her back to the present.

She nodded, but the smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Honestly, that’s a record, Lina,” Michael said, his tone light, trying to cheer her up. “Most students end up with detention within their first week. It’s totally fine to get one now. It’s practically a rite of passage!”

She hummed in response, taking another bite of her strawberry, the sweet flavor doing little to ease the knot of anxiety in her stomach.

Clementine reached over and gently caressed her hair, a soothing gesture that made her shoulders relax just a little. They continued to eat in companionable silence, the lively chatter of the Great Hall swirling around them.

Despite herself, Darlina's gaze began to wander, her eyes drifting toward the high table at the front of the hall. She couldn’t help it... it was as if something was pulling her attention there. She found him almost immediately. The Potions Master was engaged in a conversation with Professor McGonagall, his dark eyes focused intently on her as he nodded along to whatever she was saying. His hand moved with precise, deliberate motions as he cut his food, raising it to his lips with the same meticulous care he showed in the classroom.

She watched him closely, noting the slight arch of his brow as he responded to McGonagall, his expression inscrutable. She couldn’t read his lips from this distance. Lost in her thoughts, she absentmindedly bit into another strawberry just as his gaze suddenly flicked to hers. Their eyes locked, and for a moment, the rest of the hall seemed to disappear. Her breath caught in her throat, and her cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

Quickly, she looked away, hunching her shoulders as if trying to make herself smaller. The sudden shyness that washed over her was both confusing and frustrating.

“Lina?” Michael’s voice was tinged with concern. “You okay?”

She shook her head slightly, pushing the last bite of her strawberry into her mouth, chewing slowly to buy herself time to compose her thoughts.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” she finally murmured, though her voice lacked its usual steadiness.

Michael and Clementine exchanged a glance but said nothing, sensing that pressing her for more would do no good.

As they continued their meal, Darlina found herself sneaking one last glance at the high table, only to find the Potions Master once again absorbed in his conversation.

 

 

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Clementine and Michael offered to accompany her to Professor Snape’s office, but Darlina refused incessantly. She was adamant that she could handle it on her own. Perhaps she was very good at persuading because they eventually stopped bothering her, though not without shared looks of concern. Now that they’re not by her side, she’s rethinking her life choices. Honestly, when did the dungeons ever really feel like a maze? She’s often with Clementine, who somehow always knows the way, so she doesn’t notice how perplexing it really is. But now, alone, her confidence in finding Professor Snape’s office crumbled second by second.

She looked at her wristwatch, a sense of panic rising in her chest. Five minutes left before her detention, and she was nowhere near where she needed to be. Her feet picked up speed, but the twisting corridors seemed to stretch endlessly.

A heavy sigh echoed behind her, making her jump. “Where are your friends?”

Startled, Darlina spun around to see a blond boy, the same one who had been her partner in Defense Against the Dark Arts. He looked at her with an air of mild annoyance. She shook her head, fumbling for words. “They, um, returned to their dormitories…”

He rolled his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “You’re serving detention with Professor Snape, right?”

How did he…?

Her confusion must have been plain on her face because he sighed again, this time with an edge of impatience. “I’m in the same class as you, dunderhead.”

“Dunderhead?” she repeated, her nose scrunching up in disbelief. She couldn’t believe he just called her that.

“Enough with that,” he snapped, cutting her off. “Follow me.”

Is it too obvious that I am totally at a loss?

He walked fast, and Darlina had to hurry to keep up, her heart pounding in her chest. The dungeons were even more disorienting when you didn’t know where you were going. She kept her eyes fixed on his back, hoping he wasn’t leading her astray. After what felt like an eternity of winding corridors and cold stone walls, they finally reached a corridor with a single iron-bound door at the end. A golden plate on top bore the name “SEVERUS SNAPE,” with “Potions Master” inscribed in elegant cursive beneath it.

The blond boy turned to face her one last time, his expression unreadable. “Enjoy,” he muttered, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

Her heart thumped loudly in her chest. “Thank you,” she managed to whisper.

He didn’t respond, instead disappearing down the corridor in a flash, leaving her alone in the cold, dimly lit hallway. Only then did it hit her that she didn’t even know his name. She sighed, making a mental note to find out later. But for now, her focus was entirely on the door in front of her. Cautiously, she reached for the iron ring, her hand trembling slightly. She was just about to knock when the door swung open, catching her off guard and pulling her forward as she still had her hand on the ring.

She let out a startled screech, “Merlin!”

“Indeed, Miss Lourdes. Merlin,” came the cold, silky voice of Professor Snape. His dark eyes bored into hers, his lips curling into the faintest sneer. “You’re late.”

Darlina winced. “Sorry, Professor. I really tried, but—”

“Spare me your pathetic excuses,” he interrupted, his voice dripping with disdain.

“I swear, the dungeons are like… a maze in a maze. It’s perplexing,” she blurted out, desperate to justify herself.

“Enough,” he snapped, his voice low and menacing, as though daring her to speak again. “I have neither the time nor the patience for your foolishness.”

Darlina’s gaze flickered around the room, taking in every detail. The desk stood centered at the far end, framed by a tightly drawn dark green curtain that seemed out of place in the dungeons. Curtains down here? Could there really be a window behind them? The thought piqued her curiosity, but she pushed it aside. The walls flanking the curtain were lined with shelves overflowing with books. The floor supporting his desk was elevated slightly, and in one corner, a small fireplace flickered with low flames. Two chairs were set facing each other beside it, with a small table in between.

“Miss Lourdes, are you quite finished gawking like a first-year?” Snape’s voice sliced through her reverie.

She snapped back to attention, blinking rapidly. “Come again, sir?”

His eyes narrowed, his expression one of deep annoyance. “I said, you are to clean the jars in my storage room while I prepare a potion. Do try to keep up.”

“Oh… yes, Professor,” she stammered, her voice trembling slightly.

“Follow me,” he commanded, his robes billowing as he turned and swept toward a door she hadn’t noticed before.

Why am I always following these Slytherins like a puppy?

Snape opened the door without even a flick of his wand or a touch of his hand. She marveled silently as the door waited for her to pass through before closing gently behind her. The corridor was unnecessarily long, she thought, but they didn’t take any turns.

It bore the label “LABORATORY” with a bold warning beneath: “BEWARE.”

Once again, the door opened as they approached, and Snape allowed her to enter first, her shoulder brushing past him. The faint scent of potions brewing hit her as soon as she stepped inside.

Oh, wow.

A row of tables stretched before her, each topped with a cauldron already bubbling away. The walls were lined with shelves crammed full of potion ingredients, some familiar, others mysterious. Bright lights focused on each table, illuminating the scene like a stage. She also noticed two sinks on the wall near the tables, their taps gleaming under the lights.

“Where do I start, sir?” she asked quietly, trying to mask the tremor in her voice.

“You may start from the section marked ‘A’, in that corner,”

She nodded quickly, grateful for the clarity. “Okay.”

“Uhm, may I put my bag on that chair?” She gestured toward a lone chair in the corner.

Snape's gaze flicked briefly to the chair before returning to her. “You may,” he said curtly, his tone making it clear he expected no further questions.

Darlina set her bag down carefully, then moved toward the shelves labeled with the letter A. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. As she began her task, she couldn’t help but steal glances at Snape, who was already busy preparing his potion at one of the tables. The soft clinking of glass and the bubbling of potions filled the air, creating a strangely soothing rhythm.

“Professor?” she began, her voice wavering slightly, afraid that at any moment he might lash out.

“Yes?” His voice was sharp and low, more of a growl than a word. He didn't bother to look up from the ingredients he was inspecting.

She swallowed hard. “Will you... will you tell my father what happened earlier?”

His head tilted ever so slightly, his black eyes narrowing as they flicked towards her, scrutinizing her like one of his failed potions. “Why would I waste my time with such trivialities?”

Her hand froze mid-rub over the jar, a surge of relief so unexpected she nearly smiled.

“Thank you so much!” she said, the excitement in her voice bubbling up despite herself.

His lip curled in distaste. “Your exuberance alone might be enough to change my mind. I would curb it if I were you.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She quickly returned to her task, her fingers trembling slightly. “No can do, Professor. You practically swore on a stone already that you wouldn't tell him.” She dared to add a hint of cheekiness, hoping it might diffuse his ire.

Snape's eyebrow lifted, a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Swore on a stone? What utter nonsense. Where, pray tell, did you come up with such foolishness?”

She let out a nervous laugh, her attempt at lightening the moment painfully transparent. “Secret,” she muttered.

The silence that followed was oppressive. Snape returned to his work, the tension lingering in the air. Darlina tried to fill the void with soft, absent-minded humming, swaying slightly to the rhythm of her own thoughts. She was so caught up in her own world that she didn’t notice the jar teetering dangerously close to the edge of the shelf. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the dungeon.

Darlina gasped audibly, a cold dread pooling in her stomach. She dropped to her knees, frantically picking up the broken shards. “I’m—I’m sorry!” she stammered, her hands trembling as she gathered the pieces, oblivious to the fact that her fingers were already streaked with blood.

“Miss Lourdes,” Snape hissed, his tone brimming with exasperation. His long, thick fingers wrapped around her wrist, pulling her up from the floor with a forceful yet strangely delicate motion. Her mind was a blur, thoughts tumbling over each other in a haze of panic. She met his gaze, eyes wide with fear, and muttered something incoherent.

Then, as if her body moved of its own accord, she wrenched herself free and bolted for the door.

Snape’s eyes followed her retreat, a sneer curling his lip. He made no effort to stop her. The dungeon door clicked shut behind her, the echo of her footsteps fading into the corridors.

 

 

 

🦢

Notes:

Honestly, I want to post a collage for my characters. I can't add a photo for some reason, though.

I don't know if I could update in the next few months, guys. I'm a first year college so... Anyway, while there's not many task at hand, I'll try to update as much as possible. I'm just saying because I could just poof mid air sometimes.

I hope you guys are liking it so far.

🎀

Chapter 9: The Hurdles of Midnight Sessions

     RUNNING AWAY FROM HER problems wasn't really Darlina’s style. Or so she liked to believe.

She sighed, sinking deeper into her bed as the weight of reality settled around her. If she was being honest, she never really had problems before. Not the kind that mattered. Staying home, keeping to herself—that had always been easy.

But this…this was different.

She flexed her fingers, watching as the skin around her palm stung and throbbed. Healing animals had always come naturally to her. Healing herself though was new territory. She raised her hand and began muttering incantations, her voice barely a whisper as the words of the spell tumbled from her lips. For a moment, her hand started to glow with a faint shimmer of magic. The pain dulled slightly, the skin knitting together until it stopped. The glow flickered and died. She groaned.

"Ugh, this is hopeless."

Sitting back up, she threw the blankets aside and stomped towards the bathroom. If magic wouldn’t work, then she’d have to do it the old-fashioned way. She rummaged through the cabinets, finally finding the medical kit buried behind a few bottles of soap.

Back in her bed, she carefully picked out the tiny shards of glass still embedded in her hand, wincing at each sharp sting. Once the wound was cleaned, she wrapped her hand tightly in gauze. As she worked, her mind replayed the events that befall. His face, the coldness in his eyes, the way she had just…run. And to make matters worse, she had left her bag in his laboratory. She had never felt so foolish in her life.

She leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. Sleep had become impossible. Every time she closed her eyes, her mind whirled with the memory of kneeling before him, sharp glass stinging her skin.

It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. She had only been at Hogwarts for almost a month... She let the silence stretch out. And then, as if the universe took pity on her, an idea sparked. Her eyes lit up, and she sat upright.

 

 

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She let out a quiet squeal of triumph as the jar finally became an identical match to the one she had shattered in Professor Snape’s office. She ran her fingers along its smooth surface, marveling at how perfect it was. She hoped Snape wouldn’t notice any difference.

With a soft sigh of relief, she began tidying up her workbench, the early morning light just beginning to filter through the small window. The dormitory was still quiet, her roommates asleep beneath their thick blankets.

She carefully tucked the jar into her basket, nestling it securely between soft cloths. With a flick of her wand, she charmed it to a smaller size before slinging a new bag over her shoulder—the one she resorted to using after foolishly leaving her favorite in her professor's office. Thankfully, there were no assignments or important materials in the abandoned bag, just the nagging reminder of her own carelessness. Could I retrieve it without feeling utterly ridiculous again? Perhaps that was wishful thinking. Sighing, she grabbed her cloak, throwing it over her shoulders and pulling the hood up against the morning chill. With one last glance at her sleeping roommates, she slipped quietly out of the room.

The castle corridors were empty at this early hour, and her footsteps echoed faintly as she hurried toward the exit. The thought of the Forbidden Forest made her stomach twist with excitement.

Outside, the air was crisp, and the ground was still wet with morning dew. She picked her way carefully toward the edge of the forest, her eyes scanning the trees as she approached. Once inside, the dense canopy above seemed to swallow her whole, the sunlight reduced to thin shafts of gold cutting through the darkness.

She paused for a moment, taking in the atmosphere. The Forbidden Forest was dangerous, yes, but also beautiful in its own wild, untamed way. The trees stretched high above her, their gnarled branches twisting, and the air smelled of damp earth and pine. "I shouldn’t get distracted," she muttered to herself, shaking her head as if to clear it. She squinted, trying to remember exactly what the ingredients in the jar had been. Knotgrass, yes—but was there something else? Perhaps a bit of fluxweed?

She sighed, annoyed with herself for not paying closer attention when she had the chance. The pressure of getting this right gnawed at her, but she pushed the anxiety aside and began her search. She wandered deeper into the forest, careful to avoid the more treacherous areas.

After what felt like an hour of searching, she finally found a patch of knotgrass. She smiled in relief and knelt down, drawing her wand. With a quick preservation spell, the knotgrass became crisp and fresh, ready to be placed inside the jar. She worked quickly, not wanting to linger too long in one place.

 

 

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She entered the Great Hall with only her bag in hand, having charmed the basket to shrink to the size of a coin and tucked it safely inside. Breakfast was nearly finished by the time she arrived, the clatter of plates and chatter filling the room. She scanned the Slytherin table, spotting Michael and Clementine near the end. They waved her over the moment they saw her.

“You took so long to wake up, that's a first,” Clementine remarked, a teasing smile on his lips.

Darlina blushed and slumped down onto the bench beside them. “I wasn’t even able to fall asleep. Isn’t it obvious?”

“Why?” Clementine asked, tilting his head curiously.

“What do you mean, why?” Darlina pouted, stabbing at a piece of toast.

“Why didn’t you fall asleep?” Clementine pressed.

Darlina sighed, her gaze darting between the two of them. “Something… happened last night.”

Michael shot a glance up at the High Table. “Professor Snape?”

Darlina tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit she couldn't shake. “It’s my fault, really—”

Michael’s sharp eyes caught something on her hand, and before she could react, he grabbed it gently, turning it over. “Is that… gauze? Are you okay?”

Clementine immediately pushed a plate toward Darlina, already piled with her favorite foods. “Eat first,” he said softly. “But what happened?”

Darlina, cheeks flushed, mumbled as she reached for her fork. “I broke one of Professor Snape’s jars last night. Then… I tried picking it up, but he pulled me away before I could cut myself any worse. I panicked and, well… I ran.”

Michael blinked, then suddenly doubled over with laughter. “You ran? Oh, Darlina,” he wheezed between chuckles. “He’s intimidating, sure, but Snape isn’t going to eat you alive.”

Clementine shot him a look. “Don’t tease her, Michael.” He turned back to Darlina, his tone more gentle. “Honestly, Darlina, you don’t need to be so afraid of him.”

“I know,” Darlina said quietly, “I just… freaked out. It was so stupid.”

“Hey,” Michael said, giving her a nudge, “we all have our moments. But next time, just stand your ground. Worst thing he’ll do is scowl a bit harder than usual.”

Darlina smiled faintly, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders as she pulled the plate closer. “Thanks, you two. I’ll… try to keep that in mind.”

The three of them fell into a comfortable silence as Darlina began to eat.

Just like always.

 

 

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Sooner than later, Darlina and Clementine found themselves walking down the stone corridors toward their Advanced Potions class. The familiar scent of damp stone and brewing potions filled the air. Darlina winced slightly, shifting her bag on her shoulder.

“I almost got lost yesterday,” she confessed quietly.

Clementine frowned, his brows knitting in concern. “We told you we should’ve come with you,”

Darlina waved it off with a laugh. “It’s okay, a Slytherin helped me out. You remember that blond boy from DADA? He was my partner once. He’s also in our Advanced Potions class, apparently.”

Clementine’s expression shifted slightly.

“Do you know his name?” Darlina glanced at him.

“Yeah… Elias Hawthorne. He’s one of my roommates.”

Darlina’s eyes widened in surprise. “Really? That’s strange. He told me on the Hogwarts Express that he didn’t know you.”

Clementine shrugged, his smile thin. “Maybe he didn’t recognize me at the time. Slytherins can be… tricky.”

He opened the door to the Potions classroom, stepping aside to let Darlina in first. Professor Snape was already seated at his desk, his dark eyes sweeping across the room as the students entered. The moment Darlina stepped inside, Snape’s gaze locked onto her. Her stomach twisted with guilt, and she quickly averted her eyes, searching the room until they landed on Elias.

He sat in the far corner, scribbling in his notebook. Clementine led Darlina to their usual spot, and she couldn’t help but fidget with her hair, curling a strand nervously around her finger.

“You’re fine,” Clementine whispered as they sat down, “He’s not going to say anything.”

Darlina bit her lip, her stomach still churning. “I hope you’re right…”

Professor Snape stood, his robes billowing as he made his way to the front of the room. His voice commanded the class’s attention. “Settle down,” he ordered.

“Today, we will be continuing our work on the Draught of Living Death. I expect full concentration.”

Darlina tensed as Snape’s gaze lingered on her a moment longer than necessary. Her fingers tightened around her quill, and she focused intently on mentally listing all the needed ingredients. She needed to do this perfectly... there couldn’t be any more mistakes. Darlina dropped her quill, letting it clatter on the desk as she waited for the perfect moment to gather ingredients. She watched as the last students trickled out, leaving the shelves of ingredients eerily quiet. Once only a few stragglers remained, she stood along with Clementine.

They moved quickly through the rows of shelves, gathering the necessary ingredients. The process was smooth. As she began preparing said ingredients, she felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck. She glanced around, only to see her peers were concentrated on the task at hand. “Are you alright?” Clementine asked, noticing her distracted demeanor.

“I keep feeling like someone’s watching me,” Darlina admitted, trying to sound casual as she began chopping.

Clementine gave her a reassuring smile. “It’s probably just nerves. You’ve been under a lot of pressure lately.”

She nodded, though her hands trembled slightly as she measured out the powdered unicorn horn. Every time she looked up, she was met with not a single eye, but the feeling of being observed lingered.

“Just focus on getting this potion right,” Clementine suggested, his voice calm. “The sooner you finish, the sooner you can relax.”

Darlina took a deep breath and refocused on her task. She carefully added the ingredients into the cauldron, her movements deliberate despite the creeping sense of unease.

Time seemed to pass in the blink of an eye. Professor Snape finally instructed the students to bottle their potions and place them on his desk. The students approached him in alphabetical order, and soon it was Darlina's turn. Darlina approached with a forced smile, acutely aware of the events from the previous evening and feeling very much on edge.

Professor Snape examined her potion with his usual, piercing scrutiny. He raised an eyebrow and said, "Outstanding,"

Her expression brightened as if a heavy weight had been lifted from her. “Thank you, sir!”

Professor Snape’s gaze turned sharper, “And Miss Lourdes?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Remain after class.”

Of course, she still had to endure his penetrating scrutiny.

This was hardly unexpected.

 

 

🦢

Notes:

I am trying to make it as much of a slow burn as possible. Hehe.

Do you love her friendship with Michael and Clementine? or are you sick of all Darlina's interactions being bombarded with only the two of them?

😉

Chapter 10: The Whisper of Sweet Apology

           ACTING LIKE SHE HADN'T seen the potion room before was what kept Darlina occupied as her peers emptied out. She stayed rooted to her seat, pretending to study her surroundings with unnecessary scrutiny, feigning that everything was entirely new to her. Her heart pounded relentlessly against her chest. The embarrassment of her actions the previous evening weighed heavily on her.

She had run away from him. She had run away from Professor Snape.

"Miss Lourdes." His voice cut through the air. Darlina flinched, snapping her head towards the source. Professor Snape sat behind his desk, his fingers elegantly intertwined, his dark eyes drilling into her with a cold, unwavering gaze.

With a sharp intake of breath, she rose to her feet, trying to mask her anxiety. She approached his desk cautiously, shifting her weight between her feet, her heart hammering harder with each step. She swallowed, her throat dry.

"I would like to—"

Snape began to speak, but she quickly interrupted him by pulling out the small, shrunken basket from her bag. She stepped forward and placed it gently atop his desk, the soft thud of wicker against wood seeming far too loud in the heavy silence. With a swift wave of her hand, she restored it to its full size. She felt his eyes narrow on her, the tension in the room thickening.

Avoiding his penetrating gaze, she stared down at her shoes, focusing on the pink ribbon tied neatly around them. "I know my actions yesterday were... foolish, sir. And I am truly sorry. I... panicked. It was silly, really, because, well... you know. Anyway," she exhaled slowly, her nerves fraying, "I apologize for breaking your jar."

For a long, uncomfortable moment, Snape said nothing. His gaze flitted lazily between her and the basket, his expression inscrutable. She shifted awkwardly, her stomach twisting into knots.

"And... what precisely am I to make of this?" His tone was lethally soft, but it dripped with condescension. "Must you thrust this… abomination so close to my person?"

Darlina winced at his words but couldn't help herself. "Well, that's a bit dramatic, sir," she muttered under her breath, though the moment his glare sharpened on her, she immediately regretted it. A nervous, sheepish smile twitched at the corners of her lips. She took a deep breath, forcing her nerves to settle. "I replaced the jar," she said, attempting a more earnest tone, "as a way of seeking your forgiveness. Please, have a look inside!"

Snape regarded her with an expression of severe disdain, his lip curling ever so slightly. The silence that followed was suffocating as he reached out with deliberate slowness, his long, pale fingers lifting the lid of the basket.

Inside lay a new jar, identical to the one she had shattered, along with a few additional ingredients neatly tucked away as a further peace offering.

Snape's eyes flickered briefly with recognition, but his expression remained as impassive as ever. He closed the basket with a soft snap and folded his hands again, leaning back in his chair.

“I do not appreciate your disregard for decorum. Your impulsive interruptions, your thoughtless running away. These childish antics that I do not have the luxury of indulging."

Darlina's gaze dropped to the floor, heat rising to her cheeks as her earlier foolishness now seemed more embarrassing under his penetrating gaze. "I do not tolerate such behavior," he continued, his tone darkening, "not in my classroom, and certainly not in my presence. Do I make myself clear?"

She nodded quickly.

Snape's eyes narrowed, a flash of impatience crossing his sharp features. "A nod is insufficient, Miss Lourdes. Do. I. Make. Myself. Clear?"

"Yes, sir," she said hastily, "It won't happen again."

For a moment, Snape regarded her in cold silence, then a subtle, almost imperceptible lift of his eyebrow. "I should hope not for your sake. However," he paused, "it is fortunate for you that I value competency over theatrics. Your attempt at atonement, however... crude, will suffice for now."

Darlina released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding, her heart still racing but now with relief rather than dread. She nodded quickly, noticing his attention already drifting back to the parchments on his desk. "Thank you, sir. I really do appreciate it."

“Before you leave, Lourdes, retrieve your pink bag from beside my desk.”

Darlina’s face flushed with embarrassment. How had she not noticed the bag? She hurried to the spot he indicated, her steps awkward as if she could feel his eyes on her, even though she knew he wasn’t watching. “Thank you, sir,” she muttered, barely above a whisper, for what felt like the hundredth time that evening.

“Do not make a habit of repeating yourself, Miss Lourdes. You’re dismissed.”

Without another word, Darlina turned sharply on her heel, her mind racing as she left the room as quickly as her feet would allow.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“Twenty points to Hufflepuff for that wonderful instruction, Miss Darlina!” Professor Sprout enthusiastically declared, her warm smile beaming under her wide-brimmed hat. Darlina returned to her seat, buzzing with excitement. The earthy scent of soil and the vibrant greenery surrounding her always filled her with a sense of calm and purpose. Even without Clementine or Michael by her side, she felt at ease in the greenhouse, as though the plants themselves were her companions. Herbology had become one of her strongest subjects, and today’s lesson had been particularly enjoyable.

Herbology had always felt like a breath of fresh air. The bright, lively atmosphere of the greenhouses contrasted starkly with the dark corridors of the dungeons or the chaotic energy of Defense Against the Dark Arts. Professor Sprout’s lessons were hands-on, and Darlina had a natural talent for it. Whether it was carefully trimming Fanged Geraniums or tending to delicate Venomous Tentacula, she found comfort in their predictable nature. They grew, flourished, and responded to care.

“Excellent work with the Shrivelfigs, Miss Lourdes,” Professor Sprout added, as she passed by. “You've got quite the green thumb!”

Darlina’s face warmed at the compliment. “Thank you, Professor.”

As the lesson ended, Darlina headed out of the greenhouse, feeling the late afternoon sun on her face. The transition to Defense Against the Dark Arts was always jarring. Her serene mood replaced by tension the moment she stepped into its domain. Yet somehow, Darlina survived the class with all her bones still intact.

Later, under the evening sky, Darlina was utterly content, surrounded by the quiet hum of her friends and the soft glow of starlight. Professor Sinistra had given the class some free time to gaze at the stars. Darlina found herself squeezed between Clementine, who was diligently scribbling notes, and Michael, who was far more interested in catching her attention.

“Doesn’t that one look like a rabbit?” Michael whispered, leaning in close. He traced invisible shapes in the sky with a lazy hand, his fingers lightly brushing the back of her neck in the process, sending a ticklish sensation up her spine.

Darlina suppressed a laugh, her eyes still fixed on the vastness above. “It looks like a dragon to me.”

“Dragon, rabbit… Same thing, right?” Michael grinned, letting his fingers play at her nape once more. “How are you not even flinching? I’m being irresistible over here.”

Darlina shot him a sideways glance, amusement dancing in her eyes. “You’re being ridiculous.”

Clementine, without looking up from his parchment, muttered under his breath, “You know, if you spent half as much time paying attention to the stars as you do pestering her, you might actually pass this class.”

Michael gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “A fatal blow from my own best friend! I’ll never recover.”

“Mm-hmm,” Darlina responded, eyes still glued to the stars, utterly at peace despite Michael’s antics. She couldn’t help but smile. Moments like these—where the world slowed down and she could lose herself in the calm expanse of the night sky—were rare. Even as Michael continued his gentle teasing, she found solace in the fact that her friends were close, the stars were endless, and for a moment, all was right in her world.

She sighed contentedly as she felt the weight of Michael’s head rest against her shoulder.“I think I reconciled with Professor Snape earlier,”

Michael perked up, blowing a puff of air toward her, sending strands of hair fluttering. “How come?”

Darlina smiled, “Well… I copied the jar I broke and replaced the ingredient.” Her smile widened, proud of her quick thinking.

Michael’s eyebrow shot up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “How are you even able to replace the ingredients…?”

Clementine, who had finally paused his note-taking, lightly gasped beside her. “Darlina…”

Her smile slowly faltered. “What?”

“You’re not going to the Forbidden Forest to get those ingredients, are you?”

Darlina hesitated, her mischievous smile returning. “What if I am?”

Michael’s jaw dropped, his hand going to his heart in exaggerated shock. “Without us?! That’s the utmost betrayal I have ever felt, Lina!”

She giggled, nudging him playfully. “You’ll live, Mike.”

Clementine, however, wasn’t so easily swayed. He sighed and patted her head gently. “Lils, you know I trust your abilities. But the Forbidden Forest isn’t like your garden at home.”

Her smile faded, and she cast her eyes downward, toying with the sleeve of her robe. “I know, Clem. But it’s just… the forest reminds me of my mom. It’s peaceful. I feel like I can breathe there.”

“I know, Lils,” he started, “But you’re not ready to protect yourself if something were to happen. You’re talented, yes, but there are creatures there that you’ve never faced, dangers you don’t even know about. Going there alone is not wise.”

Darlina shifted uncomfortably, “But I’ve been there before, and nothing’s happened.”

Michael jumped in, throwing his arm around her shoulders. “Listen! Easy fix! We’ll just go with you. Clem can play Head Boy, I’ll bring snacks. It’ll be like an adventure.”

Clementine shot him a look, tutting softly. “No, Mike. It’s called the Forbidden Forest for a reason. We’re not allowed there. If we get caught, we’re all looking at something far worse than detention.”

Darlina’s earlier joy dimmed, her shoulders slumping as she let out a defeated sigh. Clementine noticed her silence and immediately pulled her into a gentle hug. “I’m only saying this because I care about you, Lils. I don’t want anything happening to you.”

“But I’ve grown to love the forest. I don’t want to part with it.”

“I know,” he whispered.

“He’s so strict, and you still favor him.”

Darlina shot him a half-hearted glare, swatting his arm playfully. “No, I don’t!”

“Over my dead body?” Michael teased, leaning back with a grin.

“Shut up, Mike,” she said, though her smile returned slightly.

Clementine offered an alternative. “If it makes you feel better, Lils, I know a spot. Not as wild as the forest but just as beautiful. I can take you there tomorrow morning if you’d like.”

Her eyes brightened, and she nodded eagerly. “Really? Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just yourself,” Clementine smiled softly, “and your cute little basket.”

She laughed. “I’ll bring the basket!”

“Am I coming too?” Michael interrupted. “Because this trio’s about to become a duo, and I won’t be left behind.”

“Of course, you’re coming,” Darlina giggled, rolling her eyes.

“Good,” Michael smirked, ruffling her hair once again.

“Mikeee!” she groaned, batting his hand away.

Their bickering came to a halt as Professor Sinistra’s voice rang out, calling for attention. The trio quieted, their playful exchange fading as the evening sky stretched endlessly above them, a reminder of the vast, mysterious world they were still learning to navigate together.

"Alright, everyone, that’s it for tonight. Don’t forget to complete your star charts for next week. You’re dismissed."

Darlina, Clementine, and Michael lingered a moment longer under the starlit sky, reluctant to leave the peace of the Astronomy Tower. But soon, the chill of the evening air prompted them to gather their belongings and head back to the warmth of the castle. As they descended the spiral staircase, the glow of the moon filtered through the narrow windows, casting silvery light on the stone walls. Darlina walked between Clementine and Michael, her heart light from the evening they had shared.

Michael broke the silence first, nudging Darlina with his elbow. “You know, Lina, I’m really starting to think you prefer staring at stars over our charming company.”

Darlina rolled her eyes playfully. “The stars don’t poke me every five minutes, Mike.”

Clementine chuckled softly from her other side, “She’s got a point.”

They rounded a corner, the corridors growing quieter as most students were already tucked away in their common rooms.

“You know what would’ve been perfect?” Michael mused, throwing an arm casually over her shoulder. “Hot cocoa. Imagine that... stars and cocoa. We should have a say in these class plans.”

“You just want an excuse to slack off.”

Darlina laughed. “You’d probably spill it all over your star chart.”

“Rude! I’m graceful, thank you very much.”

The three of them reached the dimly lit corridor leading toward the Hufflepuff dormitory, their laughter echoing through the empty halls. The portraits along the walls began to stir at the noise, casting irritated glances at the trio. “You lot could wake the dead with that racket!” grumbled an elderly witch in a portrait, waving a bony finger at them.

“Only if we try really hard, madam!” Michael gave a low, mock bow as he walked backward, almost tripping over a loose stone tile.

Darlina snorted, covering her mouth to stifle her laughter. “You’re going to get us in trouble,” she whispered, glancing nervously at a particularly grumpy-looking knight who had stirred from his slumber in a nearby frame.

“I already see you in detention tomorrow,”

“Please,” Michael waved off the concern. “Snape’s got enough on his hands without chasing after us. Besides, we’re practically angels.”

Darlina couldn’t suppress a giggle, “Practically.”

As they approached the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room, Clementine slowed his pace. “Alright, Lils. Time to head in.”

Darlina turned to them. “Thanks for walking me back.”

“Anytime,” Clementine said with a soft smile. Michael, on the other hand, leaned in close with a cheeky grin.

“Remember, if you sneak off to the forest without us, I’ll haunt you,” he teased, waggling his fingers in a ghostly manner.

Darlina playfully swatted at him. “Goodnight, Mike. Night, Clem.” She gave them both a quick wave before slipping inside, feeling their warmth linger even as she stepped into the cozy common room. The sounds of their banter faded as the door closed behind her, leaving her with a smile as she prepared for bed.

 

 

🦢

Chapter 11: The Rise of a Morning Sun

       THE BOYS WERE WAITING just outside the Hufflepuff dormitory, the early light casting long shadows in the hallway. Michael leaned against the wall, eyes shut, his usual dishevelled look exaggerated by his clear lack of enthusiasm for the hour. Clementine, on the other hand, was alert, his hands tucked casually into his pockets, glancing now and then toward the door.

Darlina emerged with a basket in hand, her face lighting up with a smile the moment she saw them. “Good morning!” she chimed.

Michael groaned without opening his eyes. “This idiot dragged me out of my bed at the crack of dawn. There’s nothing good about it.”

“You’d have thrown a tantrum if I left you behind.”

“I’m about to curse you now,” Michael muttered, cracking an eye open.

Darlina giggled, “Are we really having a picnic? Should we get food from the Great Hall?” she asked, her voice rising with excitement.

“Sort of,” Clementine replied with a grin. “And no, not from the Great Hall.”

Darlina’s brows knit in confusion. “No? Where then?”

Clementine gave her a knowing look, drawing out the suspense. “The kitchens,” he said, voice low as if it were a well-kept secret. “Surely you know the kitchens are practically next door to your common room?”

Michael chuckled, crossing his arms. “Bet she didn’t.”

Darlina blushed slightly, looking from one to the other. “Okay, fine, maybe I didn’t know.”

“Oh, come on!” Clementine exclaimed. “One of the perks of being a Hufflepuff, and you’re missing out?”

“I didn’t know, might I remind you I am new here?” she retorted, hands on her hips in mock indignation.

“Well, now you do,” Clementine said with a wink. “Let’s make the most of it. We’ll need food if we’re going to get up that hill before sunrise.”

“How do you two know about the kitchen anyway? You’re both Slytherins.”

“Connections, honey,”

“Right, right, Slytherin ‘connections.’” Darlina rolled her eyes but smiled. “Okay, lead the way.”

They made their way down the dimly lit corridor, footsteps echoing softly. The Hufflepuff corridor had quieted, the warmth of the hearth leaving the early morning chill in its wake. Darlina followed the boys, curious, as they led her to a large painting near the Hufflepuff dormitory entrance.

Clementine knocked twice, then pushed the painting aside. “Just like that.”

Darlina peered inside, eyes widening at the sight. It was nothing like she imagined. The kitchen was bustling with house-elves already preparing food for the day. She watched as one of them, short and wide-eyed, bustled over with a bow.

“Masters and Miss! What can I do for you?”

“We’re packing for a picnic.”

The house-elf’s eyes lit up. “A picnic! Wonderful. We’ll pack everything you need.” He clapped his hands, and instantly, other elves began pulling ingredients and preparing baskets filled with breads, pastries, fresh fruits, and a selection of jams.

Darlina blinked, still processing the ease with which this all unfolded. “I’ve been here for weeks and never knew…”

Clementine shrugged. “Hufflepuff’s secret. Now it’s yours too.”

With the basket packed and the sky just beginning to lighten, they set off for Clementine’s secret spot. The climb was steep, the path narrow, but the air was crisp. Darlina was out of breath by the time they reached the top, but the view left her speechless. The hilltop stretched out, offering a breathtaking panorama of the rolling Hogwarts grounds below. The lake shimmered in the distance, and above them, the sky was just beginning to blush with the first hints of dawn.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, setting down the basket.

“I told you it would be worth it,” Clementine said, settling onto the grass with a satisfied grin. The hilltop was bathed in a soft, pre-dawn light, the kind that made everything seem touched by magic, though none of them had used their wands since they arrived.

The trio worked quietly, unrolling the blanket and spreading out the food they’d gotten from the kitchen. Darlina placed the pastries and fruits carefully, arranging them in the middle, while Michael grabbed a jar of jam and flicked it open without much ceremony.

“Couldn’t we just summon everything onto the blanket?” Darlina asked, amused at the sight of Michael attempting to untwist a stubborn cork on a bottle of pumpkin juice.

Clementine shot her a glance. “Where’s the fun in that? You’ve got to put in a little effort.”

Michael finally got the bottle open with a pop, grumbling as a few drops spilled onto his shirt. “Yeah, clearly so much effort,” he muttered, wiping it off. He plopped down beside Clementine, stretching out lazily with his arms behind his head. “And now,” he said, closing his eyes, “we wait for the sun.”

Darlina smiled, pulling her knees to her chest as she sat down next to them. She glanced at both boys. Clementine leaning back on his hands, looking out at the horizon, and Michael already halfway to dozing off. There was a rare tranquility in the air, a moment of shared silence that didn’t need to be filled with words. The world below them was still asleep, and it felt like they had it all to themselves.

The first rays of the sun began to peek over the hills, slowly bathing the landscape in hues of pink, gold, and lavender. Darlina watched in awe as the light touched the lake in the distance, causing it to shimmer like glass. The sky above them seemed to stretch endlessly, the colors blending seamlessly into one another.

Michael cracked one eye open, taking in the sight. “How come you’ve never told me about this place before?” he asked, “You’re gatekeeping something this incredible?”

“You never asked.”

Michael gaped at him, pushing himself up onto his elbows. “You really are an asshole.”

“I figured you’d appreciate it more when you actually saw it.”

Darlina giggled softly, “Well, I’m glad you brought us here,” she said, her voice full of warmth. “It’s… peaceful.”

“Peaceful,” Michael echoed with a smirk. “Yeah, until one of us trips over a rock on the way down and breaks a leg.”

Clementine rolled his eyes. “Always the pessimist.”

“Just a realist,” Michael countered, grabbing a piece of bread and slathering it with jam. He took a bite and chewed thoughtfully before adding, “Still… it is pretty amazing.”

Darlina smiled, resting her chin on her knees as the sun climbed higher into the sky. The warmth of it spread slowly, chasing away the last chill of the night. She felt a quiet contentment settle over her, a sense that, for now, everything was exactly as it should be. She didn’t feel the usual tug of worry or the pressure of fitting into a world she hadn’t grown up in. Up here, with Clementine and Michael, it was just simple.

After a few more minutes of silence, Michael sat up fully, grabbing another piece of fruit. “You know,” he began, “I think I could get used to this early morning thing. As long as there’s food.”

Clementine snorted. “You? Up at dawn? This is a one-time miracle, my friend. Don’t act like you’re suddenly an early riser.”

Darlina laughed, shaking her head. “I’m surprised you made it this far without complaining more.”

“Hey, I’m full of surprises,” Michael said with a grin. “Besides, you think I’d miss out on a private picnic with you two?”

“Ah, so you admit you’re happy I dragged you here,”

Michael waved him off, though the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth betrayed him. “I’m happy for the food. Don’t flatter yourself.”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

It felt like Darlina had only blinked, and suddenly, it was Sunday and the first day of October. The air had grown cooler, with leaves turning into vibrant shades of amber and rust. After making plans with Clementine and Michael to head to Hogsmeade, she found herself seated in the almost empty Great Hall, eating lunch quietly. Most of the students had already rushed off, eager to spend their day in the bustling little town nearby.

Her eyes wandered to the staff table where the professors sat, their conversations a low murmur in the background. She spotted Professor Snape at the end, his face as unreadable as ever. A quiet flutter of wings pulled her attention back to her plate as a letter landed beside her bowl. Twila, her loyal owl, gave a little tweak, looking proud of herself.

"Good girl," Darlina murmured, her lips curving into a smile. She accioed a biscuit from the table, offering it to Twila, who pecked at it eagerly. The familiar green wax seal caught her attention—the crest of her family. She didn’t have to guess who it was from; her father would never send her a letter. It had to be Pharell.

She gently broke the seal and unfolded the letter, eyes tracing over the words.

Lady Darlina,

It brings me great pleasure to finally write to you. I must apologize for the delay, nearly a month now, but I’ve been eager to hear how you’re settling in. How are you finding everything so far? I trust you are well, though if there is anything on your mind, please do not hesitate to share. I am always here for you.

I’ve also been tending to your plants. They’re thriving beautifully.

You’ll be pleased to know your father and I are in good health, as I imagine you might wish to hear.

A small word of caution: please be careful, and do avoid wandering near the Forbidden Forest. It is not a place for idle exploration, as I’m sure you know.

With warmest regards,

Pharell Martine

Darlina couldn’t help but smile. She folded the letter and pushed her half-eaten meal aside. “Come on, Twila,” she said softly, letting the owl perch on her arm as she stood to leave the hall. In the familiar coziness of her dormitory, Darlina sat by the window, parchment and quill in hand. She penned a response, her handwriting neat but slightly rushed, as her mind raced with things to share.

Dear Pharell,

Thank you for your letter. I’m settling in well, though I have to admit Defense Against the Dark Arts isn’t exactly my best subject! But I’m learning... slowly. Michael and Clementine have been wonderful. They’ve made Hogwarts feel more like home.

I won’t lie, there have been challenges, but I’m managing. I promise I haven’t gone anywhere near the Forbidden Forest. I’ve been good!

I hope you’re doing well. Thank you for taking care of my plants. It means a lot.

Yours,

Darlina

She hesitated for a moment, considering whether to mention her first detention with Professor Snape. No, she thought, he didn’t need to know about that. It was just one detention after all. She didn’t want him to worry, which is also the reason why she lied about not going to Forbidden Forest. Pharell might be one of her closest confidants, but he’s still her father’s servant. And unfortunately, she knew that his true loyalty lay upon that of her father.

With the letter finished, she folded it neatly and handed it to Twila. The owl gave her an affectionate nudge before flying off into the sky, the scroll tied to her leg.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

The walk to Hogsmeade felt different this time. It was her fourth visit, and she no longer needed directions or the guidance of Clementine or Michael. The path was familiar, and she took her time, enjoying the crisp autumn breeze. Her boots crunched against the scattered leaves as she followed the winding road, her heart light. She smiled at the sight of the village in the distance, its chimneys puffing out smoke into the cool air. The prospect of warm butterbeer and browsing through the quirky shops excited her. It felt liberating to roam alone, the rhythm of her steps matching her wandering thoughts.

When she reached the village, the cheerful hustle of other students and villagers washed over her, but she let herself get lost in her own adventure. Darlina ducked into shop after shop, picking out anything that caught her eye. She spent hours meandering through the nooks of Hogsmeade, her arms gradually filling with bags of her treasures.

By the time she stepped back into the street, she felt the buzz of joy running through her. It was then she spotted Clementine and Michael, their familiar figures standing by the square, unmistakably up to something as usual.

"There she is," Michael grinned, tossing one of the frogs into his mouth mid-sentence. "Had fun raiding Hogsmeade?"

Darlina lifted her bags slightly. "Just a bit. Where have you two been?"

"Waiting for you, of course. Though Clem’s been trying to convince me to try on a robe that looked like it belonged to someone’s granddad,"

Darlina’s eyes sparkled with a sudden idea. "How about this, let’s play a little game. We’ll each pick outfits for the other, but there’s a catch. They have to be… bold."

Clem raised an eyebrow. "Bold? As in ridiculous?" He folded his arms.

"Exactly. Something no one in their right mind would actually wear," she said, already brimming with excitement. "Clem, you pick something for me. I’ll pick for Michael. Michael, you get to style Clem."

"Oh, I am so in."

A short while later, the three stood in the middle of Gladrags, surrounded by racks of absurdly vibrant robes, mismatched scarves, and hats with bouncing feathers. Darlina had already handed Michael a deep plum coat with gold embellishments that made him look like a cross between a dueling champion and a circus master. He twirled in front of the mirror, laughing.

"Look at me. I should be announcing the next wizarding duel," he joked, striking a pose.

Meanwhile, Clementine held up a green velvet ensemble for Darlina that made her eyes widen. The robe had overly long sleeves and a matching belt that seemed to glitter when caught in the light. Darlina burst into giggles. When Clem finally emerged in a combination of silver boots and a bright crimson scarf that clashed dramatically with his otherwise dark ensemble, it was impossible to contain the laughter. Darlina doubled over, clutching her stomach.

"You look like...like a cursed Christmas ornament!" she managed to say through her laughter.

Together, they walked down the cobblestone streets toward the Three Broomsticks, drawing stares from nearly every passerby. The three of them looked like they had just stepped out of a very strange masquerade. But the more people stared, the more they laughed, leaning into the ridiculousness of their outfits. When they finally pushed open the door to the pub, they settled into a corner booth, tucked away enough to enjoy their own world but still part of the lively pub scene.

Darlina glanced around, her eyes naturally drawn to Professor Snape, seated alone at a nearby table. He sat with his back straight, sipping something dark from a chipped mug, his eyes scanning the crowd with a detached air. Darlina’s stomach fluttered, and she quickly turned back to her friends, trying to focus on their chatter.

"I’ll order," Clementine announced, not waiting for their response before approaching the desk.

Michael, who had been rummaging through a pile of sweets he’d brought along, looked up with a grin.  He held up a colorful package of Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans. "Thinking about how to make a better choice than last time? I still can't believe you ate that grass-flavored one!"

Darlina chuckled, shaking her head. “I was curious! Besides, it wasn’t that bad...”

She snatched a sweet from his hand. “I don’t get your obsession with these things.” Unwrapping it, she took a bite, only for her face to scrunch up immediately.

“What on earth is this?”

“Hey, don’t disrespect my sweets!”

“Yeah, well, I’m not a fan.”

“No way…”

A few minutes later, Clementine returned with their drinks.

“Alright, no more sulking. We’re here to have fun!” Michael said with a wide grin, raising his glass in a mock toast. “To friends, freedom, and Sunday adventures!”

“To Sunday adventures,” Darlina echoed, her smile growing more genuine as she clinked her glass with theirs. Laughter came easier as the time went on, and soon, the trio was deep into recounting old jokes and stories, their voices mixing with the lively background noise.

Darlina had brought her camera, as always, slung over her shoulder. It was something she never left behind, especially on days like these. The click of the shutter was her way of capturing the fleeting moments she wanted to keep forever.

“Alright, let’s get a group picture!” Clementine suggested, his eyes sparkling. He waved over a nearby student, who agreed to take the photo.

The three of them huddled close, Michael throwing an arm around Darlina’s shoulders, and Clementine striking a dramatic pose. “Say cheese!” the student called, and Darlina’s camera flashed, capturing the scene in an instant.

They looked at the result, laughing at how Michael’s face was half-squished against Darlina’s hair, and Clementine’s exaggerated pout looked more like a sneeze.

“Perfect,” Darlina said, chuckling. “Let’s do more. I’ll take some of you guys.” She moved back, lifting the camera to her eye, and snapped a few candid shots as Clementine playfully shoved Michael, who retaliated with a mock glare.

At some point, though, Darlina’s gaze drifted back to Snape’s table. She was surprised to find it empty. His tall, imposing figure nowhere to be seen. A pang of something she didn’t quite understand flickered inside her. She brushed it away, swallowing the feeling as quickly as it had come.

Why did it matter, anyway?

Clementine leaned over her shoulder, peeking at the photos Darlina had taken. “These are so good! You’ve got a real eye, you know that?”

They continued to joke and chat, and Darlina’s camera clicked steadily, preserving each fleeting second of laughter and light. She still couldn’t quite explain why Snape’s absence had bothered her, but with her friends by her side, it was easier to let it go. The night was theirs, after all, and Darlina was determined to live it fully even if a part of her couldn’t quite forget the watchful, enigmatic man who had disappeared into the shadows.

🦢

Chapter 12: The Messenger of Two Professors

   AFTER HERBOLOGY ON A crisp Monday morning, Darlina lingered behind in the greenhouse. Her classmates had already packed up, their hurried footsteps echoing away on the cobblestone paths outside, but Darlina remained, drawn in by the earthy scent and the warm, dappled sunlight filtering through the glass panes. Herbology was among her sanctuaries, a place where she felt at home, surrounded by the green tendrils and bright blossoms that seemed to whisper secrets only she could hear.

Professor Sprout, noticing her quiet enthusiasm, approached with a gentle smile. “I’ve opened the other side of the greenhouse for you today, Darlina,” she said, her voice brimming with warmth. “It’s full of flowers I’ve been growing specially for potion ingredients. Some rare ones, too.”

Darlina’s eyes widened with excitement. She had never seen this part of the greenhouse so full before, with vivid petals of all colors, shapes, and sizes flourishing in every corner. There were delicate bluebells that seemed to shimmer in the light, bright orange calendulas that stood proud, and rare night-blooming flowers with petals that glowed faintly even in daylight.

“Wow… it’s like heaven,”

Professor Sprout chuckled softly. “Indeed it is, my dear.”

Darlina hesitated for a moment, feeling a shy flutter in her chest. “Professor… may I take a few pictures?” she asked, her voice almost timid. “I’d love to capture some of these flowers.”

“Of course, you may. Just be gentle, and don’t startle the Flutterby bushes. They get a bit fussy when startled.” Sprout winked, her jovial nature making Darlina feel instantly at ease.

Darlina nodded eagerly, setting her bag down and retrieving her camera. She spent the next few minutes carefully composing shots, crouching low to capture the delicate details of a frilly pink bloom, or zooming in on the sunlit patterns of a particularly intricate leaf. Sprout watched her with fondness, occasionally pointing out a flower’s unique properties or sharing a story from her own gardening adventures.

“This one here,” Sprout pointed to a strange, twisted flower with deep purple petals, “is used in calming droughts. The trick is to pick it at twilight, just as the light starts to fade.”

Darlina listened intently, her fingers gently adjusting the camera lens. “It’s beautiful… and a little eerie,” she remarked, capturing the flower from multiple angles.

“Yes, it’s quite temperamental,” Sprout mused. “Much like a certain Potions Master we know.”

Darlina laughed softly at that, a light and airy sound that filled the greenhouse.

“Speaking of Professor Snape,” Sprout said, suddenly turning towards the table laden with herbs and potion ingredients, “would you mind delivering this basket of ingredients to him? He’s been waiting on these for his lessons.”

Darlina’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Snape, but she nodded, eager to help. “Of course, Professor.”

Sprout handed her the basket, filled to the brim with fresh-cut herbs and flowers, some of which still carried dew from the morning’s watering. Darlina lifted it carefully.

“Thank you, dear. And do tell him I said hello,” Sprout added with a wink, causing Darlina to blush ever so slightly.

Darlina made her way through the castle’s winding corridors, feeling a mixture of anticipation and nervousness building with each step. She finally reached the dark, imposing door of Snape’s office and knocked gently.

“Enter,” came the familiar deep voice from within.

Darlina pushed the door open cautiously, her eyes adjusting to the dim light of Snape’s office. The air was heavy with the scent of parchment and various potions, and the faint glow from a few candles flickered against the stone walls. Snape sat at his desk, hunched over a stack of parchment, quill in hand, his black robes cascading around him.

Darlina cleared her throat. “Hello, sir… Professor Sprout asked me to bring you these,” she said, lifting the basket slightly as she stepped closer.

Snape glanced up, his dark eyes piercing through her. He gave a curt nod. “Ah, the vervain and asphodel… about time,” he muttered, setting aside his ladle.

“Put it on the table by the fireplace,” he instructed. Darlina did as she was told, carefully placing the basket down among a mess of vials and potion ingredients.

“She also said hello,” Darlina added, trying to lighten the tense atmosphere.

Snape didn’t respond, his focus returning to the papers before him. For a moment, Darlina stood there awkwardly, her eyes drifting around the room, taking in the shelves lined with dusty tomes and jars filled with curious substances. “Anything else I need to do, Professor?” she asked, half hoping he’d say yes, just to keep her there a little longer.

Snape’s gaze flicked up, his expression unreadable. “No,” he replied flatly, then returned to his work without another word.

Darlina hesitated, feeling a strange urge to keep talking. She glanced at the clock on the wall and noticed it was already past lunchtime. “Aren’t you going to have lunch, Professor?”

Snape looked up sharply, irritation flashing in his eyes. “Miss Lourdes, my eating habits are of no concern to you,” he said, his tone dripping with impatience.

Darlina bit her lip, feeling slightly embarrassed by the rebuff. “Alright, then. I’ll be going,” she said, turning to leave.

 

 

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Darlina had lost count of how many times she found herself walking the familiar path from the greenhouses to the dungeons, her basket of Herbology supplies in hand. What started as a one-off task had quickly become a routine. Every Herbology class, Professor Sprout would hand her a basket and say, “Darlina, would you be a dear and deliver this to Professor Snape?” There was always a hint of a smile on Sprout’s face, as if she knew this little task brought some sort of thrill to Darlina’s otherwise ordinary school days.

Today was no different. As she approached the dungeon door, Darlina adjusted the strap of her bag, steadying herself before knocking. She knew the drill: three knocks, wait for the gruff “Enter,” and step inside.

“Ah, Miss Lourdes,” Snape’s voice was as dark and velvety as ever. He glanced up from his desk, quill in hand, pausing just long enough to give her a fleeting acknowledgment before returning his attention to a thick book. The air in the room was heavy with the scent of herbs and something that smelled faintly of burnt metal.

Darlina set the basket on the table by the fireplace, careful not to disturb the parchment sprawled across it. “Professor Sprout asked me to deliver these, sir,” she said, her voice even. She’d perfected this line, a steady mix of formality and politeness that kept the interaction brief but not unfriendly.

Snape barely looked at the basket. “As always,” he muttered, scribbling something in the margin of his notes. He paused, then added almost as an afterthought, “You may tell Professor Sprout that the last batch of Valerian root was over-dried. It’s a simple instruction; one would think a professor of Herbology could manage it.”

Darlina suppressed a smile. This was just Snape’s way. “I’ll let her know,” she replied, glancing at the potions lined up neatly on a nearby shelf. Sometimes, Snape would give her a small vial, instructing her to pass it to Sprout with some cryptic comment about its properties. She liked these moments; they made her feel like she was part of some secret, albeit mundane, inter-professorial correspondence.

Snape finally looked at her, his gaze sharp and appraising. “Is there something else, Miss Darlina? You’re lingering.”

“Oh, no. Just… I—” Darlina fumbled for an excuse, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “I was admiring your potions, sir. They look very… precise.”

Snape raised an eyebrow, his expression softening, if only a fraction. “Precision is the cornerstone of potion-making. It’s not unlike… photography, isn’t it? One misstep, and the result is ruined.” He glanced briefly at the camera slung over her shoulder, a rare acknowledgment of something personal about her.

Darlina nodded, caught off-guard by the unexpected comparison. “Yes, exactly,” she said, feeling a strange sense of connection.

Snape returned to his book, the moment of recognition gone as quickly as it had appeared. “That will be all, Miss Darlina. And remind Sprout about the Valerian root.”

“Yes, sir,” Darlina said, turning to leave. As she walked out, she couldn’t help but glance back, catching Snape in one of those rare moments when he wasn’t scowling but simply lost in thought, his quill scratching lightly against the parchment.

Later, she met up with Clementine and Michael by the lake, recounting the errand in her usual lighthearted way, leaving out the small details that felt too precious to share. The sun was setting, casting a warm glow over the water. They took turns posing for pictures, laughing as they tried to capture just the right moment.

 

🦢

Chapter 13: The Brush of Attraction

           TAKING ART CLASS FOR her elective was a decision Darlina had been pleased with from the start. She's not one to lose herself in books during her free time, although they do offer their own kind of escape. But when the sun dips below the horizon and the world grows quiet, it’s painting that truly calls to Darlina. By day, she tends to her garden, nurturing life and capturing its beauty through the lens of her camera. But when midnight comes, it's the endless depths of art where she longs to disappear, brush in hand, losing herself in colors and shadows.

Her brush moved steadily, each stroke thoughtful as she worked on her current assignment. It’s a painting of her owl, Twila. The professor had instructed them to paint their pets, and Darlina found herself absorbed in trying to capture Twila’s sharp eyes and silken feathers on the canvas.

She glanced at the half-finished piece. Twila looked majestic, perched on a branch in a patch of moonlight, her feathers glistening with silvery highlights. The owl was more than just a pet to Darlina... she was her companion amidst the late hours when everyone else was asleep.

“Nice painting,” came a voice from behind.

Darlina blinked, her brush freezing in midair. She wasn’t used to attention in class, especially not when she was so focused. Turning slightly, she saw a girl seated just behind her. The girl had a friendly smile, and her eyes flickered between Darlina and the canvas.

“Is that your owl?” the girl asked, her tone genuinely curious.

Darlina hesitated, unsure how to respond at first. "Yes... that’s Twila."

“It’s pretty,” the girl said, nodding toward the painting with an appreciative glance.

A blush crept up Darlina's cheeks. She wasn’t used to strangers’ compliments, at least not in something so personal. “Thank you,” she replied softly, turning back to her work.

She could feel the girl's eyes lingering for a moment longer before the room settled into quiet again. Darlina found herself a little more self-conscious now, but she pushed those thoughts away, focusing on the final touches of her painting. She had almost finished when the bell rang, signaling the end of class.

As everyone began packing up their supplies in Art class, Darlina lingered. She never rushed through the process of cleaning up after painting, her movements were methodical, almost meditative. She carefully wrapped her brushes in soft cloth, ensuring the delicate bristles wouldn’t be damaged. The canvas was still drying, and she stowed it in a corner, safe from wandering hands or accidental spills.

Her thoughts shifted to her next class. A quick glance at her wristwatch made her eyes widen in panic. She’s nearly late. She hastily slung her bag over her shoulder, the strap catching awkwardly as she rushed toward the door. Her shoes clinked sharply against the stone floors as she hurried down the corridor, her mind half-focused on her next class and half-wondering whether she’d grabbed everything she needed. Mid-stride, she started rummaging through her bag. She can’t remember if  her quill was in there. Distracted by her search, she barely registered her surroundings. Her hands sifted past ink bottles and crumpled parchment until she collided, hard, with something solid.

Someone solid.

A startled gasp escaped her as she stumbled backward, but before she could fall, a firm hand gripped her waist, steadying her.

Professor Snape.

Her breath caught in her throat. In the fraction of a moment it took for her brain to catch up with her body, she became acutely aware of three things: first, he was much taller up close, looming over her entirely; second, his hand—large, steady, unexpectedly reassuring—lingered just long enough to make her pulse quicken; and third, his eyes were…interesting.

Darlina’s cheeks flushed as she quickly straightened up, immediately putting distance between them. What was wrong with her? She couldn’t—shouldn’t—think about him that way.

What way?

“I’m… I’m so sorry, Professor. I wasn’t paying attention.”

Snape’s dark gaze flicked over her, sharp as ever, though not without a certain cool restraint. “Clearly,”

Darlina felt heat creep up her neck as she pulled her bag closer to her chest, her fingers fidgeting with the strap nervously.

Snape straightened. “I would suggest you take more care in the future, Miss Lourdes,” he added, his tone growing colder as he brushed down his sleeve. “Running into professors is not the most effective use of your time.”

Her throat tightened. “Yes, sir.”

Without another word, he continued down the hall, his robes billowing slightly behind him. Darlina stood frozen for a second, her heart still racing. The faint blush hadn’t quite left her face. She pressed her lips together, trying to push the stray thoughts out of her head.

Taking a deep breath, she hurried off toward her next class. The last thing she needed was to dwell on an awkward encounter. However, no matter how hard she tried, the memory of his hand gripping her waist, his gaze, the scent of his cloak as he passed her… none of it seemed to leave her mind.

And that, she told herself, was exactly why she needed to stop thinking about it.

 

 

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Darlina slid into the space between Clementine and Michael, letting out a yawn. “I missed you guys,” she murmured, curling up against Clementine’s side. He had already finished eating and was now engrossed in the Daily Prophet, barely glancing up as she settled in.

The moment she got comfortable, the memory of her run-in with Professor Snape resurfaced, making her wince involuntarily. What is wrong with me? she thought, trying to shake it off.

“You’re clingier than usual,” Clementine remarked, lowering his paper slightly. “What happened?”

Darlina quickly straightened, trying to appear nonchalant. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Clementine raised an eyebrow.

“Stop it, Clem,” she muttered, scooting away from him to lean her head on Michael’s shoulder instead. Without missing a beat, Michael grabbed a banana from the table and handed it to her. She took it with a small, grateful smile. Darlina peeled the banana slowly, her mind replaying the collision with Snape over and over. The way he had steadied her so quickly, his grip firm yet not harsh... she couldn't stop overanalyzing it.

“Lils?” Clementine’s voice broke through her reverie. She blinked, realizing she was staring into space again, holding the banana halfway to her mouth.

“Hmm?” she responded vaguely, trying to clear the fog of her thoughts.

He set the Daily Prophet aside, focusing on her with the same intensity he brought to every dilemma. “Anything you want to share?”

Darlina forced a laugh, shaking her head a little too vigorously. “I’m just tired,” she replied, hoping that was enough to deflect any further questions. He gave her a long, searching look before raising his goblet and muttering, “Tired or troubled?”

Darlina felt her patience thinning, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Nothing’s wrong,” she insisted, perhaps more forcefully than she intended.

“Sure,” Michael said, “Because you’re always like this when nothing’s wrong.”

She opened her mouth to argue but found she didn’t have the energy to muster a convincing denial. Instead, she slumped back against Michael, who wordlessly resumed patting her on the head as if consoling a grumpy kitten.

“You two are insufferable,” she mumbled, though there was no real anger in her tone. She was grateful, in a way, for their persistence. It gave her something else to focus on.

Clementine studied her for a moment longer before letting the matter drop, “You’ll tell us what’s bothering you sooner or later anyway. You never keep secrets from us for long,” Clementine shrugged, picking up his newspaper again.

Darlina rolled her eyes. “What if there’s nothing to tell?”

“Then you’re just really bad at looking innocent,” Michael quipped, grinning.

As Darlina finished her banana, with Michael chattering away and Clementine periodically casting side glances at her, Darlina tried to immerse herself in their conversation. But despite her best efforts, her thoughts kept straying back to Snape and that brief, bewildering moment in the hallway. She desperately wanted to dismiss it as an insignificant accident, but her mind kept pulling her back to those details… his firm grip, his unwavering gaze, the odd tightness in her chest she couldn’t quite understand.

She sighed softly, leaning her head on Michael’s shoulder as she closed her eyes, letting their chatter wash over her. Maybe, she thought, if she stayed close to her friends long enough, their steady familiarity would drown out whatever confusion had been stirred up in her.

 

 

🦢

Chapter 14: The Festivity of Halloween

     IT HAD BECOME SOMETHING of a ritual.

Her steps carried her lightly down the stone corridors of Hogwarts, the wicker basket swaying gently from her fingers, filled with bundles of herbs that still smelled of dew and sunlight. There was a spring to her gait, a kind of secret joy tucked into her bones, though she could never quite name its source.

Well… she could, she just wouldn’t dare.

Darlina found herself looking forward to these moments. Not just for the plants—though Merlin knew she loved them, loved how they thrived with patience and care—but for the odd, silent interludes spent in the dim amber light of the Potions Master’s office. For the strange, steady gravity of his presence, and wasn’t that just absurd?

As absurd as it was, she pressed forward, cheeks pink, holding her breath. She reached his door and knocked twice.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” she said, voice feather-soft. She set the basket down on the table beside the unlit hearth, a little offering of yarrow, dandelion root, and crushed sage. Her eyes flicked to him. Sleeves pushed up, fingertips dancing along worn spines of books that floated obediently at his side. He didn’t look her way but she didn’t mind. There was something oddly breathtaking about watching him like this. She found herself cataloguing the mundane: the twitch of his fingers, the way his eyes narrowed in discernment, the faint furrow of concentration between his brows. His quiet, powerful control over the space he occupied.

It was… grounding. Comforting, even.

Which was normal. Right?

…Right.

Her lips parted before she could stop herself, words toppling out in a cascade of nerves and need for something, anything to fill the space.

“What’s your take on people who believe the Earth is flat?”

Oh Godric. Why.

She winced inwardly. Of all the possible questions to ask—the origin of wolfsbane, or the ethics of using Moondew in potion-making, anything remotely relevant—she chose that?

His hand froze mid-reach. The moment stretched. And then, to her absolute astonishment, he answered. “I will not even pretend I am surprised such idiotic notions persist,” he said coolly, “Human ignorance, Miss Lourdes, is apparently inexhaustible.”

A thrill shivered down her spine.

“Oh,” she said, blinking rapidly. She hadn’t expected a response. She’d expected to be met with silence, as always, with the same crisp finality he applied to misbrewed potions and misplaced modifiers. But he’d spoken to her this time, and she was still standing there. Arms folded behind her back, shifting her weight from foot to foot, her gaze fixed firmly on the rigid line of his shoulders.

She didn’t know what she was waiting for. Perhaps for him to turn around, perhaps just to be seen, and perhaps, somewhere deep and unspeakable, she longed to be known. Which was utterly foolish. She had friends and they were enough. They should be enough.

So why did she seek companionship in a man twice her age, a man who spoke in snarls and silences, a man who had known her father long before she was ever born?

She missed her butler, perhaps. Pharell always knew what to say. He never made her feel this raw, this transparent.

But still, she stayed.

“Erm… a lot of people believe it, though,” she continued, desperate to keep the conversation breathing. “Which is… bizarre.”

“Hmm,”

She brightened slightly. “Especially Muggles,” she added, hoping the soft jab would earn her another word, a sentence, anything.

“Of course,” he said, and she could almost imagine a smirk tucked beneath his words.

“Is there anything else you need, Miss Lourdes?”

The air rushed out of her. “Oh. Uhm. No, sir. I’ll go on my way.”

“That you shall.”

She lingered one heartbeat longer than necessary. Then turned, and left.

 

 

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“This is so off. Why did we ever think dressing up as rats was a good idea?” Michael grumbled, tugging at the limp gray tail attached to his onesie. He gave his hips a cheeky little shake, the tail flopping about.

Clementine scowled, nose wrinkling. “Honestly, we look like cursed Animagi beside Lils.”

“Hey! You two are adorable. Really. Truly. Absolutely.” Darlina’s lips curled into that stubbornly sweet pout that both Clementine and Michael loathed and adored in equal measure.

Michael threw his arms behind his head with a dramatic sigh. “You’re just saying that to trap us in these hideous costumes. Admit it, Lils. And you do realize no one dresses up for Halloween here, right? I’ve told you a million times.”

“Still shocking! Back home, Pharell made Halloween sacred. Costume or catastrophe. He’d drag me to the living room in full Dracula get-up just so I’d host a tea party with my stuffed animals. It was a whole... event.”

Michael barked out a laugh, gesturing as if conjuring memories out of the air. “Oh, Merlin. That time he threatened to cancel the annual tea party if we didn’t wear costumes. I thought you were going to cry when I refused to put mine.”

“And yet,” she grinned slyly, “You still wore it. Oh, it was a rat costume as well!”

“Under duress!” he huffed. “Anyway, you’re misremembering. We weren’t rats that year, we were pandas. Right, Clem?”

Clementine shot him a deadpan look. “Oh, now you remember?”

“Barely,” Michael snorted. “Pun not intended.”

“Well, I know I was a fairy,” Darlina interjected, practically bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Wings and all! And I painted my face with glitter. So much glitter it got into the sandwiches.”

“Oh, I remember. Pharell called them ‘enchanted cucumber tea bites.’ I still don’t trust anything sparkly to this day.”

Darlina giggled.

“Merlin!” she squealed suddenly, throwing her arms around both of them mid-walk, hugging their waists. “This is our first Halloween celebration since Hogwarts started! It’s basically historical, a hallo-wonder!”

“Yeah... yeah, it is.”

She hummed happily, letting Michael lead them through winding hallways and up endless stairs. The seventh floor was cloaked in mystery, and this particular party was supposed to be a secret. All four houses were invited, but only if you were the right kind of person. The hush-hush, don’t-tell-the-professors type. Darlina felt a little thrill bubble in her chest. This wasn’t one of her father’s stiff, chandelier-suffocated soirées. No one asking what lineage she was descended from.

At first, she’d wanted to dress as an inflatable dragon but Clementine had gently reasoned with her, said she wouldn’t fit through doors or dance or breathe without knocking someone unconscious. So she'd compromised a bunny onesie. Pink with floppy ears and everything. And okay, maybe they looked a little unhinged together. A rat, another rat, and a bunny.

They reached the end of the corridor, where a bare stretch of stone met them. Michael’s voice dropped to a low murmur. This is the room,” he said, “It only opens for people it trusts. Like me.”

Darlina blinked. “They trusted you?” She looped her arm through his with a teasing squeeze.

He flashed her a grin. “Of course they did. I’m Michael Barlowe. Quidditch captain. Gryffindor legend. Casanova of corridors. Champion of—”

“—shut up,” Clementine interrupted, rolling his eyes.

Michael gave him a look. “Still didn’t snitch to the professors, Head Boy?”

Clementine smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Shut up.”

 

 

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To say that Darlina was awestruck by the mysterious door that materialized before her would be a pitiful understatement. She clapped her hands like a child who had just witnessed magic for the first time, which, to be fair, wasn’t entirely far from the truth. The boys had shown her how to summon the enchanted entrance, and there it stood: a doorway that led to a hell of a wild party. Clementine offered to fetch drinks, disappearing with a steady stride into the party haze while Michael took it upon himself to drag Darlina through the crowd. She hadn’t realized how well-known he was! Everyone seemed to know him, and by extension, they now knew her.

She expected to grow weary of the chatter, to retreat into herself after ten minutes of forced small talk, but instead, she bloomed. Michael did most of the talking. She simply giggled, tucked safely under his arm, offering soft, shy words in reply. Oddly enough, everyone adored her for it. They cooed and complimented, some even reached to adjust the floppy ears on her bunny onesie. Clementine had magicked them upright earlier that evening, and truly, they were a hit.

Clementine hadn’t returned yet. Darlina craned her neck through the throng of dancing bodies, wondering what was taking so long. How hard could it be to find three drinks?

Before she could overthink it, Michael tugged her towards the dance floor.

“Still good?” he asked, glancing down at her.

“Yep!” she beamed, bouncing slightly.

Her father never said she couldn’t party, technically speaking. And Merlin’s beard, was it fun. She bounced alongside Michael, limbs loose, carefree, when Clementine returned. How he didn’t spill a drop was beyond her. She took the cup eagerly. The taste burned in the best way.

Alcohol had become their little summer secret. Her, Clementine, and Michael, sneaking bottles into her greenhouse and sipping them between sips of strawberry lemonade and stolen laughter. At first, she’d been horrified. Now, she greeted the burn like an old friend.

And oh, how she adored the soft, fizzy blur it brought with it.

The beat dropped as the lights pulsed. A party song boomed from unseen speakers, and Michael laughed. "Muggle music is a bop!"

"I know!" she cried, finishing her drink. “This has quite the kick!”

“We told you, the drinks here in Hogwarts are no other.” Clementine shrugged.

“Thanks to you!” A voice emerged behind them, Darlina glanced and beamed.

“Wait—you helped with the drinks?”

“Sometimes. With others.”

“That’s so coooool!” she threw her arms around him. “It tastes spectacular!”

Michael clinked his cup against her now-empty one with a laugh. “I want more,” she pouted, handing her empty glass to the universe.

“I’ll get you one,” Clementine said, patting her gently on the head.

“Yay!” she grinned, wobbling slightly but still on her feet.

More people, more noise, more laughter. She lost count of how many names Michael threw at her, but she waved anyway, unsure if she’d remember. Everyone seemed to know her name. Clementine was quicker to come back this time. He handed Darlina another drink and they began to dance the night away. With drinks topped off, they danced. She took photos of Michael doing his ridiculous wiggle, of Clementine slow-dancing dramatically with him, of the three of them pulling a stranger over for a group photo. Darlina in the middle, bunny ears flopping, mouth wide in a giggle.

The lights stuttered. Colors bloomed, then blacked out, then returned with twice the brilliance. She felt dreamy, untethered, deliciously giddy. In her drunken joy, she lost hold of Michael’s arm and was swallowed by the crowd.

And oh, what a delightful sea it was. Hands touched her onesie ears. Compliments were tossed like confetti.

A hand brushed her bunny ear. “Your outfit is adorbs,” a voice said. Darlina turned and gasped. The girl was beautiful, an ethereal sight cloaked in red.

“Thank you! I love your cape! Are you… Red Riding Hood?” Darlina’s eyes sparkled.

“Yes!” the girl laughed, mirroring her excitement.

“Darlina, right?”

Why does everyone know my name and I don’t know theirs? Her brow furrowed. She didn’t know she said that outloud until the girl in front of her chuckled. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” She reached out and pinched Darlina’s cheeks, who squeaked in protest, looking around for her boys, but everyone was so tall.

Maybe she should’ve worn heels after all.

“Do you like pancakes?” she asked suddenly.

“Random, but yes. I prefer waffles, though.”

“Waffles? What kind of monster prefers waffles!?”

“They’re basically the same thing,” the girl cackled.

“What’s your name?” Darlina shouted above the music.

“Secret!” she grinned. “I’ll tell you if you let me change your outfit for a bit!” the girl compromised. Darlina’s pout shifted into a wide grin.

“Okay!” she easily agreed, nodding ever so excitedly.

With a flick of the stranger’s wand, the transformation began. And when Darlina looked down, she gasped again. Her onesie was gone.

“That suits you more, girl. Really. Soooo divine!” The girl did a dramatic bow. Darlina blinked at her exposed arms, skin bare under soft lights, but in her pleasantly inebriated state, she didn’t feel exposed. Not that she could see herself properly. The girl caught the flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

“Wanna see yourself?” the girl grinned, already reaching for her hand.

“Uhh—sure!”

The next thing she knew, the girl was dragging her away from the music-thick chaos of the party. Darlina stumbled once—heels? She was wearing heels?! She could’ve sworn she came in comfy slippers—but she quickly regained her balance. Her posture was that of a girl who had grown up learning how to walk with poise. Heels were nothing new, only surprising in the moment.

“You can call me Eve,” the girl said again, her laughter bubbling between syllables.

“Nice meeting you, Eve!” Darlina chirped, letting herself be guided without resistance. They half-skipped down the huge room like two girls in a fever-dream fairytale, seemingly swaying, hearts light.

Eve led her into the girls’ restroom. The door creaked, the echo of the music muted but ever-present. The mirror greeted them first, vast and waiting, and Darlina nearly took a step back. Eve nudged her forward with a proud little smirk. And there she stood, impossibly radiant.

“Tadah!”

The corset she wore was well sculpted and sinfully sweet, with a neckline that dipped into a soft sweetheart curve, rimmed in marabou feathers that floated. Her legs were wrapped in shimmering hot pink tights, catching the cold light and reflecting it back. Atop her head, two satin bunny ears perched tall. They matched the onesie but more grown up, more daring. Her hair had been swept up and styled to match the ensemble. A cotton tail peeked out behind her, perfectly round and smugly present.

Her heels clicked once she approach the mirror further. She looked happy. Far from how her sober self would react, but she’s not sober now, isn’t she?

“I look…” she tilted her head, eyes twinkling, “...so cute!”

“Do you like it?”

“I love it!” Darlina squealed, bouncing on her toes and throwing her arms around the girl in a burst of affection. “Really, this is so cute!”

“It was in one of my sketchbooks. I’m glad to see it come to life.”

Darlina’s eyes sparkled, alcohol and adrenaline dancing in her bloodstream, “Want to grab more drinks?”

“Obviously.”

They reemerged with their cups in hand, bubbles fizzing in their glasses, when two dark silhouettes cut through the crowd, and Darlina’s whole face lit up. She launched herself toward the two rats, arms flung open, capturing both in a chaotic, clumsy group hug. “I missed you two!” she declared, nearly knocking Michael’s drink out of his hand.

Michael gave her an exasperated look but held her gently. Clementine only sighed, patient and relieved all at once. “Look! I made a new friend!” Darlina chirped, tugging Eve forward proudly like a girl showing off a new puppy.

Michael’s gaze narrowed the moment he recognized the girl.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Evening, Itari.”

“Wazzup,” Eve replied with a cocked brow, “What’s with the last name basis? So formal.”

Meanwhile, Darlina was twirling. Well, she was trying to twirl. She managed a spin and a half before nearly falling to her knees. Clementine caught her just in time, steadying her. “Look! Look, I got a new outfit!” she beamed.

“You look cute, Lils,” Clementine said gently, brushing a loose curl from her cheek. “Say goodbye to your friend.”

“Bye-bye, Eve!” Darlina sang, waving in every direction. Michael turned to block Eve’s path as Clementine guided Darlina away. His expression was sharp as he asked, “What did you do to her?”

Eve raised a brow, “Just changed her outfit. That’s all.”

“You certain?”

“She’s happy, isn’t she?”

“That’s not the point.”

Eve rolled her eyes. “Really, Barlowe. We had fun. Chill.”

Michael didn’t budge. “You better mean that, Itari.”

“Oh, please,” she snorted, brushing past him. “You act like she’s made of glass.”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“I told you last night, three cups of drink is your limit.”

Darlina groaned in reply, forehead still glued to the cool, comforting wood of the long house table in the Great Hall. Ironically, she wasn’t feeling particularly great in the Great Hall this morning, and she’s certainly not in the mood for food. The mere sight of pumpkin juice across the table made her stomach roll traitorously.

They had this ritual, the three of them. Breakfast together before parting ways to separate classes. Darlina normally found it comforting—the shared silence or chatter—but today, she just wanted to disappear into the floor and reemerge in spring, preferably as a hedgehog or some moss.

“My head hurts,” she muttered at last, peeking up from the shadows of her arms with a pout.

“But you had fun, right?” Michael asked with a wide grin, his posture far too confident for someone who also drank enough to forget how to pronounce “Cauldron Cakes” the night before.

“I can’t even remember half of it.” Her pout deepened.

“That’s how you know it was good,” he winked.

Clementine, who sat with his usual upright poise, sighed in that fondly exhausted way he reserved just for Darlina and Michael’s antics. Without a word, he pushed a bright red apple toward Darlina’s side of the table. “Eat,” he advised. “Hungover and hungry is a cursed combination. I read it causes long-term emotional trauma.”

Darlina grumbled but took the apple anyway, pressing it to her cheek before nibbling reluctantly. Her gaze drifted absently over the crowded hall. The morning light spilling in from the enchanted ceiling was a little unpleasant for her pulsing head.

She found refuge a little later in the soft loam and vibrant green of the greenhouse, finally nestled within the soothing arms of her favorite class. The air was damp and smelled of earth, and despite her brain still rattling around in her skull, she felt... better. That was until she nearly nodded off during Professor Sprout’s explanation of mandrake maturation. She blinked sharply awake and sat up straighter, cheeks heating.

Professor Sprout didn’t pause or reprimand her, perhaps used to the occasional greenhouse daze. Or perhaps she noticed how pale Darlina looked and chose kindness over correction. Darlina was halfway out the door, her bag slung lazily over one shoulder, when that kindness followed her in the form of a gentle voice.

“Darlina?”

She paused. Oh, right. She usually stayed behind after class. Her favorite professor often gave her little extra tasks, odd jobs, excuses to be among the plants a little longer. Of course, today is no exception. Today was the day she’d be chosen as the reluctant owl between Professor Sprout and him.

Darlina almost sagged in defeat, and at the same time her chest go all tight and fluttery at the thought, which was absolutely bizarre. She should get that checked. “I’m sorry, Professor,” she murmured, trudging back inside with a sigh and plopping her bag onto an empty chair. “I haven’t been quite myself today, have I?”

“That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about,” Sprout said warmly, concern tucked into the corners of her kind eyes. “Are you alright, dear?”

“I’m fine, truly,” Darlina smiled softly. “Just a headache. Nothing serious.”

“Hmm, I thought as much,” Sprout said, tilting her head. “And you’ve Potions next, don’t you? Advanced level?”

Darlina nodded, bracing herself.

“Well then, would you be a dear and take this basket to Professor Snape for me?” She slid a wicker basket into Darlina’s hands, her voice a little too breezy. “And maybe ask him for something to help with that headache. After all, most of the hospital wing’s potions come from his stock. I doubt he doesn’t have one tucked away for students suffering from, shall we say, post-celebratory malaise.”

Darlina’s mouth dropped open.

Professor Sprout just smiled, unbothered. “Oh, darling. I know about the party. And I’ll have you know, I was the reason it wasn’t raided by any of my less… forgiving colleagues.”

“You’re joking.” Darlina gaped, scandalized and impressed all at once.

Sprout winked conspiratorially. “Never underestimate the power of a well-timed garden gnome sighting. Quite the distraction, it turns out.”

Darlina stifled a laugh, covering her mouth with one hand. “Well. Thank you, then. I like you even more now.”

“Oh, you and half the student body. I’m rather popular these days,”

Darlina adjusted the basket in her arms and peeked inside. The scent of fresh valerian root wafted up, mellow and earthy.

“I take it you enhanced the valerian root?” she guessed.

Professor Sprout only grinned.

Times like this, Darlina didn't need directions. Her feet had memorized the path to the dungeons, worn into habit by frequent errands and the routine of her classes. The basket of ingredients felt warm in her arms, grounding her despite the light fuzz in her head, the echoes of last night still pressing against her temples.

She waited after knocking thrice. After a while, she opened the door only to find the potions classroom empty. She stepped inside quietly, her shoes barely making a sound against the cold stone. Professor Snape was not yet there, which is a blessing to her already flushed state. He wouldn’t witness her current state: the slightly disheveled braid, the pale flush beneath her cheeks, the way she moved weirdly. She placed the basket beside his desk, careful not to jostle anything, and floated to her usual seat beside Clementine. Her head met the desk with a soft thump.

Sleep tugged at her. If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe she was weightless again, riding a technicolor cloud, spinning somewhere between the sounds of laughter and off-key singing, and then a hand tapped her gently awake.

"Lils?"

"Hmm?"

"Class is about to start."

Darlina blinked the haze away and straightened up. Her gaze darted toward the front of the room. He’s not there yet. She sighed, both grateful and daunted. "Thanks, Clem," she murmured, then leaned against her friend’s shoulder, letting herself borrow a bit of his steadiness.

When Snape swept in, she didn’t act nor feel weird. Which is probably a progress on her part, or perhaps the hangover dulled all her emotional capacity. Either way, she kept her eyes down, hands focused on the ingredients before her.

Today’s potion required precision. Pair work helped, especially with Clementine at her side. He nudged her gently whenever she lagged, and she followed his lead. Chop, stir, clockwise, then anti. The potion ripened into the hue they anticipated, and Clementine raised his hand.

Snape strode over, inspected the contents with his ever-present frown.

"Exceeds Expectations. Bottle it and place it on my desk."

Clementine moved efficiently, bottling the potion as Darlina let her eyes wander, thoughts drifting somewhere between oblivion and dreams. Her bones ached to curl up beneath a willow tree and sleep.

"You need help?" she asked as Clementine cleaned up.

"No need," he replied. "Just putting away the leftovers."

"I'll do the ingredients."

He gave her a look, unsure, but she waved him off with a weak grin. She moved slowly, carefully tucking herbs and roots back where they belonged, her fingers tracing labels. As she turned back to their table, her eyes caught on Elias Hawthorne. That blond boy with the eyes too blue and the expressions too unreadable. She instinctively smiled. He didn’t return it.

Typical. But oh well.

When class was dismissed, Darlina felt like she might float right off the ground. Her heart light, her bag lighter.

"Miss Lourdes, stay behind."

Her hope hit the floor with a very distinct thud. She caught Clementine’s eye and offered a small shrug before turning back toward the looming presence at the front of the room. She stood before his desk, arms tucked neatly behind her back, fingers fidgeting. “Yes, sir?”

The door closed with a final, echoing thump as the last student left. Snape held up the familiar wicker basket. “You left this.”

Darlina blinked. “Oh, yes. Professor Sprout already improved the valerian roots, sir.”

“Do you have a class after this?”

She instinctively shook her head, then immediately regretted it. Pain flared behind her eyes, which she prayed he hadn’t noticed. Not that he would care, of course. “Then kindly return this basket to Professor Sprout, along with these.” He gestured to a tray of bottled potions. “She requested a batch of Growth Elixirs. Inform her I could only spare ten at the moment. If she requires more, she is welcome to send a formal requisition.”

Darlina stepped forward and took the basket carefully from his hands. Her fingers brushed his, and though the contact was fleeting, it sparked something low and strange in her. She blamed her hangover.

 And then her vision swam. The room spun, and the basket nearly slipped from her grasp. “Err… professor?” she murmured, gripping the basket tighter. “May I sit down for a bit?”

Snape’s brow arched with suspicion. “Why?”

She ignored his question as she’d already made her way to the nearest chair, sinking into it like a wilting flower, head dropping to rest against the desk with a quiet groan.

“Miss Lourdes?”

She hummed in response, eyes fluttering shut. “Headache,” she mumbled. “Just need… a minute.”

She heard the tick-tick-tick of his quill being set aside. “Miss Lourdes,” he said again, this time more pointedly, “Are you well enough to carry out your duties?” That made her want to laugh. Her duties. As if she were on some grand diplomatic mission instead of carting herbs around.

“Really, sir,” she replied, muffled by sleeve and desk. “Just a short rest. I can manage.”

The throb behind her temples pulsed harder, and her stomach growled in protest. She forced herself upright, blinking blearily—only to find him watching her in curiosity, as though he hadn’t quite figured out what species she was. “Do you have any pepperup potion, professor?” she asked, her voice tilting perilously close to a whine. “My head is killing me.”

He didn’t answer immediately. That was a no, or a yes disguised as a no, or something in-between…

“I am not the infirmary,” he said at last, voice clipped.

She gathered a breath and pushed her luck. “Duh. But Professor Sprout told me I should hit my shot and ask here.”

Snape blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“She said you’ve got stock hidden in every corner of this place and a decent bedside manner when you try,” she said, shrugging. “Emphasis on when you try.”

He stared at her. She stared back. The silence was sharp.

“I should give you detention for that cheek,” he muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But you won’t,” she said sweetly, letting her cheek rest in her palm. “Because you are my professor. And it’s basically your job to keep me safe, right?”

His glare intensified. “I’m beginning to question my career choices.”

“Too late now,” she chirped, then winced. The chirp had cost her. “Ugh. My head hurts.”

He muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a swear, but said nothing more. Darlina closed her eyes. Just for a second, she told herself. Just until the spinning stopped.

When she awoke from her light slumber, the dungeon was already empty. The door creaked faintly in the distance, ajar. The basket was gone, but on the desk in front of her sat a single, steaming vial of pepperup potion.

She smiled, slow and sleepy.

Her head still throbbed, but in her chest, something warm fluttered to life and stayed.

(If you can't imagine her new Halloween costume, this is the inspiration. Just so you know, this image is NOT mine. I only took it from Pinterest because I got inspired by Elle Wood's bunny costume from Legally Blonde. Hehe. It's the one on the right side, with the hot pink tights! Again, that girlypop is NOT Darlina. That's Elle Woods :D)



🦢

Notes:

I'm currently on break so I'll try to update, my baes! I hope u guys had fun with this little chapter. I enjoyed writing it. Darlina's attitude towards Snape drastically changed at the very end, 'no? She seemed less scared, lol! It might be because of the headache, really.

Chapter 15: The Surface of Black Lake

         HOGWARTS WAS NOT HER home.

Not really.

It had never held the same kind of softness, the same hidden smells of rosemary and mint, nor the familiar hush that settled in the hills where her house nestled at the edge of nowhere. Hogwarts had ghosts and grandeur and centuries of people stomping through its bones. Her home had silence, birdsong, and windows that always looked out onto something green.

Darlina missed it so much that it gnawed at her quietly. There wasn’t much she could do about it, though. So here she sat: legs dangling into the Black Lake, toes numb, water dark and endless beneath her. Her friends had errands—meetings, library hours, obligatory Quidditch-related nonsense—and had left her to her thoughts, which were loud and cluttered and about as organized as a drunken game of Wizard's Chess.

Still, she liked this.

This was her favorite kind of moment. The kind where she didn’t have to do anything, where the only responsibility tethering her to the world was her own breath. She didn’t have to explain herself, didn’t have to smile at the right times or remember to walk like a proper pureblood girl. She could just… float into the abyss, and just simply exist. Which was rather poetic, if one ignored how tangled her thoughts were. They refused to behave. One moment she was daydreaming about that herbology book she left half-read, the next she was wondering if she’d made any actual progress in DADA or if Professor Grimshade would pity her enough to pass her.

She began humming. Her head swayed gently as she kicked at the lake water, causing lazy ripples to fan outward. It was at that exact moment when a hand brushed against her back, certainly not a “hello-there-friend” kind of touch. No, this one had the unmistakable energy of shove. And shove it did.

Darlina flailed.

For one sharp second, her brain did not comprehend what was happening. She was airborne, her breath caught like a hiccup in her throat, and then there was a huge splash. Panic bloomed in her chest as the coldness of the lake swallowed her whole.

Darlina could not swim.

She wished she had mentioned that to someone, anyone, perhaps a nearby sentient rock, before this particular moment of doom. Her arms thrashed, desperate to catch hold of something solid, but there was only water, more water, and—Merlin help her—it just kept dragging her down. Her lungs screamed. Her vision blurred at the edges, tinged crimson from the pressure. She couldn’t tell what way was up anymore. She reached for air, but all she got was the unforgiving kiss of lake water.

Her thoughts began to slip through her fingers.

Above her, the light dimmed. Around her, the lake pulsed. She had time to think a single thing: It’s so quiet down here.

And then she stopped thinking entirely.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

On the surface, chaos had bloomed.

“Fuck, are you sure that’s her?!”

“It looked like her!”

The prank was supposed to be simple and harmless. A splash and a laugh and that’s it. They were aiming for a different reaction entirely, an infurating shriek from someone who could swim and who would’ve hexed them all to next week for it. Instead, that someone they had just shoved into the Black Lake was not coming up.

“Shit—go in! Someone go in!”

One boy dove, suddenly realizing the vast difference between a prank and manslaughter. The others stood frozen, pale as a paper. The act had glued them to the ground. When the boy finally resurfaced, he wasn’t alone. He hauled the girl up with him, her body limp in his arms. Her robes clung to her, hair plastered across her face, and she wasn’t moving. “Is she—?” one of them whispered, too afraid to finish the sentence.

“She’s breathing,” the boy panted as he dragged her to shore. “Barely. Pulse is weak.”

“Oh my Godric, we’re going to Azkaban.”

“That’s Darlina Lourdes,” another whispered, tugging at his sleeves in panic. “We pushed Darlina Lourdes! Do you know who her family is?!”

The realization hit them harsh. This certainly was not just a prank gone wrong… this was a disaster with possible criminal charges. They all looked down at the girl. Then, the hurried rhythm of approaching footsteps halted the boys mid-panic. All three turned simultaneously, summoned by the sheer authority of those boots echoing down the ground. And there was Professor Snape, his robes billowing behind him. Just ahead of him was their friend who sprinted for help, his obvious panic dripping from his very core.

Snape took one look at the scene, at the girl crumpled on the grass, water still dripping from her hair, her skin worryingly pale. For a moment, something flickered in his expression. It was gone too quickly to name. One of the boys, the bravest idiot of the group, stepped forward. “We—we didn’t know what to do, professor, we—”

“Her pulse is weak,” someone added in a whisper that cracked halfway through.

Snape was already kneeling beside her before they finished speaking. The notion of rushing her to the Hospital Wing was discarded in a blink. There wasn’t enough time to haul her there and he knew it.

Not her.

Not the daughter of his old friend. Not this girl.

His fingers moved with practiced precision, tilting her chin, checking for breath. Nothing. His lips thinned. Then he placed the heel of his hand against her sternum and began performing chest compressions relentlessly, his arms steady. The only rhythm he could feel pulsing in his veins was the thudding push of magicless desperation.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Still no response.

He paused only to breathe for her, a sharp inhale followed by a calculated exhale into her mouth—twice.

“Is he… kissing her?”

“No, you absolute dung beetle,” hissed the one who fetched Snape, eyes rolling. “It’s CPR. Muggle thing. Keeps people alive.”

“Oh.”

The others nodded, as if understanding that anything Snape did was better than what they weren’t doing. A beat passed and Snape ignored them.

Another round of compressions. More breaths.

And then—finally—Darlina choked, sputtered, and hacked up what felt like half the lake. Water gurgled from her lips as her body convulsed to life.

Snape immediately backed off just enough to give her breathing space. Darlina blinked open dazed eyes, each movement as delicate and trembling as a baby fawn’s first steps. Her body shook in the sheer coldness. Her chest heaved as her fingers grasped weakly at her ribcage, all while tears pooled in her lashes.

She tried to sit up and failed. Her hand still clutched at her chest and she whimpered, it was soft and quite heart-wrenching. Snape looked away. He turned to the group of boys who were now visibly shaking. “I expect all four of you in my office. Tonight,” Snape levitated Darlina with a whispered charm. Her eyes widened, a soft whine escaping her lips—panic or pain, he couldn’t tell. He turned his head sharply. “Am I clear?”

“Y-yes, professor!” came the chorus, two octaves higher than before.

“Leave.” he said coldly, and the boys quickly scattered away. Getting levitated after nearly drowning was horrible. Darlina wasn’t entirely sure if she was alive, or if this was just one of those near-death fever dreams where you meet a disturbingly judgmental angel wearing black robes and an eternal scowl. Her eyes fluttered open, dazed and glassy, catching the hem of his robes billowing beside her. Her lashes were heavy with unshed tears, and she blinked it all away. Her chest rose and fell, tight with the press of fear and confusion. Snape kept walking, trying desperately to un-feel the weight of her gaze on him. Her eyes—those damned, fragile, wounded doe eyes—were doing something unspeakable to his ability to remain emotionally constipated. He didn’t like it.

And when her whimpers continued, those soft little hiccups of breath of hers, he clenched his jaw tighter and kept walking. Thankfully, mercifully, the sound faded just as they neared the Great Hall, where students buzzed like bees in a hive. Gasps broke the ambient chatter once they realized Snape striding with an unconscious girl levitating beside him. The crowd began parting instinctively.

Clementine paused mid-conversation. “What’s with the commotion—” his words died in his throat, and his heart did a curious sort of thud when he caught sight of Darlina.

She looked pale. “Bloody hell,” he breathed, and ran. A soft curse slipped between his teeth.

“Professor!” Clementine shouted, his voice bouncing off the stone walls. He didn’t expect Snape to stop—Snape never stopped for anyone—but he had to try. He skidded to a halt beside them, heart racing. “I’ll carry her!” he said, breathless. Words tumbled from his mouth before he could organize them into anything resembling logic. Questions bloomed behind his tongue: What happened? Why didn’t anyone tell me? Is she—? Snape didn’t even spare him a glance, just kept striding forward.

“She hates levitation spells!” Clementine snapped, louder than he meant to. He looked scandalized by his own audacity. His voice had never spoken so rebelliously in a professor’s presence before.

The world seemed to pause as Snpe slightly halted. Then, with a low, irritated sigh, he jerked his head. “Go on.”

Clementine wasted no time. He scooped Darlina gently into his arms, cradling her like something precious and breakable—which, to be fair, she was. “I trust you can bring her to the Hospital Wing yourself?”

“Of course, professor,” Clementine said instantly, not even blinking.

Snape’s gaze was unreadable, “Tell Poppy she drowned.”

“Wait—what?”

But Snape was already walking away, his cloak flaring behind him in a perfect theatrical sweep.

Later that evening, the Gryffindors were blindsided with a catastrophic loss in house points. Hundreds were deducted, vanished into thin air. And to think that Gryffindor had been on track to beat Ravenclaw! Victory had been so close they could taste it…

🦢

Notes:

Oh nauuuur! Darlina drowned :(((((

And damn their "first kiss" sucks xddd

'til another chapter, my baes! see ya, xoxo

Chapter 16: The Counting of Flocks

          FLOWERS WERE OVERFLOWING ON the bedside table beside where Darlina lay—a small, vibrant jungle of blooms threatening to overtake the hospital wing one petal at a time. She reached out to caress them, fingers brushing delicately against a silky petal, and slightly smiled.

It must’ve been half past midnight. The great windows stretched to the ceiling, cloaked in moonlight rather than sun. There was no way to be sure, of course. Someone was curled up in the far corner, fast asleep in a bed they clearly lost a fight with, the snores of that person made the darkness feel less ominous.

The flowers helped too.

She had been awake for nearly an hour now. And yes, she’d been petting the flowers for just as long. When she first blinked her way into consciousness, her mind was a scrambled mess, and then everything came crashing back…

I almost died.

I actually almost died.

Her breath caught once again, and she numbly stared at the ceiling. She didn’t like the idea of death. Not one bit. She didn’t like the thought of being... gone. Just a bubble in the sun, beautiful one second, gone the next. No trace, no echo, nada. Just… poof.

And what a terribly short-lived life it had been so far. She hadn’t even done everything she wanted to do yet! There were so many things, so many firsts left to discover. Like, having a lover. That was a big one, a dramatic swoony one. She hadn’t even been kissed! Not even once, not even on accident. She had ideas, of course… she wasn’t entirely clueless about that field. She’d forced herself to read up on the subject (although “reading for pleasure” was really more “reading for research”), but she ended up gravitating toward the fiction aisle. You know the type. Frilly covers, people clutching each other like they were allergic to personal space. It was so stupidly cute, and she was obsessed.

Still, reading never stuck the way painting did, or gardening, or—oddly enough—caring for wounded frogs. She’d rather spend three hours talking to her ferns than ten minutes leafing through a novel.

She sighed again.

The world felt... off-kilter. Like someone had spun it too fast and forgot to tell her. And then her thoughts tilted sharply, landing on the moment she fell. Someone had pushed me... Her stomach turned at the memory. Maybe it was an accident. Accidents do happen.

...But really, who was she kidding?

The thought lodged itself in her brain. Was there someone who wanted me gone? Was there someone who hated me that much? She didn’t want to believe that. She squeezed her eyes shut and let go of the petal she’d been cradling. Her breathing started to wobble, too quick, too loud in the silence.

In. Out.

In. Out.

Okay. That was enough existential dread for one midnight.

She tried to think of something calming and gentle.

Sheep. Yes. Sheep.

She imagined soft white clouds hopping over fences. Counted them in her chaotic mind. One, two, three... When she tried to sit up earlier, her bones felt so painful, espeically her ribs. Thankfully, lying back down wasn’t so bad. And so, still whispering numbers in her mind—eight... nine... ten sheep—she finally drifted off again.

The flowers leaned closer, as if to tuck her in.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

The next time Darlina woke up, it wasn’t to darkness or dreamless panic, but to a warmth brushing against her fingers. Sunlight dripped through the infirmary windows, spilling golden syrup across her bedsheets and cheekbones. She smiled, eyes still closed, basking in the first beam of morning. When she finally peeked one eye open, the first thing she registered was a familiar face hovering above her. “Mike!” she grinned, her voice still hoarse with sleep.

Michael exhaled. “Oh, thank Merlin.” He stood up, towering and disheveled, then leaned down to pull her into a hug. It was careful, soft, and it lasted longer than necessary, not that she minded!

He kissed the top of her head, fingers tangled in her hair. “How are you?”

“After just dying? Mm. I don’t know, Mike. Barely holding on,” she teased. She attempted to sit up. Her chest still ached but it was less agonizing blaze of fire. Progress! Michael immediately caught her elbow. He sat again, his hand enclosing hers. “We almost lost you…” he said quietly.

She looked at him, “But you didn’t, okay? You didn’t lose me. I’m still here. Still very much Darlina… just slightly more dented now.”

Michael frowned. “Yeah, but… never mind.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very interested in the floor. “I heard about it right after practice. Everyone was talking. You’re basically headline news. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Darlina’s scowl was the most harmless thing on earth. “Oh, come on. This is not your fault, Mike.”

“But—”

“No. Shut your ass up, you big banana.”

Michael blinked. “...Did you just call me a banana?”

“You heard me,” she deadpanned.

He snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching into something vaguely amused.

“You can’t blame yourself. Someone pushed me…”

“Wait, what?”

“Oh.” She blinked. “You didn’t know that?”

Whatever Michael was about to say died a sudden death at the hands of another voice: “Is she awake?”

They turned in unison. “Yes,” they said together. Clementine appeared, arms crossed and expression already twelve steps into exasperated. He fixed Michael with a glare that could boil tea. “And you didn’t call Madam Pomfrey?” he hissed.

“I—”

But Clementine had already spun on his heel, storming off toward the Matron’s office. Darlina sighed and gave Michael’s hand another squeeze. “He’s just worried.”

“True,” he muttered. “But hey… pushed? Did you see who it was?”

She opened her mouth, ready to spill whatever fragments of memory she could gather but fast footsteps echoed across the hospital wing, and soon Clementine and a woman arrived by her little corner. “Miss Lourdes.” It was a voice Darlina didn’t recognize, but it was brisk and oddly comforting. She turned her head slightly to find a kind-eyed woman in Healer’s robes standing beside her bed.

“Hello,” Darlina said, smiling shyly.

“I’m Poppy Pomfrey. How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Darlina replied, too quickly. “I’m okay now. I think I can leave, actually, if you would just—”

“Ah. Ah ah.” Madam Pomfrey raised a hand. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Miss Lourdes. I’ll need to run a few spells, check your vitals, and make sure you’re not planning to keel over mid-corridor.”

“Right,” Darlina said, blushing. “Of course.”

Madam Pomfrey muttered under her breath as she waved her wand across Darlina’s chest, a warm gold shimmer rippling over her ribs. Darlina felt nothing. No pain, no tingle, not even the usual whoosh of ambient magic, but apparently, her insides were a bit of a disaster zone. “Fractured ribs,” Pomfrey confirmed. “Several of them.”

“Oh. That explains... the ache.”

“It’ll heal in a day or so,” the healer reassured, already moving with purpose toward a nearby cabinet. “Once you take the Skele-Gro. We’ve just run out, though. I’ll need someone to fetch more from Professor Snape.”

Michael, standing nearby, perked up. “On it.”

“Good lad,” Pomfrey nodded approvingly. “Tell him it’s urgent. And for once, don’t antagonize him.”

“I make no promises,” Michael said with a wink at Darlina, and she managed a small laugh, which promptly earned her a sharp stab of pain from her ribs. She winced. He reached down and squeezed her hand gently, like he could press all his guilt and fear into that one touch and maybe transfer some of her pain into himself instead. And then he was gone, marching off.

Pomfrey returned with a glass of water. “Here. Let’s get some fluids in you,” she said, placing the glass in Darlina’s hands after a quick charm to check her grip.

Darlina could hold it. That wasn’t the problem.

The problem was drinking it.

Her hands began to tremble, faint at first, and as seconds passed, her hand shook with more force. She stared at the water dumbfoundedly. Like it might leap up her nose and choke her again, might turn into a swirling void of helplessness, might drag her back into the cold, drowning dark she thought she’d escaped. “Lils?” Clementine took the seat beside Darlina’s bed, his arms crossed.

“I…” Darlina blinked. Her throat was dry. Her heartbeat too loud in her ears. “I’m not thirsty.”

She handed the glass to Clementine with both hands. Clementine took it without a word, but his brow furrowed. He didn’t press with any questions, he understood that some things didn’t need dissecting. What Darlina needed was rest.

Unfortunately, her body had other plans.

Sleep felt far too close to unconsciousness, and Darlina wasn’t ready to hand herself over to the dark again, even if it came with pillows. So Clementine did what Darlina liked best: he started rambling. It was about flowers, of all things. “You got those yesterday,” he said, pointing toward the bedside table. A delicate bouquet sat in a repurposed potion bottle—lilacs, gardenias, a splash of blush-pink zinnias. “I thought you’d like them.”

“I love them,” Darlina said, her smile blooming. “They’re beautiful.”

Clementine allowed himself the tiniest of smug smiles. “Michael said you deserved something cheerful. The yellow ones are from him, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Darlina giggled. “He’d never go for subtle.”

“No,” Clementine said, deadpan. “He once tried to ‘romantically’ throw rose petals out a window and accidentally hit Filch with the whole vase.”

Darlina cackled.

The bouquet swayed in a passing breeze from an enchanted window. The yellow petals caught the light, and for a moment, Darlina forgot about the ache in her ribs, the phantom weight of water in her lungs, the dizzying aftermath of what befall in the lake... For now, there were flowers…

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Michael and Clementine had just hit peak chaos. They were mocking Darlina’s first-ever crush, which (to their delight) turned out to be a fictional character. She could barely get a word in between Clementine’s prim, “Honestly, it’s the cheekbones for you, isn't it?” and Michael’s, “You fell for a guy who literally doesn’t exist. That’s gotta be some kind of talent, Lina.”

It was right then that Madam Pomfrey swept into the wing. She held up a potions bottle with the smug finality of someone who’d done this before. “Miss Lourdes,” she said briskly, “it’s time.”

Darlina stiffened. Her fingers curled around the blanket. First, it was that glass of water. And Merlin, yes, she was thirsty. But no amount of desert-level dehydration would get her to sip anything. Not yet anyway… She didn’t tell her friends about this particular anxiety because that would only be a disaster. They’d panic and they’d fuss. They’d do what friends did, and she can’t really handle that right now.

So instead, she tried for a lie. A weak one, definitely… something that even a Puffskein would side-eye. “But potions taste awful,” she muttered, ducking behind her hair. “I don’t like drinking them.”

Pomfrey lifted a brow. “Miss Lourdes, really?”

“You can just call me Darlina, Madam,” she offered sweetly.

“Okay, Darlina,” Pomfrey said, “But you still have to drink this, dear.”

“Lils,” Clementine said gently, his forehead crinkled, “since when do you hate potions? I mean… this is for your health, you know?”

“I just... I don’t...” she tried, eyes round, voice pitiful.

Michael tilted his head. “Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“No!” she said a little too fast. Her cheeks flamed. “Sorry. That was weird. I’m not usually like this. Sorry.” She pouted again, that usually bought her time.

Pomfrey outstretched the goblet once more, and Darlina flinched, which, to be fair, from her point of view, wasn’t entirely inaccurate. She scrambled back on the bed, voice cracking, “Please don’t force me to take it. I... I don’t like potions!”

Clementine reached out, softly, “Lils?”

Darlina pressed her hands to her chest. The nearby lamps flickered, one even gave a very offended pop. Her breath hitched. Her heart thudded too hard against her ribs, like it too wanted out of this conversation. The irony, of course, was that this ache was exactly why she needed the potion.

But she couldn’t… not when the very thought of swallowing anything made her panic spike. “Lina,” Michael said gently, approaching her side, but she only shook her head, scooting back farther.

She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She—

“What is going on here?”

Oh no.

She knew that voice.

Her emotions, already playing a rickety sonata, suddenly switched to full-on screeching violin. She looked up just in time to meet his gaze. It was dark, unreadable, and entirely too observant. Her stomach did a somersault, or possibly a pirouette with fire.

“Darlina’s refusing to take her potions,” Pomfrey said with a sigh, though there was concern tucked behind her exasperation. Darlina’s expression crumpled. She stared at Pomfrey, betrayal all over her face. Then at Clementine and Michael—traitors, both of them—who looked helpless.

“I just don’t like the taste of it,” she whispered, and then she noticed him again, lurking over her bed, and her voice shrank to a pebble.

“Come again?” Snape said, dry as ancient parchment. “You might want to repeat that a little louder, Miss Lourdes.”

She swallowed and tried to meet his gaze with what was left of her courage. “I said... I don’t want to drink your potions, sir.”

There it was. Your, she emphasized. His expression briefly flickered. He shook his head and scowled at her sternly. It was so stern that the temperature in the Hospital Wing miight have dropped two degrees. “You need to take this, Miss Lourdes,” he said, voice flat and final. “Whether you like it or not.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head.

Snape rolled his eyes. “Do not make me take points from your house,” he threatened. That made her falter a little. Of course, she still tries to be a good student even when her entire nervous system was screaming danger. But still, she shook her head and squished herself deeper into the mattress. “No.”

Clementine cleared his throat. “Maybe we could—”

“Madam Pomfrey!” A student burst into the infirmary. Pomfrey sighed, handed the potion over, and said with impressive cheer, “Make her drink this, will you?” before swooping off to triage some other poor soul. “Poppy—” Snape tried, but alas, the nurse had vanished and left him holding the metaphorical baby.

“Sir, we could do it...” Michael offered, clearly lying, because he immediately took a strategic step backward once Snape approached the bed. Darlina was crumpled against the headboard, wide-eyed and white-knuckled. “I don’t—”

“I do not care about your wishes, Miss Lourdes,” Snape interrupted, “Now drink this. Don’t make me make you.”

That was the final warning. Darlina, trembling, decided she’d rather fight. She clenched her mouth shut, shaking her head with finality. And oh, that was that. Snape’s brow arched, and when she turned away from him, heart in her throat.

That was it, that was the moment.

Because suddenly, he had her jaw in his hand, fingers firm but not cruel, the gesture sharp enough to silence even Michael's usual bravado. Darlina's breath hitched as their world narrowed. His eyes were inches from hers, black as secrets and twice as cold, and yet there was heat there too. Not warmth, not kindness… just heat, sheer and searing, the kind that stripped the varnish from pretense. His fingers tightened, just slightly, guiding her face back toward him as she squirmed, weakly, futilely.

The potion bottle loomed.

She could hear her friends—Clementine’s gasp, Michael’s quiet protest—but the sounds were muted, like someone had dunked her underwater again.

Don’t. Don’t do this. Don’t make me feel like I’m drowning again.

She pressed her lips tighter, but Snape simply applied pressure to her cheeks, prying her mouth open with infuriating precision. She was terrified and furious, and she was glowing with indignation and shaking with remembered fear. And so close… she was so close to him that she could see the fine lines at the edges of his glare, the furious tremor in his jaw, the way his gaze flickered to her lips.

The potion touched her tongue.

Her whole body rebelled. She refused to swallow, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk mid-heist. But then Snape tilted her head back with precision, held her there, waited. His grip didn’t loosen until she gave in. Not until she finally, finally, choked down the potion with a ragged gasp, tears stinging her lashes and her lungs burning with the betrayal of it all.

It was over in seconds. Her chest heaved, and her body screamed, and the world returned in a rush that left her limp. Snape let go and didn’t say any word, he just set the empty vial on the nearby table with a quiet clink and stalked off like a brooding bat. Darlina sat frozen as her face burned.

She was furious and... weirdly grateful?

The room echoed with tension, but the pain in her chest was gradually easing. She wasn’t going to die, her body now knew that, and she could drink again. Hopefully. Well, whatever… she was still going to glare at Snape until the sun exploded.

Clementine and Michael were at her side before she could blink. Clementine bent a little, “Are you okay?” he asked, brushing her hair back with trembling fingers. His voice cracked on the last syllable. “Merlin, I didn’t even know Professor Snape could just—”

He trailed off, looking at Michael, who stood rigidly beside Darlina. “He’s an ass,” Michael muttered, pressing a kiss to Darlina’s hair.

“He is,” Clementine agreed grimly.

Darlina, on the other hand, couldn’t speak. Her voice was somewhere buried under that potion, or under Snape’s hand, or perhaps it had gone into hibernation. She just... stared at her friends, then at the tall figure of Professor Snape as he walked away with Madam Pomfrey, both of them speaking in hushed, urgent tones that suggested something very important, yet all Darlina could hear was the echo of her own breathing and the phantom press of fingers against her cheeks.

Michael squeezed her hand. “It’ll be alright, Lina,”

She nodded as she emotionally duct-taped her sanity back together. She swallowed hard, and with that motion, her mind recalled the entire scenario again. The pressure of his hands, the heat of his grip, the taste of his potion, her helplessness. Her free hand drifted up, gently touching her own face, as if to make sure it was still hers and that it wasn’t branded somehow. When her friends leave, she knew she’d relive his touch over and over again, especially the sheer indignity of being manhandled by a man… Although, somehow, in the middle of her panic, he had held her like he meant to keep her from breaking.

Ugh.

Darlina sat there, surrounded by two worried best friends and a buzzing in her chest she couldn’t quite name, watching Professor Snape vanish behind a curtain with Madam Pomfrey, all while she hated how warm her cheeks felt.

🦢

 

Notes:

the chapter titles are sometimes so random, sorry i don't have enough braincells to come up with something of worth

ALSO... damn. imagine getting manhandled by snape like that—AAAAA I KNOW. i've been mentally holding onto this scene since like 2022 or 2023? the urge to write this has been sitting in my brain!! Past me had a vision, and that vision was being ferally yeeted by snape. No regrets.

i’m spoiling you all with these rapid-fire updates because once the academic year starts, I will ghost harder than the Bloody Baron. So enjoy the chaos while it lasts~

hehe

Chapter 17: The Kindness of Darlina

     PROFFESOR SNAPE SAVED HER. That was the opening line of Clementine’s frantic recap the moment Darlina had been discharged from the Hospital Wing and asked, ever so delicately, what in Merlin’s name had actually happened. She had only faint memories—flashes of rushing water, the cold shock of fear, and then a black void.

 

Apparently, Clementine had just left a meeting with the Head Girl when the hallway crowd. And there he was—Professor Snape—all dramatic robes and zero expression, storming down the corridor. Clementine said he followed him, but he hadn’t seen what happened before that. Just that Snape was levitating her and was a little wet as well.

 

Darlina had simply nodded. Professor Snape saved her. That was all that mattered.

 

Now, if she could just forget the minor detail that she had glared at him and internally compared him to a damp, overcooked root vegetable, when she lay awake at night after he forced her to swallow that damned potion, that would be great. Because, well, he had sort of... saved her life. Twice.

 

At present, she hugged the bouquet Michael had given her to her chest—a glorious chaos of blooms in shocking colors, wrapped in a ribbon he’d probably found in some poor third-year’s potion kit. Her lips curled into a small, genuine smile as she walked free from the Hospital Wing at last. Madam Pomfrey had been a gem, naturally. A sweetheart in starched robes. But the perpetual smell of antiseptic and vaguely threatening healing potions had made Darlina feel like she was being slowly marinated.

 

The scent of hospitals—no, thank you.

 

Thankfully, the classwork she’d missed was hardly a challenge. The “mountain” of assignments turned out to be more of a speed bump. And with Clementine by her side, it had been smooth sailing.

 

She returned to her room and dropped off the new bouquet on the floor beside her bed—there was no more room on her bedside table, which had already become an accidental shrine to every floral arrangement in Hogwarts. She transfigured a new vase from a teacup (she was getting quite good at it) and nestled the blooms inside.

 

Then she flopped onto her bed with the grace of a weary maiden and began rummaging for her quill.

 

Time to write to Pharell.

 

 

Dear Pharell,

 

Hola! I don’t know if you’ve heard this, but I recently drowned.

 

She blinked. Stared. Crumpled it like it personally offended her.

 

No. No, no, no. That is the worst way to start a letter. Ever.

 

She grabbed another scroll, took a calming breath (in through the nose, out through the inevitable existential dread), and began again.

 

 

Dear Pharell,

 

Hello, Pharell! How are you? How’s Father? How are my plants? I hope they’re thriving—and if they’ve grown new leaves, I demand photographic evidence! (Okay, maybe not demand. Gently request? Desperately plead? Either way—please.)

 

Also, this is just a minor update: I almost drowned.

 

No, no, don’t panic! I’m perfectly fine. Alive and very much kicking. There was a bit of a situation involving water and unconsciousness and possibly the most dramatic rescue in Hogwarts history (I’ll tell you all about it someday when it doesn’t make me want to crawl into a potted plant and disappear). But the important part is: I’m okay now. Truly.

 

If Father hasn’t heard about it yet... well, maybe let’s not volunteer that information. Unless he already knows. In which case, please assure him that I’m still a functioning academic weapon and absolutely capable of surviving the rest of this school year without further near-death incidents.

 

...Hopefully.

 

As always,

Darlina

 

 

Letter complete, she folded it neatly, tied it with her favorite mint-green ribbon, and headed toward the Owlery. But not before making a pit stop at the kitchens to sneak some treats for her feathered friends—because nothing says “thank you for carrying my emotional baggage across the British Isles” like a warm biscuit.

 

Twila, her proud, snowy companion, deserved only the best. Darlina had been visiting the Owlery often these days—homesickness tended to sneak up on her. The owls had become something of a found family, and Darlina spoiled them accordingly. She had once fed an owl a tiny jam tart. It looked her dead in the eyes and nodded. That owl now followed her around like a disciple.

 

The trek to the Owlery was refreshing, the wind tugging at her cloak, the late afternoon sun casting a honey-colored glow on the castle walls. She hummed to herself, ticking off her to-do list as she climbed the spiral staircase of the West Tower.

 

1. Send letter.
2. Thank Madam Pomfrey again. Maybe bake her something. Something non-poisonous.
3. Figure out if she should... apologize? To Snape? For being a mildly judgmental gremlin? Hm. TBD.

 

She reached the top and whistled, soft and birdlike. “Twila~”

 

The white owl swooped down, circling her dramatically. “I missed you too,” Darlina whispered with a smile, offering her a biscuit. Twila snatched it greedily and preened smugly as Darlina pressed a kiss to her head. She then distributed treats to the other owls—each a little ‘thank you’ for being weirdly comforting with their head tilts and death glares.

 

At last, she found a quieter corner, crouched beside Twila, and held her close. The Owlery did smell like a mix of old feathers and dubious pellets, but that didn’t matter. This was her little sanctuary.

 

One day, she swore, she’d take Twila on a walk around the castle. Maybe even sneak her a tart from the kitchens. Okay, definitely sneak her a tart.

 

She exhaled, warm and content.

 

“Aren’t you a pretty little cutie, my baby?” Darlina cooed at Twila, her voice lilting with affection as her fingers combed through feathers soft as snowfall. Twila’s plumage shimmered like stardust caught in morning light—majestic and unapologetically clean despite living in a glorified pigeon coop. Darlina leaned in closer. “Look at you, sparkling like the moon. You’re going to give the Veelas a complex.”

 

Twila blinked, unimpressed but willing to accept praise in exchange for more biscuits. Darlina was just about to add something else, when she heard the heavy creak of the tower door. The sound made her flinch. I guess almost drowning rewires your startle reflex, she thought grimly.

 

She turned to see who had entered and, naturally, because the universe enjoyed throwing her into psychological gymnastics, it was none other than Professor Snape himself. Stormcloud robes, judgemental energy, and a glower that could sour milk—yep, all present.

 

A fresh wave of heat climbed her neck. Her cheeks were practically sunbathing now. Oh, Merlin. She remembered, in vivid, 8K ultra-HD clarity, the glare she had gifted him after in the Hospital Wing—how she’d grumbled about the taste of potions and whined like a brat in front of him.

 

Never mind the fact that he had saved her life.

 

Darlina swallowed thickly and turned back to Twila. “Off you go, darling. Safe travels. Avoid thunderstorms. And postmen,” she whispered, fastening the scroll to her leg.

 

Twila nuzzled her arm once, hooted softly, then took off into the sky.

 

She stole a glance back at Snape. He was ignoring her. A sleek, ink-black owl had already landed near him—yes, that owl. The same one who’d bitten her thumb when she’d once dared offer it bread. She hadn’t attempted a second offering. Even birds had boundaries.

 

Snape wordlessly tied a letter to its leg. The owl didn’t bite him, of course. Probably respected the man’s commitment to gloom. And then—just as quickly as he’d arrived—he turned on his heel and started descending the stairs.

 

“Is there something you need, Miss Lourdes?”

 

The sudden question pierced the silence. His voice was low, uninterested, and somehow still managed to imply she was wasting his very limited and very precious supply of patience. Darlina startled, once again caught gawking like a fangirl. She squeaked—yes, squeaked—and fiddled with the edge of her sleeve.

 

“N-No, sir,” she said softly. “Sorry.”

 

She meant it. She hadn’t meant to gawk. It was just... weirdly soothing, watching him do mundane things.

 

She hesitated.

 

Should she say it?

 

Should she thank him?

 

But Snape was already on the move again, descending the spiral staircase with billowing dramatic flair.

 

Her feet moved before her brain could catch up. “Sir?”

 

That one word was just barely audible. More breath than voice. But somehow—miraculously—he heard her. Snape halted a few steps down. She stood above him, which was probably the only time in her life she’d have the higher ground with him, physically or otherwise.

 

He turned just enough to raise an eyebrow at her.

 

She smiled—a soft, hesitant, heart-full thing. The kind of smile that could melt glaciers or disarm authority figures (well, some authority figures. Snape did not appear to be on that list.)

 

“Thank you,” she said.

 

Thank you for the Pepperup Potion.

Thank you for forcing me to drink that Skele-Gro Potion.

Thank you for saving my life.

 

Snape regarded her for a beat. Then another. His gaze, unreadable as ever, swept over her face.

 

“You know the drill, Miss Lourdes,” he finally said, dry as sandpaper.

 

Her brows furrowed, puzzled. “Huh?”

 

“It’s my job as your professor.”

 

There was the sarcasm. Light, cold, and dipped in black coffee. And Darlina—because her lungs were apparently still full of lakewater and leftover nerves—giggled.

 

It echoed.

 

Down the stairwell.

 

Loudly.

 

Snape blinked once. A slow, soul-deep blink. Like he was questioning the life choices that had led him to this exact moment. Darlina covered her mouth, mortified and breathless. “I—I’m sorry,” she mumbled.

 

He didn’t answer. Just turned and continued down the stairs, leaving behind a girl with a fluttering heart and an empty owl biscuit pouch.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina had just hugged Michael and Clementine goodnight—Michael squeezing her a bit too hard as if to make up for all the things he didn’t say, and Clementine giving her a once-over like she was an overwatered plant that might wilt at any moment—when someone intercepted her at the threshold of the Great Hall.

 

“Miss Lourdes.”

 

Darlina halted mid-step, the echo of her shoes catching up with her as she turned. And there stood Professor Sprout, warm smile folded into concern, hands gently clasped in front of her. “Could you come with me, dear? The Headmaster would like to see you in his office... about what happened.”

 

The rest of her words fuzzed into a static hum.

 

“I—sorry, what?” she asked, blinking.

 

Sprout repeated, slower this time. “You need to visit the Headmaster’s office, love. He’d like to speak with you about the incident. Only if you’re up for it, of course. Are you well enough to face them?”

 

Them.

 

Them.

 

The word curled around her like a vine—tightening, squeezing. Darlina felt the room tilt ever so slightly, her pulse suddenly a frantic thing. Her feet shifted as though preparing to step back—run, flee, dissolve—but she stopped herself. She inhaled. Exhaled. Smiled.

 

“It’s fine,” she said quietly.

 

It wasn’t. Not even close. But fake it till you make it, as Michael always said—usually before jumping off something too high or charming his way out of detention.

 

Sprout didn’t push. She just offered a small nod. “How are you doing, anyway?”

 

Darlina cleared her throat, a bit too fast. “I’m okay. I miss tending to the plants, though. Will you still let me care for them?”

 

Sprout looked momentarily scandalized, “Of course, dear girl! Why on earth would I stop you?”

 

Darlina flushed. “I don’t know. Just asking.”

 

They walked in comfortable silence after that, Sprout’s earthy presence grounding Darlina as they ascended the moving staircase toward the stone gargoyle. It had greeted her once, back when she was just a girl without any house yet. That felt like a lifetime ago now. Maybe two.

 

Three polite knocks from Sprout, and they entered.

 

The Headmaster’s office was exactly how she remembered it—except now, there were more people. Her gaze landed immediately on the tall figure seated across from Dumbledore, and everything inside her stilled.

 

Father.

 

Bentley Lourdes sat with the same rigid grace he always had—shoulders squared, expression unreadable, the air around him thick with quiet stormclouds. He looked more like a painting than the ones on the walls.

 

Darlina’s stomach gave a strange little lurch.

 

She let Professor Sprout guide her forward, a steadying hand at her back. When they reached the seats, she hesitated—then sat beside him. "Hello, Father," she murmured.

 

He nodded.

 

Just nodded.

 

No words. No touch. No “you almost died.” Just a nod. She didn't know why she still expected something different. Why she hoped, just once, that he'd be someone else. Someone who cared out loud.

 

She should be grateful he was even here. Right?

 

Right.

 

But it still hurt, that fragile, echoing kind of hurt that slips into your chest and makes a home there.

 

Her eyes wandered. There were more people in the room than she’d initially realized—the head of the houses, to be exact. Professor Sprout, of course. Professor McGonagall, looking sharp and concerned. Professor Flitwick, perched upright and attentive. And then, naturally, Professor Snape, standing like a shadow that had materialized into a man, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

 

Her gaze lingered on him a moment longer than it should have.

 

And then, there were the students.

 

Four of them. All Gryffindors, by the look of their robes. Two seated, heads bowed like children awaiting judgment. The other two standing just behind their chairs, stiff and silent, their eyes avoiding hers. Guilt wafted off them like perfume.

 

Students. Plural.

 

They had pushed her. More than one.

 

She swallowed hard, the room growing too quiet and too loud all at once. When she’d agreed to speak to Dumbledore, she hadn’t imagined this. Not with the whole council of Hogwarts present. Not with her emotionally constipated father sitting stiff beside her. Not with four gryffindors standing like sheepish criminals. Darlina wished she could vanish into thin air. Or at the very least, sprout vines and sink into the floorboards like some overgrown herbology experiment.

 

But instead, she sat still. Heart racing. Shoulders square. Quiet dignity stitched into her every breath.

 

“Darlina,” Dumbledore greeted her with that familiar twinkle behind half-moon spectacles. She managed a hesitant smile—more muscle memory than anything heartfelt—but still, it counted.

 

“Do you recognize the students across from you?”

 

Darlina’s eyes flitted to the group seated just opposite her and her father. Four boys, all with the same sheepish, oh-dear-we-didn’t-mean-it expressions that they seemed to master. She blinked slowly and shook her head. “Uhm… no, Headmaster. I mean… they look vaguely familiar, but…”

 

A flash of a memory. Loud music, too many candles, alcohol, laughter. The party.

 

Ah. No. Definitely not saying that out loud.

 

“Splendid, dear.” Dumbledore’s smile deepened.

 

“Sorry to interrupt, Albus,” Bentley said, his tone dry enough to wither plants. “But can we get to the point? What consequences will these students face for pushing my daughter into a lake?”

 

My daughter.

 

Darlina turned her head slightly toward him, expression unreadable.

 

“Now, Bentley,” Dumbledore said, not unkindly, “we’ll get to that. But I’d like to hear both sides of the story first, as you well know.”

 

Bentley leaned back and nodded once. The sort of nod that might’ve meant ‘fair enough’ or ‘I’d rather be anywhere else.’ With him, who could say?

 

“As I was saying,” the headmaster continued, “these are Julius, Grey, Huang, and Irmak. All in your year, all in Gryffindor, as you may have guessed by their... distinctive aura.”

 

His eyes twinkled again, but only for a moment before his face sobered. “Now, Darlina, could you kindly tell us what you remember?”

 

And just like that, every pair of eyes in the room swiveled toward her. The pressure was sudden, like someone had drawn all the air from the room and replaced it with expectations.

 

Darlina glanced at her father—nope, too cold. McGonagall—stern. Flitwick—kind, but anxious. Snape—well, he was watching her like she was a particularly troubling potion. Interesting but liable to explode. She turned to Professor Sprout instead, her safe harbor in stormy staff meetings. Sprout gave her a little nod of encouragement, and it was that warmth she clung to as she took a breath.

 

“I was by the lake,” she began softly. “I was just... thinking. About everything. School, life, exams. Existential dread, maybe. You know, casual lake thoughts.” She gave a tiny, awkward laugh that died quickly in her throat. “Then I felt someone push me. I didn’t see who—it happened too fast. I didn’t have time to react. I remember the water, and then nothing. Just... cold. Then the infirmary.”

 

She gave a small, self-deprecating shrug. “Everything after drowning is blurry.”

 

“Thank you, Darlina,” Dumbledore said gently, before turning toward the Gryffindor boys. His twinkle had officially left the chat. “Now then. Gentlemen. Your version, if you please.”

 

The boy on the far right—tall, clearly the ringleader—cleared his throat. “We were, um… having a prank war. With my sister.”

 

Darlina blinked. Excuse me?

 

“She and I have this ongoing thing, and she’s always pulling something, and we were trying to get her back. It was—well, it was meant to be funny.”

 

“Darlina looked like her,” added the next boy, quickly. “From behind. Same hair length. Same body type.”

 

At this, a rather impolite snort cut through the tension like a misfired Cheering Charm.

 

“Sorry, that seemed rude,” Professor Sprout said, utterly unapologetic. “But they don’t look alike at all.”

 

The boys flinched.

 

“Yes, Professor,” one muttered. “We... we realize that now. But at the time, we were just acting fast. We thought—well—we thought it was her.”

 

“And the idea of pushing her into a lake didn’t raise any red flags?” McGonagall’s tone was frostier than the Forbidden Forest in January.

 

Another boy piped up, this one with shaggy hair and the haunted eyes of someone who’d been yelled at by McGonagall recently. “It wasn’t meant to be harmful. It was just a prank. We really didn’t mean for it to go that far. We didn’t even realize it wasn’t her until it was... too late.”

 

The final boy—Irmak, Darlina now remembered—spoke last. “We’re so sorry, Darlina. Really. We had no idea. It was careless and stupid, and we’ll do anything to make it right.”

 

Her father scoffed beside her.

 

It was quiet, but sharp. Darlina stiffened, her spine reacting before her mind could. Because truthfully? She was starting to feel sorry for these four Gryffindors. But what was she to do? They looked sincere—and terrified, which was always a nice bonus.

 

She sighed, the sound soft and barely audible.

 

Then came the silken, ice-laced voice. “Must we resort to Veritaserum, Headmaster? Just to ensure their... sincerity?” Snape stepped forward, his robes billowing.

 

Dumbledore shook his head with calm finality. “They’re telling the truth, Severus.”

 

Of course they were. Snape already knew. He’d combed through their minds like he was thumbing through a particularly boring copy of Witch Weekly. Predictable thoughts, no malicious intent—just teenage stupidity. A tale as old as time. Still, he would have liked very much to pour a vial of Veritaserum down their throats. Just for fun. Just to watch them twitch.

 

Bentley, who had been looming like a bespoke iceberg, finally spoke again.

 

“I would like to press charges,” he said.

 

Darlina’s eyes widened. She glanced between her father, the four Gryffindors, and then to Dumbledore, all within the span of sixty heartbeats per second. “Father—” she tried, a breath barely formed into syllables.

 

He ignored her.

 

“I do not approve of the idea that they are allowed to roam freely within this castle. Potential threats to my daughter’s safety,” he added, his voice a glacier that had never melted. “I want them expelled.”

 

“Now, now, Bentley,” Dumbledore started with the soft warning tone of someone who’d dealt with too many dramatic parents over the years. “That won’t do—”

 

Bentley lifted a brow, cool and polished as a courtroom objection. “Are you certain?”

 

Oh dear. He had that look. The one that reminded everyone in the room that he was the Minister of Magic. Which meant he could sneeze, and a small country would spontaneously combust if he so desired. Darlina cleared her throat. “Father, it’s... it was only a prank.” She turned to the Gryffindors. “Right?”

 

They nodded with the speed and enthusiasm of bobbleheads facing certain death.

 

Darlina swallowed. Her heart was hammering at her chest like it wanted to file for emancipation. But she pressed on—she had nearly drowned, after all. What was parental defiance compared to that?

 

“I—I don’t want to draw this out, Father. I don’t want to press charges. Please. Let’s just... let it go.”

 

Bentley turned in his seat slowly, fixing his eyes on her with the kind of coldness that made frostbite seem affectionate.

 

“Child,” he said. “You do not have a say in this. Understood?”

 

She shrank back into her seat, the embers of her rebellion snuffed out with a single word.

 

Perhaps not that brave, then.

 

Dumbledore cleared his throat gently. “Might I suggest a compromise?” he offered, his voice like warm tea on a rainy day. “A middle ground, if you will.”

 

And so began the Longest Hour in Hogwarts History, which mostly consisted of four boys sweating through their uniforms while professors took turns debating the ethical implications of prank warfare and the exact length of magical detention.

 

Eventually—blessedly—a verdict emerged.

 

The four Gryffindors would serve detention with Argus Filch for the remainder of their Hogwarts careers. When Bentley heard the name Filch, something in him shifted. Satisfaction, maybe. Or perhaps it was just indigestion.

 

Still, it was clear he considered that punishment adequate. Barely.

 

But he wasn’t finished.

 

He demanded that the boys’ prank be documented officially, etched into their records like a permanent footnote to haunt their job applications and blind dates alike. And he insisted they issue a public apology to Darlina in front of the entire student body.

 

Darlina tried to intervene. She really did. But every time she opened her mouth, her father and Professor Snape backed each other up.

 

She could feel it. Their alliance.

 

Eventually, the Gryffindors were dismissed, each of them stumbling out. Darlina thought that would be it—that she’d be allowed to leave, too. But then—surprisingly—her father paused beside her.

 

He reached out.

 

And awkwardly patted her shoulder.

 

Just once.

 

It was like being patted by a statue—emotionally confusing and deeply, deeply stiff. But still. Still. She smiled at the gesture.

 

“Goodbye, Father,” she murmured, her voice soft, sweet, and already distant.

 

She didn’t linger.

 

She touched the spot on her shoulder where his hand had been, as if sealing in the warmth of something almost tender.

 

Then she walked out of the room, leaving behind a minister, a potion master, and a headmaster—all of whom, she decided, could handle their mysterious whisper-conference without her.

 

 

 

 

🦢

Notes:

Our dear Darlina still doesn't know that she has been kissed by Snape! I mean, technically, it wasn't a kiss. But nonetheless, their lips touched so... WHATEVERRRR HAHAHAHA!!

Chapter 18: The Standoff of a Lady and a Bat

       HER FATHER HAD NEVER been a man of warm hugs or long conversations. Emotional availability? Missing in action since the cradle. But what he lacked in presence, he made up for in presents—lavish ones, no less. So, it wasn’t entirely shocking when a ministry owl fluttered into the Great Hall, nearly tripping over a golden, glittering package that sparkled.

 

Darlina didn’t need a card to know who it was from, though she checked it anyway out of habit (and a dash of hope that someone else might one day send her something just because). Of course, the label read Father, with that mechanical handwriting that could only belong to Pharrell.

 

She smiled warmly, placed a kiss on the owl’s head, and offered her a piece of toast—multigrain, because Darlina believed every creature deserved something nutritious. The owl, ever grateful, took off with a hoot that sounded like a very polite you’re welcome.

 

After finishing her lunch—toast, salad, and exactly one pumpkin tart because she was practicing "balanced living,” Darlina rose gracefully from the Hufflepuff table.

 

She was just slipping past the doors when—

 

“Oi, Lina!”

 

Michael strolled in, flanked by two mates. He opened his arms, and she walked right into them, catching his familiar scent. “How’s your day?” he murmured, planting a kiss on the crown of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

 

“Fine,” she said, and actually meant it.

 

Days had long passed since the incident. And though the faint memory lingered like a bad aftertaste, Professor Snape’s insistence that she drink that infernal potion had worked. Mostly. Her hands only trembled slightly now when she drank, and she had developed a habit of staring at the ceiling or counting floor tiles to distract herself from the feeling of liquid in her throat.

 

“What’s in the package?” Michael’s eyebrows danced. “Secret admirer? Mysterious suitor? A cursed artifact, perhaps?”

 

Darlina rolled her eyes and gave him a light shove. “It’s from my father, silly.”

 

“To be sure?” he teased.

 

She peeked at the card again, mostly for dramatic flair. “Yep. Father. Definitely him.”

 

“Uncle Bentley, huh? Alright then.” He scratched the back of his head like he didn’t quite trust rich men with ‘feelings.’

 

“Well—I’m off!” She stood on her tiptoes for a peck on his cheek, and he bent without hesitation. Then, with a little hop, she made her way to the dormitory.

 

Since it’s still lunch time, Darlina had the liberty to be alone in their huge dormitory. She opened the glittery package slowly, reverently, like it might contain moonlight.

 

Inside: chocolates (dark, expensive, and probably from somewhere pretentious like Belgium), a bouquet of lifelike enchanted flowers that swayed as if caught in a breeze only they could feel, and three exquisite dresses, all from a brand so posh it probably had fewer vowels than legally necessary.

 

Darlina didn’t care about the brand. But the dresses...

 

She chose one: a thing of wonder, spun in marigold and honeyed saffron. It clung to her like the memory of summer sun, the skirt swaying with every step like it had secrets to share. The ribbons at her shoulders fluttered in the breeze as if whispering promises to the air.

 

From behind, she looked like a painting too soft to frame.

 

Even the sunlight tilted in through the windows to get a better look.

 

Naturally, this was the exact moment the elves decided to stage a kitchen coup.

 

“Elven!” she giggled as a cloud of flour burst past her shoulder, dousing her golden dress in a ghostly powder.

 

“Miss Darlina Lourdes! Elven is most sorry—”

 

“Hep, hep! None of that,” she chirped, wagging a flour-covered finger. “Just call me Lina. Or Lils. Or Lee. Whatever feels right.”

 

Elven looked scandalized, as if she’d asked him to commit tax fraud. “But Elven would be disrespecting that of her master!”

 

“Oh no, no, no—absolutely not. There are no masters here. Just... two flour-covered kitchen warriors.” She smiled, soft and certain. “Now, could you show me that baking trick again? I swear I’ll actually follow the steps this time.”

 

Elven beamed as though he’d just been knighted. “Of course! Elven will teach Miss—err, Lina—Darlina. The pleasure is all Elven’s!”

 

“Oh Elven,” she chuckled, brushing a smudge of flour from his nose, “you’re too adorable.”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

After hours of flour warfare, sugar diplomacy, and at least two dramatic arguments with a sentient whisk, Darlina finally stood triumphant over four boxes of cupcakes—each packed into delicate, pastel-toned parcels she’d transfigured herself. She even tucked in tiny pressed flowers, charmed to never wilt, because of course she did. Gratitude, after all, deserved to be lovely.

 

Elven helped brush her down and clean her up—because looking like a disgruntled snowman made of icing sugar was, sadly, not a good look. Especially not when one’s final delivery involved a certain someone with a dungeon and a reputation.

 

Her first stop: the hospital wing.

 

Darlina didn’t particularly like hospitals. Too sterile. Too many smells she couldn’t name but all of them vaguely threatening. So she didn’t linger—but she stayed long enough to place the box into Madam Pomfrey’s surprised hands.

 

“Oh, my goodness—what’s this?” the matron exclaimed, eyes blinking behind her spectacles.

 

“Cupcakes,” Darlina smiled softly. “I just… thought you might like them.”

 

Pomfrey looked at her. “No student has ever given me cupcakes before,” she whispered, before promptly crushing Darlina into a hug that smelled faintly of antiseptic and motherly affection. “You sweet girl.”

 

As Darlina left, she made a silent vow to surprise Pomfrey with something nice at least once a month. It was criminal that people forgot about her.

 

Her second stop: Clementine.

 

As expected, she found him at the library, ensconced in his usual corner like a brooding academic goblin, scrolls laid out like offerings to the gods of GPA. His study group sat around him in hushed reverence, probably debating Arithmancy and their collective caffeine intake.

 

Without a word, Darlina crept up behind him, kissed his cheek, and plopped the box right onto his scroll.

 

Clementine didn’t even flinch. He didn’t need to. He just smiled, eyes still on his notes, and muttered, “Thanks, Lina.”

 

She vanished like a cupcake courier in the night.

 

A second later, one of his study mates raised an eyebrow. Clementine merely lifted the box like it explained the universe. “Cupcakes,” he said, and for once, his smile reached all the way to his tired eyes.

 

Target Three: the Quidditch pitch.

 

Darlina arrived just in time to witness what appeared to be organized chaos in midair. Bludgers zoomed like cursed cannonballs, chasers darted and dove, and she swore she saw someone nearly get decapitated by a rogue beater.

 

She settled on the bleachers, chin in palm, lulled by the wind and the whistling of brooms. She closed her eyes for what she promised herself would only be a minute—

 

A hand on her shoulder made her jump. Her first thought: poltergeist. Second thought: murder. Third thought—

 

“Oh. Michael.”

 

He grinned, windswept and smug, a halo of Quidditch sweat and boyish bravado radiating off him. She stood and shoved the box of cupcakes into his hands before he could ask. “Don’t ask,” she said. “Just accept the love offering.”

 

His brow quirked.

 

She huffed. “Take it or I’ll make Elven deliver them wearing a tutu.”

 

He smirked, slung an arm around her—and immediately got shoved back.

 

“I like hugs,” she whined, scrunching her nose, “but not when you smell like broomstick sweat.”

 

Michael barked a laugh and patted her head. “Thanks, Lina.”

 

She playfully scowled, swatting his hand. He just stuck out his tongue, because he was emotionally 15 and had no shame, and jogged back to his teammates.

 

Her final target was, regrettably, the most daunting one.

 

Professor Snape.

 

Godric help her.

 

It was ridiculous, truly. This was like being told to politely deliver a hug to a crocodile and hope for the best.

 

Dinner came and went, and Darlina was still there—frozen halfway between resolve and retreat. The cupcake box sat in her bag like it had teeth, and every time she glanced at it, she imagined it growling. Probably in his voice. Something like, “What in Merlin’s name is this, Miss Lourdes?”

 

She shivered. Or maybe it was just the draft.

 

As she stared blankly into the air—at nothing, at everything, at the Great Hall’s dancing candles and the way Michael was balancing a spoon on his nose—a soft thud beside her made her jump.

 

The same ministry owl had returned, elegant as ever, with another mysterious parcel tied to her leg.

 

Darlina blinked. “Oh— again?”

 

The owl blinked regally, as if to say yes, I work overtime, where’s my union, and accepted the biscuit Darlina offered with all the weary dignity of a career civil servant. She was seated at the Slytherin table—a lone badger in a forest of snakes—wedged between Clementine’s scrolls and Michael’s attempt to build a castle out of roast potatoes.

 

Michael’s eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. “Who’s that from? I thought Uncle Bentley already sent his package?”

 

She turned the tag over. “Oh,” she said softly.

 

“What?” Clementine leaned in, ever the curious cat.

 

“It’s from Pharell.”

 

A pause. A collective, synchronized: “Oh.”

 

It was that kind of oh.

 

“Well, open it!” Michael chirped, practically vibrating. “Come on, don’t leave us hanging!”

 

Darlina giggled and stuck her tongue out at him in a very mature act of protest, before carefully tearing open the paper. And then—she squealed.

 

Yes. Squealed. In a very unladylike, entirely unregulated way.

 

Because art supplies. New art supplies. With the special brushes she’d mentioned in passing once, and that brand of parchment that didn’t smudge when she painted with her fingers.

 

Before she knew it, she was tackling Clementine in a hug, nearly knocking over his goblet.

 

Michael craned his neck. “What is it, what’s she so—?”

 

“It’s everything!” she beamed, holding the box up like it contained the Ark of the Covenant.

 

Michael understood instantly. He gently picked up a brush, twirled it like a wand, and pointed it at Clementine. “Aguamenti!”

 

Clementine deadpanned, snatched up another brush, and returned fire. “Expelliarmus.”

 

“Boys,” Darlina muttered, shaking her head with a smile. “You’re both a walking disaster.”

 

Later that evening, her bed curtains were drawn around her like a stage, and the common room’s gossip hummed in the background, distant and unimportant. Her legs were curled beneath her, her back cushioned by a wall of pillows. A canvas rested against her knees, half-covered in paint. Swirls of sun and shadow bled across the page, framing the silhouette of someone she couldn’t quite name.

 

Maybe she didn’t need to.

 

Brushes were scattered around her like fallen soldiers. Her fingers were smudged with color. Her heart? Full.

 

She set the brush down gently, letting it rest atop a napkin. Then, instinctively—like a criminal—she reached for the last cupcake.

 

The cupcake that was never meant to be hers.

 

It was for Snape.

 

It was for Snape.

 

And yet.

 

And yet here she was, hiding behind drawn curtains, eating it in guilty little bites as if the sugar could make her bravery grow faster.

 

It didn’t. But it was delicious.

 

Michael and Clementine had been right—it was soft, buttery, with just the right hint of vanilla and lavender. A hug in cupcake form.

 

She sighed through her nose and finished the last bite, staring at the empty wrapper like it held all her regrets. Why was it so hard to give him something so simple? She just wanted to say thank you—for the way he’d helped.

 

But now, the cupcake was gone.  

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina didn’t need to ask Elven for help this time. No, not today. Because today, she would be baking something she could make blindfolded, upside down, and with Clementine reading Hogwarts: A History out loud beside her (which, frankly, had happened once).

 

Cheesecake.

 

The holy grail of comfort desserts.

 

She simply couldn’t sit still knowing she hadn’t given him anything yet. Not after everything. Not after she'd eaten the cupcake herself like a criminal with a sweet tooth and a guilty conscience.

 

Time slipped by gently. She hummed softly to herself, apron tied securely around her waist, sleeves pushed up, wand tucked behind one ear like a pencil. The kitchen elves—her beloved crew of chaotic, flour-dusted coworkers—were busy bustling about, though this time, they seemed to be gently nudging her a little farther away from their primary stations.

 

Not that she minded.

 

It gave her more room to vibe.

 

Elven, of course, came by at regular intervals, as though he was her personal sous-chef and emotionally invested in her culinary journey.

 

“Elven can help now, Miss Darlina Lourdes?” he asked for the fourth time, eyes wide, hands wringing anxiously.

 

“Oh, Elven,” she said with a soft laugh, “but then I wouldn’t be the one doing it. And this one’s important.”

 

Elven deflated a little but nodded solemnly.

 

The scent of vanilla and lemon zest filled the air as Darlina poured the smooth, rich filling into the crust-lined springform pan. She tapped it gently to remove air bubbles, lowered it into the water bath, and slid it into the oven like it was a sacred ritual. The kitchen’s heat wrapped around her like a thick blanket, and for a moment, she felt calm. Purposeful. Like maybe, just maybe, she was doing something brave in her own gentle way.

 

When the timer chimed and the cheesecake was finally done, she removed it with care. She placed it on a cooling rack and let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding.

 

“Elven?” she called gently, glancing around.

 

The elf popped into view at once, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Yes, Miss Darlina Lourdes? Elven is happy to serve you, miss!”

 

Darlina smiled—small, shy, but real. “Where might I refrigerate this, dear?”

 

“Oh, Elven will do it, Miss! Where shall it be left? How long? Does it require mood lighting? Lavender sprigs for ambience?” he added, practically vibrating with enthusiasm.

 

She giggled. “Overnight is fine. I’ll come by for it tomorrow morning.”

 

“Noted, Miss Darlina Lourdes!” Elven said proudly, puffing out his tiny chest like a general given a mission. “Elven will guard it with his life!”

 

“I’m counting on you, brave knight,” she said, mock-serious.

 

Then, leaning down, she whispered, “You’re so cute, Elven.”

 

The elf blushed—actually blushed—his ears turning a soft shade of pink as he hiccupped a nervous giggle.

 

She glanced at the time and winced. “Oh no. I’ve got class in, like, five minutes.” She quickly wiped her hands and untied her apron, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ll see you tomorrow, and probably the day after that too. Unless I burn something and you all ban me.”

 

“Never, Miss Darlina Lourdes! You are always welcome in Hogwarts kitchen!” he called after her with unrelenting cheer.

 

She gave him one last grateful look before hurrying off, the faint scent of vanilla clinging to her sleeves, and the smallest skip in her step.

 

She didn’t know if Snape even liked cheesecake.

 

But Merlin, she hoped he’d accept it.

 

Time had a funny way of speeding up when one was marching to one’s doom.

 

Or, in Darlina Lourdes’ case, when one was clutching a box of strawberry cheesecake with trembling hands and heading straight into the literal dungeons of Hogwarts to give it to Severus Snape.

 

Yes. That Severus Snape. Human scowl. Walking thundercloud. The man who once reduced a seventh-year to tears over a misused semicolon in a potion label.

 

And here she was. With a cheesecake.

 

She paused in front of his office door—the ancient, iron-clad thing that looked like it may or may not open directly into the mouth of a basilisk—and took a breath. She reached up, hand wobbling only a little, and knocked three times.

 

The voice that replied was as inviting as the Arctic. “Enter.”

 

She plastered a smile on her face, the same kind she gave to angry cats or owls. Pushing the door open with as little noise as humanly possible, she stepped into the room. “Good afternoon, Professor,” she said softly.

 

Snape didn’t reply immediately. He merely looked up just as she turned to close the door gently behind her, the box in her hands held like a peace offering to a warlord. When she looked back, his eyes were already on her—sharp, unreadable, and making her insides feel like pudding.

 

“It’s a nice day, isn’t it?” she offered weakly, gesturing to the window behind him—only to remember, too late, that said window looked out into the inky abyss of the Black Lake. The water pressed against the glass like a living thing, dark and unnervingly still.

 

The curtains swished closed before she could panic too obviously.

 

Snape’s eyebrow arched. “Miss Lourdes. What is it you require?”

 

Her brain briefly considered screaming. Or crying. Or teleporting. None of those were polite.

 

“I—actually—never mind,” she said quickly, doing a full mental 180 as the panic set in. “I’ll just… go. Pretend I was never here. In fact, erase this from your memory. Obliviate yourself if needed, I won't be offended—”

 

Click.

 

The door locked with an audible snap.

 

She blinked.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” Snape said slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose like she was already causing him a tension headache. “You’ve walked into my office. I think we’ve surpassed the point of pretending you were never here.”

 

She sighed in defeat and approached his desk, setting the box down with the care of someone placing a gift on an altar.

 

“I… made this,” she murmured. “It’s a strawberry cheesecake. I thought maybe… maybe you’d like it. As a thank-you.”

 

Snape looked at the box like it might bite him. Or worse—emotionally inconvenience him.

 

“Why?” he asked flatly.

 

“Because you saved my life?”

 

Snape nudged the box back toward her with one elegant, disapproving finger. “I don’t accept gifts from students.”

 

Darlina, however, smiled at him like the sun through fog, and shoved the pastel pink box an inch closer to his long-fingered hands. “Well, I don’t take ‘no’ from professors who save me from watery deaths, so.”

 

His eyes narrowed. “This is not a negotiation, Miss Lourdes.”

 

“Then it’s a surrender,” she shot back, lifting her chin. “Just take the cheesecake. Please.”

 

Their hands brushed as they both pushed the box in opposite directions—like some deeply dramatic, sugar-fueled duel. Darlina tried to keep her expression calm, dignified, and not like she was currently arm-wrestling her professor over dessert.

 

Snape’s scowl deepened.

 

Darlina only smiled sweetly. “Really, sir. It’s yours,”

 

His eyes narrowed further, if that was even physically possible. “Are you certain this isn’t poisoned?”

 

She stared at him, mouth slightly agape. “Poisoned? I baked it because you saved me from seeing the afterlife, not because I’m trying to off you. Do I look that mean to you?”

 

Snape didn’t answer. He simply set the box to the side and returned to scribbling something dark and important on a scroll. Darlina hovered, then sighed. “Do you really not eat during lunch, sir?”

 

He looked up again, slower this time. “That does not concern you.”

 

Which, naturally, made her more concerned.

 

She meandered toward the far corner of the room, where a slightly tilted painting hung beside shelves that were aggressively bookish. “Don’t touch those,” came the inevitable bark of her potions professor, not even looking up.

 

She huffed in reply. “I’m not going to touch them. I’m not a book person anyway.”

 

This earned a twitch from one of his eyebrows. A single, elegant twitch. Scandalized.

 

Her attention slid back to the painting, and she leaned in, squinting just enough to look adorably conspiratorial.

 

“Oh my goodness,” she breathed. “You own an artwork of Shiloh?”

 

Snape finally looked at her—with a gaze sharp as a well-cut garnet—and for a fleeting moment, something flickered there.

 

He nodded, curtly.

 

“Wow,” Darlina whispered, completely missing his stoicism because she was, as it turns out, bewitched by paint and shadow. “That’s amazing! I’ve been begging Pharell to bring home a Shiloh for ages, but he keeps losing every bidding. He says it’s because the wand-hand is faster than the galleon.”

 

Snape did not respond. Darlina took this in stride. The man probably used silence as currency. She turned back to the painting. It was a haunting piece—like most of Shiloh’s works, it didn’t feature people so much as feelings trapped in color. It made her feel like she was standing in a dream, or just outside one.

 

“My favorite is the one with the girl standing on the hill,” she murmured, almost to herself.

 

There was a long pause. She expected silence.

 

Instead: “Great choice.”

 

Her head whipped around so fast she almost gave herself whiplash. A compliment? From him?

 

She beamed, stars bursting behind her eyes.

 

“What about you, sir?” she asked, only a little breathless.

 

“The Den of Snakes,” he replied, and the way he said it, she wasn’t sure if he meant the painting or himself.

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

That painting.

 

She had seen it in a gallery once. It had been all shadows and scale, dripping with danger and something softer hidden underneath—like a serpent coiled around a candle.

 

“That only seemed natural,” she said quietly.

 

She might have said more—but a knock at the door interrupted her.

 

Snape looked up and waved his hand. The lock clicked open without wand or word. Darlina blinked.

 

Oh right. He locked her in. She almost forgot that part. Of course he did. It was Snape.

 

Another knock.

 

“Enter.”

 

Darlina smiled and gave him a wave. “See you around, Professor.”

 

He nodded, just barely—probably because he knew she wasn’t looking anymore.

 

The door creaked open, revealing Clementine flanked by two Slytherin prefects, all looking like they were about to attend a very polite duel. She beamed at her friend, resisted the intense urge to hug him in front of Snape, and quietly slipped out past them.

🦢

Notes:

damn he's just locking her in like that,,,

what more can he do? ;)))

JUST KIDDING. SEV IS GOOD HERE FRFR <333

Chapter 19: The Wish of Ground Opening

Notes:

I edited Chapter 18 (only the part where it was stated that weeks had passed since the incident. I turned it into days, all so that the timeline falls ever so perfectly!)

           DARLINA LOOKED LIKE A strawberry.

 

No, truly—if someone had plucked her from the soil, dipped her in nervous energy, and set her on the Hufflepuff bench, she would’ve been ripe for harvest. Her cheeks had bloomed into the most unflattering shade of crimson, all because the Gryffindors—yes, those Gryffindors: Julius, Grey, Huang, and Irmak—had just taken over Dumbledore’s podium.

 

You know, the podium. The one where award-winning levels of trauma are usually handed out alongside school announcements. Yeah, that one.

 

Each boy stepped forward like they were auditioning for Hogwarts’ Next Top Apologist, solemnly giving speeches that were clearly coached to sound heartfelt. Something-something about shame and learning their lesson and being better. Darlina tried to focus, she really did. But she couldn’t quite hear over the sound of her own heart galloping away. Her entire body had gone into “I-want-to-be-invisible” mode, and yet there she was—publicly acknowledged in the Great Hall, in the presence of what felt like every single eye at Hogwarts.

 

Even the ghosts looked interested.

 

And then—oh, then. One of the boys, the brave one apparently, approached the Hufflepuff table with all the reverence of a knight kneeling before a queen. He handed Darlina a single flower—one she was ninety-nine percent sure had been swiped straight from Professor Sprout’s greenhouse—and a heart-shaped box of chocolate.

 

Romantic in theory. In practice? Mortifying.

 

Darlina accepted both gifts with a graceless, wide-eyed blink and a nervous smile that probably read more like a grimace. “Th-thank you…” she whispered, barely audible.

 

The Hall went so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

 

For a second, it seemed like applause might follow. A single person clapped—probably a confused first-year. But then Dumbledore stood, all beard and benevolence, and the clapping died instantly. He launched into one of those speeches—something about the line between pranks and principles, eyes twinkling like he knew exactly how uncomfortable she was. Probably did.

 

Darlina, for her part, was half-convinced the floor was about to grant her wish and swallow her whole.

 

She would not have resisted.

 

But instead, with a clap of his ancient hands, the feast appeared—mercifully—and the hush turned into the familiar clinking of cutlery and hum of conversations. Darlina let out a breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding, hands still gently clutching the flower and the box of chocolate.

 

She ate quietly, her appetite returning in little fluttery bursts. The longer she stayed surrounded by her housemates and their usual blend of sarcasm and relentless teasing, the more her shoulders relaxed. Someone cracked a joke about Irmak's speech being so dull it might be weaponized, and Darlina almost giggled.

 

Almost.

 

She lingered a bit after finishing her meal, basking in the comforting Hufflepuff energy. That was, until a hand tapped her shoulder. Darlina turned, expecting another well-wisher or perhaps one of the flower boys, but instead—

 

“Clementine,” she sighed in relief.

 

Clementine stood, gesturing over his shoulder toward the exit where Michael was draped against the doorframe like he was modeling laziness for Witch Weekly. He raised a lazy hand and wiggled his fingers in a vague approximation of a wave. “We’re heading back to the dungeons,” Clementine said, and Darlina beamed.

 

“Okay. Good night!” she chirped.

 

But Clementine, traitor that he was, reached forward and ruffled her hair.

 

“Stop it!” she pouted, smoothing her hair with exaggerated offense.

 

He just grinned and pressed a brief kiss to the crown of her head. “Nighty night, Lils.”

 

She stuck her tongue out at him.

 

Still smiling, Darlina turned back toward her housemates. The bickering was still ongoing—about whose owl was smarter, whose hair potion had gone suspiciously missing, and whether or not someone was secretly dating a Ravenclaw.

 

So, really, just a normal Tuesday.

 

“Darlina,” a voice said, and she turned to find a girl her age sitting beside her.

 

“Are you and the Head Boy dating?”

 

Darlina blinked. “You mean… Clem?” She scrunched her nose. “No, no way.”

 

The girl practically vibrated with delight. “Oh, really? Huh. Sometimes it looks like you guys are.”

 

Darlina made a face. “Merlin, no. Never. He’s like my brother. Same with Mike.”

 

“Oh, thanks!” the girl grinned brightly. Darlina shook her head, smiling faintly. She looked at the flower again, then at the chocolate, then around at her bickering housemates.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

There was an undeniable bounce in Darlina’s steps as she go from the greenhouse to the dungeons. Her basket, the same one she’d been clutching these past few months swayed gently in her grip. Thanks to a Featherlight Charm, it felt lighter than ever.

 

But as she walked, her mind played its usual tricks. This time, it threw her that moment in the infirmary—Snape’s calloused hand tipping the potion to her lips, his voice low, firm. She could still feel the phantom pressure on her chin. Her face went from cheerful to cherry-tomato within seconds.

 

Merlin’s pants, what was she even thinking, saying she doesn’t want to drink his potions when not even a full week before that, she’d been begging him for a Peperrup Potion. A terrible lie, really.

 

“Past is past,” she muttered to herself, a mantra she clearly didn’t believe. The bounce in her step dimmed into a more contemplative shuffle. Eventually, she arrived at the door to the potions class. She knocked once—lightly—and peeked her head in, her body still hiding in the hallway like it was waiting for an invitation. As expected, the room was empty of students.

 

She wasn’t even surprised anymore.

 

From her very first month at Hogwarts, she’d clocked that Snape’s students tended to flee his classroom faster. No chatter, no loitering. Just poof—class over, souls cleansed, all in the blink of an eye.

 

At first, she’d understood. Snape could glare the color out of someone’s face when he wanted to. But these days? Well. He wasn’t that bad.

 

...Okay, maybe she was being biased because he’d complimented her cheesecake two weeks ago.

 

Yes, he did. Snape. The man, the caffeine-deprived dungeon bat. And ever since that unlikely culinary breakthrough, she’d decided he might just have a heart buried under all that black wool and disdain.

 

What’s so terrifying about a man that could appreciate her cheesecake, anyway? And really, she doesn’t feel afraid around the presence of another Shiloh admirer!

 

“Good day, Professor!” she chirped, stepping inside with so much enthusiasm.

 

Snape let out a sigh—audibly, dramatically. “I take it that’s the basket of ingredients I requested?”

 

“Oh, yeah.”

 

She dropped into her usual seat, resting her chin in her hand. “So, what are we doing today, sir?” she asked, batting her lashes without even meaning to. She was just genuinely curious. Maybe a little too curious.

 

Snape glanced at her over the rim of some poor student’s essay and gave a half-shake of his head. “A practical. No lecture.”

 

Darlina blinked. “No lecture?”

 

“I assigned the Black Fire Potion procedure. You were supposed to research it.”

 

“Oh, that!” she said

 

“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten, Miss Lourdes.” His tone was dry enough to spark a drought.

 

She grinned. “I already looked into it. Did it once with my private instructor. Didn’t blow up anything.”

 

His eyebrow twitched. “A miracle.”

 

Darlina leaned back slightly, content with the quiet that followed. There was only the scratching of his quill and the soft bubbling of her thoughts. If someone had told her amidst September that she’d be sitting in this classroom—alone with Professor Snape—and not suffering from heart palpitations, she would’ve giggle in their face. Or fainted. Probably both.

 

“Why are you staring, Miss Lourdes?” Snape asked, without looking up.

 

She blinked. “I can’t do anything else, really.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “You can start preparing the cauldrons.”

 

“Right,” she nodded, rising from her seat just as the classroom door creaked open.

 

Elias entered—her usual partner in Defense Against the Dark Arts, tall and blond and dramatic. He didn’t say anything, just flicked her a glance and drifted to the back like a ghost who was over it. Darlina offered him a quick smile, then turned back to the task. She reached for a cauldron, immediately groaning under its weight. Okay, maybe she’d underestimated the utility of repeating that Featherlight Charm again.

 

“You’re only tiring yourself, Miss Lourdes,” came Snape’s voice, like a crow perched on a bookshelf.

 

She squinted at him. “Really, sir? I’m following your instructions and you’re still scolding me? That’s emotional whiplash.”

 

With a final grunt, she hoisted the cauldron onto a desk and turned to fetch the next one—only to stop short.

 

All the remaining cauldrons were already floating in place, settled neatly along the desks.

She stared.

 

Then turned back toward the front of the room, raising a single eyebrow in perfect, practiced betrayal. “Really, sir?”

 

He didn’t even flinch. Didn’t even look at her. Just kept grading like her disbelief was background noise.

 

Darlina sat down again, shaking her head with a smile creeping across her lips.

 

Yeah. Not terrifying at all.

 

Students soon came trickling in like ants scurrying from a hexed picnic, and class began with its usual bang.

 

“Outstanding,” Snape said without fanfare.

 

Darlina beamed, a barely contained grin crawling across her lips. She turned to Clementine with a triumphant smirk and raised her hand. Clementine met it with a high-five so crisp it should’ve been graded too.

 

They always slay like that.

 

When the class finally ended, the room exhaled. Bags swung over shoulders. Chairs scraped.

 

“You’re staying behind again?” Clementine asked, eyeing Darlina, then glancing toward their professor, then back to Darlina.

 

“This would help me sleep at night, Clem.”

 

Clementine ruffled her hair fondly and departed without protest. He had long given up on diagnosing Darlina’s refusal to flee when Snape remained in the room. And truth be told, he trusted the professor—more than most—especially with Darlina.

 

The door shut with a quiet thud. They were alone again.

 

Snape didn’t tell her to leave. He never did. She’d started lingering weeks ago, like moss on stone, and he—true to form—never addressed the growing attachment unless it disrupted his grading. She talked, and talked, and talked, and he grunted, and scoffed, and occasionally contributed a syllable. Somehow, it worked.

 

She reached for a leftover vial when he cleared his throat. A sharp, purposeful sound.

 

Darlina glanced over her shoulder. “Yes, sir?”

 

“You do realize I could clean this entire room with one flick of my wand, don’t you?”

 

She blinked. Blinked again. “Really, professor, it’s been two weeks and you’re telling me now? Thank you for the truly innovative revelation. Honestly.”

 

Her tone was syrupy sweet—so sweet it practically came with cavities. But Snape, ever the sarcasm connoisseur, raised one unimpressed brow.

 

“Five points from Hufflepuff for that sass, little girl.”

 

Her jaw dropped. "Sir!" she gasped in faux betrayal, a hand flying to her chest like he’d just insulted her baking.

 

Snape said nothing. Just hummed. The man weaponized silence like others did wands. Still, she kept at it, wiping down the tables with the dedication of someone cleansing away a decade’s worth of sins.

 

“Really, sir,” she huffed, “I’m doing this without magic because a friend made me realize how valuable it is to do things the muggle way. There’s something beautiful about effort without shortcuts.”

 

She didn’t need to say it, but she was talking about Clementine. No one else in her life would philosophize about washing cauldrons with hands instead of incantations. Certainly not Michael.

 

Snape responded dryly. “We are not muggles, Miss Lourdes.”

 

She shot him a quick grin, still scrubbing. “Duh.”

 

His brows knitted like the beginning of a migraine.

 

“Would you like to repeat that?”

 

Absolutely not.

 

She straightened and continued, “Even though we can do magic, I think there’s value in doing things the slower way sometimes. Patience. Creativity. It’s humbling. And oddly satisfying. Like…” She paused. “Like you earned the result.”

 

Snape gave a tired shrug, the kind that somehow managed to look judgmental.

 

“Magic is part of who we are. It’s what sets us apart. If it makes our lives easier, we should wield it to its fullest.” He pointed lazily toward a table she hadn’t touched yet—and in an instant, it gleamed like it had never seen teenage hands.

 

Darlina turned slowly, dramatically, as if offended on behalf of the table. She gaped at him.

 

“That was kind of disrespectful,” she muttered, pouting as she turned away and sulked her way to the sink.

 

Snape, infuriatingly unbothered, replied, “Just setting an example. Don’t waste your time doing what can be done instantly.”

 

She scrubbed her hands and didn’t look back until she could safely compose her expression. When she did, there was a spark of something—playful, probing—in his gaze.

 

“Are you playing with me, professor?”

 

He smirked, the kind of smirk that probably had a body count. “Of course not, Miss Lourdes. Just testing the strength of your principles.”

 

She narrowed her eyes, trying to read through the riddle.

 

“So... you don’t think magic should be used for everything?”

 

“I think intent matters more than method,” he said simply. “It’s not about efficiency. It’s about knowing the weight of what you create. What you touch.”

 

Her breath caught a little—just a little—but she masked it with another smile. “You always sound like you’re reciting poetry backwards through a locked door. But I kind of like it.”

 

His smirk dropped like a curtain. The wall returned, neat and polished. There. The brief moment of softness was gone. Darlina didn’t seem surprised. She just shook her head and gathered her things.

 

“Well,” she said brightly, “see you, sir. My next class starts in a few.”

 

“Good,” he said, dry as desert parchment.

 

She laughed under her breath. She didn’t need warmth. His lack of complaint was warmth enough.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

One of the quickest ways to absolutely obliterate Darlina Lourdes’ mood—aside from running out of parchment mid-essay or getting called on in class while daydreaming about cinnamon rolls—was Defense Against the Dark Arts. Specifically, how it made her feel like a soggy sock of failure every time she left the room.

 

It was becoming tradition, really. DADA ends, Darlina sniffs, the sun cries a little in sympathy.

Today? No exception.

 

Today is worse.

 

She was currently latched onto Michael like a life raft, the two of them squished onto a stone bench in one of Hogwarts’ more hidden nooks—where centuries of students had carved initials, love confessions, and ‘Filch is a git’ into every available surface. The space was littered with mismatched tables and the last dregs of sunshine, and Darlina’s sniffling filled the silence like a sad little metronome.

 

Clementine stood across from them, looking like he was simultaneously plotting how to hex DADA out of existence and considering whether or not Darlina needed soup. Or therapy. Or both.

 

“I feel so stupid,” she hiccupped miserably.

 

“Don’t say that, Darlina Lourdes,” Clementine said at once, crouching in front of her. His eyebrows were furrowed.

 

“But I am!” Darlina wailed, curling into Michael’s robes. “Why can’t I just protect myself? Everyone else is doing it—and I didn’t even learn these spells from my old instructors!” she sniffled, lip wobbling. “What if I never catch up?”

 

Michael and Clementine exchanged a silent look over the top of her head.

 

“Lils,” Michael said gently, his hand landing on her shoulder with uncharacteristic softness, “none of that is your fault. Some professors just suck at making you feel like you’re doing enough.”

 

“She didn’t say he sucks,” Clementine muttered, frowning at the ground. “But I am thinking it loudly.”

 

Michael smiled faintly and pushed Darlina back just enough to see her blotchy, red face. Clementine handed over a handkerchief. Michael dabbed her cheeks with practiced ease, brushing strands of hair away from her forehead. “Look at me, Lina.”

 

She blinked up at him with watery eyes. “I feel like an idiot,” she laughed weakly, then sniffled again. “An idiot with snot.”

 

Michael smirked. “You’re not an idiot. You’re just… overwhelmed. Which is fair. DADA’s a battlefield, and not everyone starts off with armor. But you’ll get there. You’re tougher than you think.”

 

Darlina paused, eyes glassy, then whispered, “You really think so?”

 

“I swear it on my childhood broomstick.”

 

“…Your childhood broomstick’s broken.”

 

“Exactly. That’s how you know I mean it.”

 

Finally, finally, a reluctant smile cracked through her gloom. She reached out to hug him again, gentler this time, and Clementine let out a breath of relief so deep it probably reached his ancestors.

 

But alas—time waits for no meltdown.

 

Michael had to dash off to Divination, and Darlina and Clementine began their pilgrimage to the dungeons for Advanced Potions. Darlina walked tucked under Clementine’s arm, her steps slow, her eyes still puffy but her breath steady. Navigating the dungeon hallways didn’t scare her anymore—not like the first few weeks. Now she practically had the path memorized. It was almost comforting. Predictable. Cold and echoey in the way old spaces are when they’ve watched generations of anxious students walk through it.

 

Darlina and Clementine slid into the classroom, still attached at the hip. She slumped into her usual seat, pulling Clementine’s handkerchief from her pocket and honking into it as quietly as she could. Unfortunately, the room was quieter than a funeral.

 

Across the room, Darlina met the dark eyes of Professor Snape.

 

He was already seated, already watching, already looking at her as though he’d somehow heard every single sniffle from the hallway and filed it away for later analysis. His gaze was unreadable—

 

She gave him a tiny smile. Timid. Sheepish. A bit damp around the edges. Snape didn’t react. Not a blink. But he didn’t look away, either. Darlina ducked her head, suddenly shy, and pulled out her quill and scroll. She pretended to focus as though her entire life depended on this one piece of parchment.

 

Time, that rude little thing, swept by with the grace of a tidal wave. And just like that, class was dismissed. “You’re still staying?” Clementine asked, adjusting the strap of his satchel, a crease of concern knitting between his brows.

 

Darlina only smiled—soft and automatic. “It’s a habit now, Clem.”

 

He sighed, lingering like he might undo the whole class with a few good intentions. “It’s going to be okay, Lils. See you at dinner, yeah?”

 

She nodded. He kissed the top of her head like he always did, and then left, boots echoing against the stone floor, the door closing gently behind him. And then she was alone—well, not entirely.

 

She was halfway through tucking her scrolls and quill into her bag when she looked up and nearly screamed. Snape was standing directly in front of her table, arms crossed and eyebrows locked in a frown so deep it might qualify as a trench.

 

“Hello, sir,” she greeted, a little breathless, as though politeness might soften the tension in the air.

 

His eyes narrowed. “Why are your eyes like that?”

 

She blinked. “Like what, sir?”

 

“Red. Swollen.” He tilted his head. “Have you been crying?”

 

She felt it then—the way her soul turned itself inside out under his stare, as if it had never been taught to lie properly.

 

Was it really that obvious?

 

“I—” She stood, brushing invisible lint from her skirt, gaze dodging his like it might sting. “I wasn’t.”

 

He didn’t move. “Don’t lie to me.”

 

“Well, okay,” she muttered, eyes flicking up to meet his with just a flash of defiance. “I was. Are you happy now?”

 

He scowled. “Drop the sass, little girl.”

 

Her shoulders drooped. “Sorry,” she mumbled, already shuffling around the room to pick up abandoned parchment scraps.

 

Snape followed, of course, because his whole personality was structured around looming. “What are you crying about? Is someone bothering you?”

 

That, oddly, made her smile. Not a big one. Just a twitch of lips. The kind that said: Aw, you care?

 

“Why, sir? Are you going to give them detention?” Her tone was teasing. Barely.

 

He rolled his eyes, but didn’t deny it.

 

Of course, she couldn’t tell him the truth. That she was struggling, that the charms and theories and endless expectations were starting to knot themselves around her throat. That she was terrified of disappointing not just her professors, but her father, her own self.

 

“It’s nothing. Really.”

 

He didn’t buy it. Not even a little.

 

“Do you want me to report this to your father, Miss Lourdes?”

 

Ah, there it is. The nuclear option. Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide in a scandalized betrayal. “You wouldn’t dare.”

 

“Oh, trust me,” he said, the smirk practically audible, “I would.”

 

She scowled. It was a tiny, bratty thing. He looked far too smug.

 

Her father didn’t care if she cried; he’d care about her grades. And if her grades dipped even a hair below acceptable, she’d be on the next broom out of Hogwarts. She’d barely had time to fall in love with the place. She wasn’t ready to let it go.

 

“You remind me of an instructor I had once. Ex-Auror.” She said it like an accusation, turning her back on him as she tossed a crumpled paper into the bin.

 

“And your point?”

 

“No point. Just... observation. The similarity’s a bit spooky, actually.”

 

“You’re dodging the question, Miss Lourdes. That might work with others, but not with me.”

 

“I’m giving you free lore about my tragic, aristocratic homeschooling journey,” she sniffed dramatically. “You should be grateful.”

 

“No,” he said, voice flat.

 

“I’m telling you anyway,” she chirped.

 

She dropped the parchment into the bin and headed to the sink. “Each academic year, I had a new instructor. Different specialities, different backgrounds. Exciting, sure.” She glanced back to find him watching her—still. “I hated saying goodbye. Every time I got attached—poof, new tutor, new style, new set of expectations. I once tried to convince our butler Pharell to help me petition my father to keep one. Do you know what he said?”

 

Her voice was airy, but the ache sat beneath it, thin and quiet and real. She didn’t wait for a reply.

 

“‘I’m sorry, Lady Darlina.’ Every. Single. Time.” She imitated the butler’s posh tone with painful precision.

 

She wandered back to her table, shouldering her bag. “That’s why I’m grateful to be here. Hogwarts is different. The professors stay. There’s a system. A rhythm. It’s everything homeschooling wasn’t.”

 

There was something raw in that admission. Then she looked up, right into his eyes. “So please. Don’t tell my father. I swear I’m okay. No one’s bothering me. I’m just—” she paused, the words sticking, “—having a hard time over something.”

 

Her smile was small. Dimmed.

 

And Snape—dear, begrudging, terrifying Snape—nodded. Slow. Measured. Like he was agreeing to something he really, really shouldn’t.

 

And just like that, she exhaled.

🦢

Notes:

Yay! I could finally see the little-by-little progress. And unfortunately, my summer class will begin in a week or so. Which is a little heart breaking because I might vanished into thin air once again. But I swear, I will try to update whenever I can.

Chapter 20: The Theatrics of a "Debate"

             HER HAND TREMBLED SLIGHTLY—not quite a quake, more like a shiver, as she laid the final stroke on her long-overdue painting. This time, it was a flock of sheep. Just because. The “Twila” project had earned her a perfect score, and now this was her… victory lap. A fluffy encore in wool.

 

“You always manage to draw amazing things,” came a voice from behind. Darlina glanced over her shoulder and smiled. It was the same girl who’d complimented her “Twila” piece a month ago. The compliment still lived in her head rent-free. She set her brush down like it was holy, and turned sideways to face the girl. “Thank you! And you always manage to compliment me. Can I see what you’re painting?”

 

The girl shrugged, utterly unbothered. “Sure.”

 

Darlina stood, delicate as a deer in the rain, and padded over.

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

“This is so good!” she gasped. And it was—utterly stunning. A woman in a cascading dress that practically shimmered with motion, like it had a story to tell and a vendetta to enact. “Thank you, thank you.” The girl did a dramatic wave and a stage bow that had Darlina giggling behind her hand. And then, because conversations are rollercoasters... “Anyway, I just want to say out loud—my brother is a bloody dick. I refuse to call him my twin for his idiocies.”

 

That escalated quickly.

 

“Uhh, err—okay…” Darlina eased back onto her stool, still sideway. “Who’s your brother?” she asked, shy but curious, not ready to end their conversation just yet.

 

The girl made a theatrical choking gesture. “Does that ring a bell?”

 

Darlina tilted her head like a confused cat.

 

“Ugh, dang it. One of those dimwits who drowned you.”

 

“Oh… oh!” Darlina laughed, soft and surprised. “Which one?” she asked through a giggle.

 

“Julius. I’m Genevieve Itari, by the way. You’re Darlina, yeah?” She said it like she already knew the answer. Darlina flushed, one eyebrow lifting with delicate suspicion. “Uh… yeah.”

 

“Come on, girl. Don’t act so shocked. You’re already Hogwarts-famous. The ‘doll-faced, beautiful-as-fuck new girl,’ or ‘the one and only heir of the Lourdes family!’ Or—my personal fave—‘the girl who almost died by drowning.’ Honestly, you pick the title. Everyone in this castle has a theory or two.”

 

Right.

 

She had almost died.

 

Before she could fish out a response, Genevieve steamrolled ahead, “Anyway! I want to rewrite your opinion on Gryffindors. I mean, with my brother being a royal idiot and all, I wouldn’t blame you if red robes give you hives.”

 

Darlina looked at her and smiled gently, that quiet little curve of her lips that could melt glaciers. “Not really, no… I think you guys are tolerable,” she offered, a sheepish joke wrapped in sincerity.

 

Genevieve slapped a hand over her chest. “Ha! Tolerable? Darling, I am transcendent. Which is exactly why we should hang out. How does… now sound?”

 

Darlina blinked. “Uhm, now?”

 

“Yes, now. And the days that follow. There’s gonna be a partner project coming up, I feel it in my bones, and we’re gonna be the baddest art duo.”

 

Excitement fizzled in Darlina’s stomach. “…Why not?” she said, voice shy, but smile blooming.

 

Instead of her usual quiet pilgrimage to the greenhouse, Darlina found herself trailing behind Genevieve until they ended up sprawled across the soft grass of the Quidditch field. It was utterly deserted. Not a broomstick in sight. Just the two of them, the open sky, and the breeze tugging playfully at their hair.

 

Genevieve talked. And by Merlin, did she talk.

 

She threw shade at her brothers with the precision of a seasoned insult comic, complete with dramatic reenactments and indignant impressions that had Darlina wheezing. Apparently, Julius and his merry band of buffoons were responsible for half of Hogwarts' collective brain cell loss.

 

Darlina laughed—actual, belly-deep, real-girl laughter. The kind that spilled out before she could remember to be shy. It was startlingly easy, being around Genevieve. The girl radiated chaotic warmth like a sun with too many opinions. Somewhere between a story about Eve hexing a boy for telling her to "smile more" and a deep dive on which professors had the best ankles (don’t ask), Darlina found herself… yapping.

 

She talked. Like, really talked. About her classes. About the sheep painting. About how hard it was sometimes to be the girl people expected things from. And Eve listened with a smirk and the occasional gasp, interrupting only to say jokes. For once, Darlina didn’t feel like a porcelain figure people admired from a safe distance. She felt—well—like a person. Chatty. Messy. Fun. And perhaps Genevieve being a girl added an extra charm as well. Really, she loved Clementine and Michael but she longed for a company of a girl.

 

But as usual, time is cruel. When Eve started gathering her things, Darlina’s face fell like the last leaf of autumn. “This was so fun,” she said with an almost pout. Her voice was soft again, quiet in that way that made people lean in to listen.

 

Eve grinned. “Well, obviously. But this won’t be the last, dear girl. You’re not getting rid of me that easy.” She winked, slinging her bag over one shoulder.

 

“Nice finally getting to know you, Genevieve,” Darlina said sincerely.

 

Eve scoffed. “Ugh, no. Call me Eve. Only professors and disowned relatives call me Genevieve.”

 

Eve.

 

Why did that name sound so familiar?

 

Darlina blinked, brow creasing just slightly. But before the thought could form fully, Eve was waving with a final, exaggerated flourish. Darlina raised her hand in return, a soft smile playing on her lips.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“Do you think butterflies remember being caterpillars, or are they just winged strangers to their former squishy selves? Like magical amnesia but with more legs.”

 

Darlina posed the question with all the seriousness of a scholar while lounging in her usual seat—uninvited but apparently unbothered by that fact. She’d just finished tidying up the classroom, and with a whole hour until her next class and no incoming students yet, she lingered. As she often did. Like a stray sunbeam in Snape’s otherwise cloudy afternoon.

 

“There is no research to suggest that insects retain memory from their larval stages,” came Snape’s dry reply, eyes still scanning whatever he was grading with the kind of intensity one might reserve for decoding ancient curses.

 

“But imagine waking up with wings and suddenly everyone's expecting you to pollinate for a living? I’d sue.” Darlina grinned at her own absurdity.

 

This time, he glanced up. Briefly. A brow arched in quiet, reluctant amusement. “I would have thought you preferred them as butterflies rather than caterpillars.”

 

She perked up. “I mean, yes, their wings are pretty. But caterpillars are adorable! All squishy and wiggly and determined. They’re like little anxiety worms with goals.”

 

Snape hummed—a sound that could mean agreement or impending doom. Hard to tell with him.

 

She tilted her head. “What about you? Butterfly or caterpillar?”

 

“Neither.”

 

“Neither?” she repeated, scandalized. “Professor, are you telling me you have no opinion about this incredibly important matter?”

 

He exhaled slowly, as if debating whether to vanish her on the spot. “If I must choose,” he muttered, “then caterpillar.”

 

Darlina’s eyes widened, pleased. “Really? I knew you had a soft spot for the squishy ones.”

 

“I do not.”

 

“You do. That was almost affectionate. Don’t worry, I won’t tell.”

 

He ignored her, dipping his quill into ink. She watched him, chin in hand, eyes twinkling. “My friends think it’s weird that I like caterpillars. But they’re cute! I learned all about metamorphosis in first year, and I’ve been obsessed ever since. Did you know their legs—”

 

She launched into a babble of facts, and to his credit, Snape didn’t interrupt. Just continued grading papers, the scratch of his quill a steady background to her ramble. Then, when she finally paused to breathe, he said softly: “Butterfly.”

 

Darlina blinked. “Wait—you're switching teams?”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“But why?”

 

He looked up again. There was something unreadable in his gaze. “Because it's the adult stage. It flies. And its sustenance—its energy source—is flowers. Delicate. Complex.” A beat. “Charming. Like you, Miss Lourdes, butterflies seem to prefer flowers.”

 

Her face went up in flames.

 

She stared at him, then away, then back again with the kind of wide-eyed disbelief. “How’d you—how’d you know I like flowers?”

 

Snape gave her a look. One that said Really? without needing to say anything at all.

 

“…Is it that obvious?” she asked sheepishly, already knowing the answer.

 

“Yes,” he said with a roll of his eyes that was far too rehearsed to be truly annoyed.

 

Darlina grinned, still pink. “Well anyway… caterpillars are basically the coming-of-age era. And let’s be real—adulthood is overrated.”

 

Before he could reply with a sarcastic remark about "adulthood not being optional, unfortunately", the classroom door creaked open, slicing through the soft moment like a guillotine. The first of his next class had arrived. Just like that, his face closed off. The shutters slammed down. The warm flicker in his eyes vanished beneath a cool, practiced mask. Darlina stood, slowly gathering her things. Just before she left, she turned. Lifted a hand. Waved. “Bye, Professor,” she murmured. He gave her a curt nod. But for a second—only a second—his gaze lingered just a moment too long.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina yawned as she drifted down the corridor, like a dream still clinging to sleep. The world felt soft around the edges. Her steps were slow, careful—as though each one might set off some unseen spell. She smiled shyly as she passed a few fellow students, her gaze brushing theirs like a feather. The Great Hall loomed just ahead, the familiar hum of student chatter blooming louder with every step.

 

Today was good. Softly good. Bouncy good. The kind of good that felt like walking barefoot on warm grass.

 

And then—bam.

 

A tug.

 

No, a snatch.

 

A hand wrapped around her wrist, a shoulder bumped hers, and suddenly she was being dragged—very literally—around the corner. “Wha—?!” Darlina squeaked, feet stuttering to catch up.

 

Of course. Of course. It was Genevieve—Eve. Eve shot her a grin over her shoulder, that trademark spark in her gaze. “You looked like you were on your way to a funeral, not dinner.”

 

“I was walking,” Darlina protested feebly, nearly tripping on the flagstones. “Some of us enjoy… leisure.”

 

“You can leisure after food.” Eve slowed as they approached the Great Hall’s grand doors, but her fingers stayed laced around Darlina’s wrist—gentle now, like an anchor, not a leash.

 

They glided toward the Gryffindor table. “You’re sitting with us today. Deal with it.” Eve said breezily, already guiding her toward an open spot. Darlina hesitated for half a second, scanning the crowd for her usual crowd—Clementine and Michael were nowhere to be found. She turned back to Eve, who was already half-seated and expectant.

 

“…Okay,” Darlina said, because the alternative was arguing with a girl who once verbally fought a centaur over feminism. She slid onto the bench beside her. Eve immediately threw an arm around her shoulders like they’d been best friends for years and this was just a normal Tuesday.

 

“Everyone, this is Darlina Lourdes,” Eve announced, all teeth and confidence. “But let’s not pretend you don’t know that already.”

 

Darlina gave a small, sheepish wave. “H-Hello.” She might’ve whispered it. An owl hooting three towers away was probably louder.

 

“You’re so cute,” Eve cooed, shaking her gently by the shoulder. “Honestly, I wish you were in Gryffindor. We could’ve taken over the world.”

 

Darlina laughed under her breath, her cheeks pink. “I think the world’s already afraid of you.”

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

 

Before she could respond, another voice piped up from across the table. “So… how was it?”

 

Darlina blinked. “Pardon?”

 

“The homeschooling thing. What was it like?” The girl asking had warm eyes and a curious tone—not unkind, just blunt. Eve rolled her eyes and leaned forward. “Maybe try asking if she’s comfortable sharing, Rhoanne?”

 

“Oh! Right,” Rhoanne winced, looking like someone who’d just stepped on a cat. “Sorry. That was rude. If you don’t mind sharing, Darlina?”

 

Darlina glanced at Eve, then tucked a stray curl behind her ear. Her voice came out soft, “Erm… it was good. For me, I think it was good...” Her voice trailed off, words fluttering away like moths. Inside her head, she scolded herself. What was that? Where was the chatty little storyteller that wouldn’t shut up until 2 a.m.?

 

Probably still napping.

 

Rhoanne leaned in, elbows propped on the table like this was a fireside tale, and not, you know, Darlina's actual life. To Darlina’s horror, others at the table mirrored her curiosity—shoulders turning subtly, eyes flicking her way with that particular glint that meant she was now the moment.

 

Darlina shrank a little in her seat, blushing so hard she felt her ears burn. “U-Um… I had private instructors every year,” she said softly. “I think the subjects are mostly similar to Hogwarts. But I didn’t—uh—I wasn’t taught Defence Against the Dark Arts. That one’s… new to me.”

 

There were several thoughtful nods, and then—

 

“Oh, wow! That sounds fancy. Private tutors? So they just… focused on you?”

 

“Honestly? That explains why you're so good, Darlina.”

 

“Right?! I heard you’re basically a Herbology prodigy. I can barely keep a succulent alive, and here you are, flirting with mandrakes.”

 

“I’m not flirting with—” Darlina started, before realizing it was a joke. Sort of. She gave a nervous laugh. “I mean—I just like nature. And practice a lot. It’s really not—”

 

“And she’s humble! Iconic. We stan.”

 

Darlina’s face went from peach-pink to full strawberry red. She opened her mouth to deflect, but Eve stepped in with a theatrical sigh and a dismissive flap of her hand.

 

“Okay, enough, you lot. You’re swarming her. She’s going to turn into a tomato if you don’t chill.”

 

Cue a ripple of chuckles. The tension eased. The group began turning back to their own conversations, satisfied for now. But Rhoanne remained facing her, smile soft and eyes still curious.

 

“How’s Hogwarts treating you so far?” she asked. That question—so casual, so simple—made something warm and fluttery bloom in Darlina’s chest. She straightened slightly, her earlier panic ebbing away. “Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, eyes alight. “It’s just… a brilliant place. The staff are amazing, and there’s such a lovely variety of people here. And the moving stairs!”

 

Rhoanne laughed. “That’s really good to hear. You know, my dad actually works with your father. At the Ministry.”

 

Darlina’s smile faltered, just a breath. It wasn’t visible unless you were looking too closely—which, of course, Eve was. “Oh,” she said, and her voice hitched ever-so-slightly. “That’s… nice.” There was a beat of awkward air—Rhoanne looking like she might follow that up with some question involving Ministry gossip or politics or Merlin-forbid funding initiatives—but Eve cut in with surgical timing.

 

“So, Darlina,” she said, sweet and loud and full of artificial brightness, “what should we paint for our next project?”

 

The redirection was so blatant, it deserved applause.

 

Darlina turned to her with a grateful blink. “Oh—uh. Is there a theme?”

 

“Well—

 

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” came a voice.

 

Darlina looked up—and oh. Oh no. It was one of them. Julius Itari—Genevieve’s twin, the chaos half of their sibling sandwich. “Why are you here?” Eve snapped before Darlina could even conjure up a polite, horrified expression. Her scowl could’ve peeled wallpaper.

 

“What? We’re Gryffindors too, you know,” Julius said, grin lazy as he plopped himself across from them with all the grace of a cat knocking over a glass just to watch it fall. “Rhoanne, if you’d be so kind—?” Rhoanne sighed, but slid over obligingly. Of course she did. No one resisted Julius for long. Except Eve. Eve was the resistance.

 

“Really, Eve,” came another voice—cheerful, dramatic, and fabulously exasperated—“why’d you drag the poor girl here? Into the lion’s den?” That was Huang. Darlina recognized him instantly—because of course he stood out. Huang Rederson was bright, brilliant, and proudly queer. He spoke like every sentence was a performance, and he had a way of sitting like the world owed him applause. He squeezed himself between Julius and Rhoanne with a practiced elegance that made it look like a throne had been waiting there all along.

 

“Nice to formally meet you, dear Darlina,” Huang said, turning to her with a dazzling smile and a gentle wink. “We’re, uh… very sorry about the, you know…” He gestured vaguely, water-motiony.

 

“Oh—erm, it’s fine…” Darlina mumbled, her eyes darting to Eve like they were trying to escape her face and hide in Eve’s hair. Eve caught the look, sighed in solidarity, and turned on her brother with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm.

 

“Move,” she said, with the tone of someone who absolutely would curse a sibling’s hair off if pushed far enough.

 

“We’re already here. Might as well have fun,” Julius said, grinning.

 

“Oh Merlin, you’re allergic to shame,” Eve muttered, just as another tall figure passed nearby. “Grey! Knock some sense into your friend’s thick head, will you?”

 

Grey Yildiz paused mid-step, dark eyes glinting with deadpan amusement. “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. With the amount of times uncle has dropped him in the head as a baby, there’s simply nothing left to salvage,” Grey finished smoothly, then kept walking, like he hadn't just verbally tossed Julius into the fireplace.

 

“What’s going on now?” came a new voice, this time behind them. Darlina turned and promptly made eye contact with him—Irmak. The boy who’d handed her the flower and the little box. The one with the prefect badge and the neat robes. She looked away so fast she nearly sprained her neck.

 

“Oh, Irmak,” Eve groaned, immediately stepping into her role as Anti-Boy Ambassador. “Your friends are being annoying again. Could you do us all a favour and drag them back to wherever it is you keep them when they’re not terrorising girls?”

 

“Hey!” Huang’s voice cut in. “I’m not even half as annoying as Julius! I bring charm to this group. Let me stay!”

 

“You bring gossip,” Eve countered.

 

“Exactly,” Huang sniffed. “Flavour.”

 

But Irmak was already sighing with the weariness of a boy who’d probably had to break up three pranks and confiscate a cursed kazoo before breakfast. “Julius. Huang. Come on.”

 

“Uhm… I think it’s okay,” Darlina said gently, a pink flush blooming on her cheeks. “I don’t want to cause trouble.”

 

“See? Dear Darlina thinks it’s fine.” Julius folded his arms smugly. “Let us exist in peace.”

They stayed seated.

 

Eve rolled her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t fall out of her head. “Fine.”

 

With the boys appeased and (mostly) quiet, Darlina and Eve started tossing around ideas for their group painting. Then the feast began, in a flurry of clinks and scents and floating candles swaying like lazy dancers overhead. As the others dove into food and conversation, Darlina leaned toward Eve. “Uhm… I prefer not to talk while eating. Is that… okay?” she asked quietly.

 

Eve blinked at her, a slice of pumpkin tart halfway to her mouth. “Why?”

 

Oh.

 

No one had asked her that before. Usually, they just… let her be. Like her housemates did. “It’s a force of habit,” she murmured, eyes downcast.

 

Eve gave a thoughtful little nod. “That’s fine. I don’t mind.” She went back to her tart like it was no big deal. Darlina began eating, slow and careful. But her hands, always traitors to her nerves, still trembled slightly as she picked up her goblet, she could feel it—the way her fingers quivered just so. So she looked up. Around the Great Hall. Let her gaze drift, wander, cling to anything that could ground her.

 

She could hear Julius and Eve bickering in the background, could hear Huang’s laughter—so bright it could probably be seen from space—but it all faded into a low buzz when her eyes met someone else’s.

 

Professor Snape.

 

He was looking at her. Directly. Unflinching. Steady. He didn’t look away. And neither did she. Not right away. Darlina took a slow sip of water, lips brushing the rim of her goblet. Then, ever so slightly, she smiled. A small one. Just for him. Then she looked back down and finished her meal.

 

Every time Huang tried to pull her into their chatter, she’d offer a polite smile, and Eve would intercept. And when Darlina finally pushed her plate forward, dabbing her lips with a neatly folded handkerchief, Julius cleared his throat.

 

“Did you know you’ve been kissed by Professor Snape?”

 

The table went silent. Huang’s eyes bulged. “Julius!”

 

“What?” Julius shrugged, utterly unrepentant. “It’s intriguing.”

 

Darlina stared at him, hand slowly lowering from her. Her expression teetered somewhere between disbelief and existential crisis. “What the fuck was that, Julius?” Eve looked genuinely appalled.

 

“He was probably talking about that CPR thing,” Huang mumbled, trying to untangle the chaos like a one-man PR team. “Irmak mentioned it. It’s a medical procedure, Julius. Not a kiss, you absolute twit.”

 

He elbowed Julius in the ribs for good measure. Then Huang turned to Darlina, softer now. “It’s not a kiss, Darlina. Honestly. This dude’s just a drama queen. Professor Snape saved you. And look, I don’t even like the man, but credit where it’s due, yeah? He saved your life.”

 

Darlina didn’t say anything. Her knuckles whitened around her neatly folded handkerchief.

 

Kiss? CPR? What…?

 

Julius, forever the devil’s court jester, scoffed. “He could’ve just used Anapneo. I will die on that hill.”

 

“But he didn’t,” Huang replied. “And we’re not in Azkaban. Let’s maybe not complain when someone’s lungs aren’t filled with lakewater.”

 

“It was safer—he should have used—”

 

“Oh, Merlin,” Eve cut in, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Can’t believe I’m about to defend Professor Snape of all people. But if it was so simple, Julius, why didn’t you do it? You were there too, weren’t you?”

 

“I was panicking!”

 

“Well, so was he!” Huang argued. “It’s not like Hogwarts gets a drowning student every Tuesday!”

 

Julius huffed, slouched in his seat. “Yeah, whatever. Hero complex.”

 

And all the while, Darlina had drifted. She could still hear them, their voices dancing around her like feathers on a breeze, but she wasn’t really in the room anymore. Not fully. Her hand twitched with the urge to brush her fingers across her lips. Gently. Quietly. Like she could pull the memory out through her skin and make sense of it. CPR…? It was a new word. A foreign one. She tucked it away like she did most unfamiliar things — quietly, for later.

 

They were still talking. The topic had shifted again, thank Merlin. Something about someone’s eyebrows and an unfortunate brewing mishap. She wasn’t sure. She didn’t ask.

She couldn’t. Not when the idea of hearing the word “kiss” again made her want to sink beneath the stone floors of the Great Hall and never resurface. Her gaze lifted, almost involuntarily, toward the staff table. And there he was. His presence was like a full stop at the end of a page—final, unreadable, inevitable.

 

She looked away too fast, blinking down at her empty goblet, suddenly very, very interested in the water droplets clinging to the rim. She sighed softly, tucking her handkerchief back into her robes. Her heart had not gotten the memo to calm down.

 

A hand landed on her shoulder and she flinched, breath catching like a hiccup in her chest.

“Woah there—hey, it’s just me.”

 

“Oh, Mike,” she exhaled, turning to him with a soft smile that bloomed like a reflex. “You startled me.”

 

“Yeah, well, we were looking for you earlier.” He blinked, surveying the table like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. “And well, turns out...you’re here.”

 

Mike’s eyes landed on Julius, and his jaw did that subtle clench—not aggressive, but definitely not fond. “Itari,” he muttered, with a nod so sharp it could slice through paper.

 

“I’m with a friend,” Darlina interjected gently, tilting her head toward Eve, who raised an eyebrow in dry amusement. It was only then that Michael seemed to registered her. His shoulders dropped half an inch. “Oh. Hello.”

 

“Do you want to come with us?” he asked, “We’re gonna walk outside a bit. Breathe air. Pretend we’re not stuck in a giant magic boarding school.”

 

“Of course!” Darlina beamed, turning to Eve with grin. “See you tomorrow?” Eve only waved her off. Darlina stood, curling her arm around Michael’s. He immediately launched into a dramatic retelling of some bet he’d lost to a fourth-year over exploding snap. As they walked through the corridors, voices fading into the hum of the castle, Clementine slipped into step beside her like a ghost in tidy shoes.

 

“There you are,” he murmured, fingers briefly tousling Darlina’s hair.

 

Darlina gasped, swatted at him. “Clem!”

 

Outside, the world was soaked in moonlight—the kind of silver that softened even Hogwarts’ harsh edges. They walked slowly, conversations overlapping, sometimes chaotic, sometimes quiet. There were half-hearted arguments about Quidditch scores, hypothetical magical creatures, and who would win in a duel between a gorilla and a hundred muggles. It wasn’t until they’d walked far enough for the world to go still, far enough that laughter had dissolved into soft, thoughtful breaths, that Darlina found the courage to ask.

 

“Do you guys know what a CPR is?”

 

Michael blinked. “CPR? Nah. Sounds like a place. Like, I dunno. A fancy wizard bar?”

 

Darlina let out a small breath, half-laugh, half-sigh. “I don’t know either, but…” She trailed off. Didn’t finish. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, didn’t want to. They didn’t press.

 

Silence settled over them like a blanket.

 

“It sounds familiar,” Clementine mused later, brows furrowing. “Hang on, it’s on the tip of my tongue...”

 

“It’s okay if you guys don’t know—

 

“Oh!” Clementine gasped.

 

Darlina flinched slightly. “What?”

 

“Sorry, Lils. Got excited over there.” Clementine looked almost guilty for interrupting. Almost. “It’s a medical procedure. We learned about it in Muggle Studies. You’re supposed to place your hands against someone’s chest—really firm and fast—and then, um, give two rescue breaths after every thirty compressions.”

 

Darlina blinked. “Compressions?”

 

“Yes. Chest compressions.” Clementine mimicked the motion, unintentionally slapping the air between them. “Like this. It keeps their heart going, or gets it beating again, if it’s stopped. Muggles do it all the time. It saves lives. Why? Why are you asking this?”

 

“Nothing,” Darlina said quickly, tucking hair behind her ear. “Just…heard it somewhere.”

 

Rescue breath.

 

Her face heated, which was rude of her face, really, because she hadn’t given it permission to act that suspiciously.

 

“Really, Lils?”

 

“Really,” Darlina muttered, but her voice came out half an octave too high.

 

Then, like someone had just set off a very inconvenient spark inside him, Clementine tilted his head. “Wait.” His eyes narrowed. “Was that how you were saved?”

 

“No!” Darlina practically squeaked, cheeks blooming red.

 

“Oh, Merlin, this is bad,” he groaned dramatically, throwing his head back. “It’s okay, Darlina.”

 

He knows her too well.

 

“Clem—”

 

“Who gave you the CPR?” he asked, completely ignoring her panic. “Was it one of those Gryffindors? Did someone say something? Did they mention it? Was there tongue involved?”

 

“Oh my god, stop!” Darlina clutched her hands over her ears. “You ask too many questions.”

 

“What’s going on?” Michael finally spoke, then casually, so casually, handed her a flower like this was a romantic comedy and he was the golden retriever love interest. She frowned, inspecting the delicate violet bloom. “Where did you even get this?”

 

“Magic.” He grinned, stuck out his tongue. “Well? What’s going on?”

 

“Darlina probably thinks she’s been…kissed,” Clementine announced flatly.

 

“What?” Michael’s voice cracked. “Kissed? Why?”

 

Clementine briefly explained CPR once again, then...“And rescue breaths are, well…” he gestured vaguely, “…mouth-to-mouth.”

 

Michael's eyes widened. “Well, she’s here. Alive. Breathing. Wait—wasn’t it Snape who saved you?”

 

Darlina buried her face in her hands. “Gosh, I don’t know, okay? Yes. Julius said he did. He said Snape did… that CPR thing.”

 

Clementine paled slightly. Right. It was Snape that levitated her that day—it is safe to assume he was also the one that performed the CPR. And Michael? Michael just blinked. “It’s a medical procedure, right?” he asked, looking at Clementine like please, reassure me. Clementine nodded slowly, then more surely. “Oh, yeah. Yeah, it is. It’s entirely normal. Just basic Muggle first aid.”

 

“See?” Michael said, already trying to stitch the moment back together. “Totally fine. Very unromantic. No tongues. Just CPR.”

 

“Erm. Yeah,” Darlina said, lowering her hands just enough to peek out, “I was just… curious, I guess. And, well… it’s Professor Snape. He saved me. So. There’s that.”

 

She wasn’t sure if she said it to convince them, or herself.

 

That night, in the quiet of her room, with the soft glow of the lamp painting everything gold and secretive, Darlina lay curled on her side. The air hummed with the kind of silence that makes you think too loudly. She stared at the ceiling, then slowly, shyly, touched her lips.

 

Just barely.

 

She told herself it was nothing. A rescue. A procedure. A necessity. But then—why did her chest flutter like wings against a ribcage? Why did her cheeks feel warm at the memory of his hand on her waist, steadying her? Why did she remember the way his dark eyes didn’t just look at her—they lingered, like they had every reason to stay?

 

She told herself not to. Over and over again. You can’t think about this. He’s your professor.

 

But her heart was a hopeless, shameless little brat. And her thoughts? They tiptoed where they shouldn’t. They whispered things like, What if he had meant it? What if it wasn’t just CPR? Which was absurd. Of course it was absurd.

 

And yet… His hand had touched her jaw so gently, hadn’t it? His voice, usually so coarse and clipped, had softened just for her. Just that once. He had held her—tightly, protectively—and maybe she imagined it, but there was something in the way his fingers pressed against her like he didn’t want to let go.

 

Or maybe she was just romanticizing it too much.

 

She closed her eyes and breathed deep, hoping to smother the ache in her chest with logic. It wasn’t a kiss. It wasn’t even romantic. It was medical.

 

Still, her fingertips hovered over her mouth again, just briefly. And she smiled. Just a little. As if her hand was his. Which was ridiculous. Borderline delusional. She sat up abruptly, heat rushing to her face. “Oh, Merlin, I need to get a grip,” she whispered to herself.

 

Because—no.

 

No.

 

She wouldn’t think about it like that. She couldn’t. He was her professor. And these past few weeks, he had slowly, grudgingly, almost imperceptibly let her into that fortress he called a heart. Not all the way in—but enough for her to feel like they were something.

 

Not lovers.

 

Not even quite friends.

 

But something.

 

And to her, something meant everything.

 

She wouldn’t ruin it. Not for the silly, starry-eyed notion of a fairytale kiss. It wasn’t like Sleeping Beauty, for goodness’ sake. There was no enchanted castle—oh, well, there is—but there is no curse, no valiant prince with a chiseled jaw. Just a cold grass. A dying girl. A reluctant professor with calloused hands and sharp eyes and—okay, maybe a chiseled jaw, but that wasn’t the point.

 

It wasn’t a kiss.

 

Her first kiss would be hers to choose. Hers to want. Hers to feel butterflies for.

 

And it most certainly wouldn’t be with Professor Severus Snape.

 

 

🦢

Notes:

“Charming. Like you, Miss Lourdes." I could have ended that sentence there but it's too early for Severus to show his rizz.

"No valiant prince," are you sure, maem? He's literally a Prince. But whatever...

Darlina surely is one heck of a girl. If my ancient professor gave me a mouth-to-mouth, I would totally just throw myself over a bridge, thank you very much. And it's funny how she's overthinking their "memories" when it's just SURFACE LEVEL instances. Girl, you're not even in the depths of it. But who could blame her, really? We all had this little silly perplexing feelings that makes us delusional as fuck. Live laugh love Darlina, really.

[Please pray for my soul, my summer class is around the corner and I want to scream and cry because it is an equivalent to waving goodbye to my precious free hours. Sigh. What a life.]

Chapter 21: The Salve of Warm Comfort

Notes:

Uhhh... beware of the angst and a little bit of Snape's controlling side.

           SHE PLACED THE BASKET by the table near the fireplace. Yesterday had been… bizarre. One of those days you file away in your memory with a note that says, “What even was that?”

 

But Darlina was nothing if not determined—well, she tried to be—and today, she was determined not to act weird around him.

 

A noble goal. Admirable. Utterly doomed.

 

He’s ancient, he’s ancient, he’s ancient, she whispered. He wasn’t, not really, but the mantra helped. As though a verbal garlic necklace against inappropriate thoughts.

 

The chair beside the fireplace had become a familiar refuge. Snape wasn’t in his office. But the door hadn’t been locked, and frankly, if he didn’t want people inside, maybe he should try being less enigmatic and more explicit. As usual, she'd made herself at home—well, as much as one could in the personal lair of Hogwarts’ resident dungeon bat. The cold had set in like an unwanted houseguest, and Darlina knew the fireplace offered more than warmth.

 

She lowered herself into the wingback chair and tugged off her shoes gently. Afterwards, she tucked her legs under her thighs, a cozy little pretzel of a person. The fire crackled merrily as she rested her cheek against the plush back of the chair, watching the flames dance like tiny dragons in orange silk. Her limbs relaxed. Her eyelids lowered. And just like that, Darlina slipped off.

 

Sheeps. Sheeps. Sheeps.

 

When she awoke, her mind did that momentary soft reboot—blank screen, slow loading. Her ears caught the gentle scratch of quill on parchment, the rustle of paperwork. She blinked. Oh. Right. She was still in his office. Snape’s office. She moved, and something soft slid off her shoulder—a pillow. But… that hadn’t been there before. Her heart tripped over itself. She sat up more fully, and lo—there was also a blanket. A thick, warm, woolen blanket, neatly draped over her.

 

“Sleeping in my office now, Miss Lourdes?”

 

She flushed, but forced herself to sit up straight. Her cheeks burned as she met his gaze. He was seated at his desk now, dark robes draped like thunderclouds around him, eyes trained on her like he’d been watching for a while.

 

Mortifying.

 

 

“I—sorry, sir,” she stammered. She hadn’t felt this nervous since her first detention with him. Possibly more nervous now because of her late night thoughts not too long ago. “Really. I didn’t mean to. I just—I was warming up after walking from the greenhouse and the snow and—I wasn’t planning on falling asleep, obviously.”

 

He raised a brow. Not both. Just one. He was efficient like that. “You were drooling.”

 

Her jaw dropped. “I was not!”

 

A smirk twitched—twitched—at the corner of his mouth. If she hadn’t been so flustered, she might’ve called it adorable. As it stood, she was too busy trying to vanish into the chair’s upholstery. “Well—thank you. For the blanket. And the pillow. Sir,” she later added, clutching the blanket a little tighter.

 

She inhaled deeply. He’s ancient. He’s ancient. Her brain helpfully offered again. And somehow, that steadied her. “You looked pitiful.” He returned to his quill. “I was merely saving myself from the wretchedness of watching you freeze to death.”

 

His words were dry enough to burn toast, but she still smiled. “If you say so,” she murmured.

 

“What was that?” His eyes flicked up, sharp and unimpressed.

 

“Nothing, sir,” she said brightly.

 

Darlina untucked her legs from beneath her, a faint whine slipping from her lips as she stretched them out gingerly. Pins and needles stabbed their way down to her toes, and she winced. “Ow. Ow—ouch,” she hissed, massaging one calf. Cramped legs. The tragedy.

 

A rustle. A sharp movement.

 

She blinked up—oh. He was watching her. She’d forgotten he was even there, which was frankly mortifying, given the fact that she’d just been groaning about her legs. “What’s wrong?” came his low voice, more curious than concerned—but not entirely devoid of the latter, and that was... suspicious. Very suspicious. She looked anywhere but at him, cheeks heating up. “Just a leg cramp. Nothing serious. You don’t need to—uh—do anything.”

 

Apparently, that was all the confirmation he needed. No follow-up questions. No judgmental glare. Not even a mutter about her incompetence. Silence returned to the room like an old friend.

 

Until it didn’t.

 

Something landed on the table beside her with a muted thunk. She startled slightly—her heart giving a single, traitorous thud. The basket was gone (how had she not noticed that?) but in its place now sat a small, dark jar. She looked up and found him standing there, closer than usual—closer than strictly necessary.

 

He towered. He loomed. He Snape’d.

 

She glanced from the jar to his face but couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a heartbeat. It felt like looking directly into a storm. “What’s that?” she asked, trying to sound neutral and failing miserably.

 

“A salve,” he said dryly. “Apply it to the affected area. Even you should be capable of following that level of instruction.”

 

A little smile tugged at her lips. “Thank you, sir.” She picked up the jar reverently. He lingered for one long second before sweeping away with his usual swish of dramatic cloak energy. Darlina rolled her eyes fondly behind his back. She unscrewed the lid, dipped two fingers in, and applied it to her sore leg. Immediately, warmth spread across the cramped muscle—tingly, soothing. “Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, this is—this is fantastic, sir.”

 

She stared down at the jar, eyes sparkling as if it were liquid gold. “Where did you buy this? I need Pharell to buy me one. Maybe five.”

 

A dramatic sigh from the desk. “I didn’t buy it, Miss Lourdes. I brewed it.”

 

She froze. Looked up, blinked. “You made this?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Really?”

 

Snape’s eyes briefly closed like he was asking the ceiling for strength. Darlina beamed, practically vibrating with delight. “This is genius. Absolute chef’s kiss. You’re a genius. Do you know that?”

 

He did not, apparently, want to know that, because he said nothing. Just resumed scribbling something that looked very judgmental. She slathered more salve onto her other leg, cheerfully humming to herself. “You should sell this, you know. Are you selling this? You should sell this.”

 

“Not yet.”

 

Her eyes sparkled like a conspirator’s. “Yet,” she echoed. “So you’re planning to?”

 

He made a noncommittal sound—one of those throat noises that meant nothing and everything all at once. In Snape-speak, it probably translated to ‘I already have a business plan drafted, annotated, and cursed against plagiarism, thank you very much.’

 

“I’ll be your first customer,” she declared. “Swear on my wand.”

 

He rolled his eyes with such force she half-expected them to levitate. Silence settled back over them like a heavy blanket. Not awkward, exactly. Just... thick. Dense with unsaid things. She didn’t mind. She was too busy massaging away the ache in her legs with the most miraculous concoction to ever touch her skin. Honestly, if this salve were a person, she might’ve proposed to it already.

 

Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. “Yesterday…”

 

Her heart flailed. Absolutely flailed. She blinked up at him in frozen horror, because the first thing her ridiculous brain conjured was the idea that he was finally bringing up that moment. The not-a-kiss moment. The CPR moment. The you-were-possibly-dead-and-he-might’ve-sort-of-saved-you moment.

 

And then her brain, traitor that it was, panicked. Think of something. Anything else. A distraction. A shield for your emotions. Sheep. That’ll do. Sheep, sheep, sheep, she repeated internally, like some kind of wool-based mantra. Cute, fluffy, judgment-free. Unlike the man now staring at her with the intensity of someone trying to read her very soul. “Miss Lourdes?” His voice cut in, sharp and dry as winter air. “Are you listening to me?”

 

She startled, nearly dropping the jar of miracle goop. “Yes! Yes, sir. Sorry, I just... zoned out a bit.”

 

“Clearly.” He tutted. “I was saying—I noticed you weren’t at your House table yesterday.”

 

Darlina blinked. That was... unexpected. “Oh. Um, yes, sir. I was—”

 

“With the Gryffindors,” he said, with the precise distaste of someone describing an unsanitary cauldron. “It is customary, Miss Lourdes, to sit with your House during meals. I find it odd that no one has explained this to you.”

 

She tilted her head, confusion scrunching up her brows. “But I’ve also been sitting with Slytherins since September...?” He didn’t reply. Just kept writing in that scratchy, unbothered, absolutely-bothered way of his.

 

She stared at him. And then the realization struck, slow and dramatic.

 

“Oh,” she said slowly. “Is it because I was with Gryffindors?”

 

That got a reaction. His head whipped toward her like he’d been personally insulted by her social decisions. His eyes sharpened, all glittering steel and veiled judgment. “Mind I remind you,” he began, tone clipped and lethal, “that the very Gryffindors you allow to frolic around you are the same ones responsible for endangering your life?”

 

Darlina’s brows furrowed deeper. “So... it is about them.”

 

He said nothing. She tilted her head again and gave him a small, almost cheeky smile. A Darlina special—sweet but slightly bratty, with a twist of please-don’t-kill-me. “Don’t worry, sir. We put it behind us already. I’m okay. And I was with Eve. Not with the four, sir. They’re not the same. She’s different.” She nodded a little too much while speaking, as if enthusiasm might somehow act as a shield. If I believe it hard enough, maybe you will too.

But Snape, of course, did not look remotely convinced. He stared at her like she had personally offended his entire worldview. And then—

 

“Put it behind?” he repeated, and she nearly jumped at the tone.

 

There was something raw in his voice now—still clipped, still composed, but with that dangerous edge that said he wasn’t just annoyed. He was frustrated. “Have you even considered the gravity of the trauma they’ve caused you?”

 

His eyes were on her now. Properly on her. None of that distant, distracted, I-have-essays-to-mark gaze—this was eye contact with a capital I. And it hit her like a freight train dipped in shame. She tried to hold it. Really, she did. But it made her want to fold in on herself like parchment under fire.

 

“I’m okay,” she whispered, instantly hating the tremble in her voice. “I don’t have any trauma from the incident. It’s… fine.” But when she glanced past him—saw those heavy curtains, drawn closed like the lake beyond them might somehow hear her—her stomach gave a traitorous twist.

 

“Then why,” Snape asked quietly, “were you afraid of drinking?”

 

Her breath hitched.

 

“What—? No. I wasn’t—sir, I’m fine.” But it came out too fast. Too defensive. She could feel it. Hear it. And clearly, so could he.

 

“I am no fool, Miss Lourdes,” he said, low and firm, and there was something furious about the way he spoke—like he was angry on her behalf but had no idea how to translate that into anything softer. “Before the incident, you were more than willing to drink a potion—my potion. And afterwards, you acted like we’d offered you poison in a teacup. You may not call it trauma, but it is not a fear that vanishes overnight. And believe it or not, I had not intended to confront you about this at all.” Then came the kicker. Delivered so flatly it might as well have been an invoice. “But your recent interactions with the Gryffindors have made that rather difficult.”

 

Oh. So that’s what this is.

 

She closed the salve slowly, the sound of the lid turning too loud in the space between them.

“The Gryffindor you’re talking about is my friend, Professor,” she said, her voice rising in tiny defiance. “I said she’s good.” She even scowled a little. Not her usual baby-bird frown either—this one had actual conviction behind it. Because Eve was good. Warm and wickedly funny and—okay—maybe a little morally flexible when it came to stealing dessert, but still.

 

Darlina didn’t say things lightly. She didn’t feel lightly. “She’s different,” she repeated. “And I like her.” Snape’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. If he'd had a tea cup, it would’ve shattered from the sheer force of his emotional constipation.

 

“I am having a hard time accepting such a notion,” he said coolly, “considering her twin brother is one of the idiots who nearly got you killed.”

 

Oof.

 

That one landed.

 

“I said it’s fine,” she snapped, standing so fast her balance wobbled. Cold tile met warm sock in a jarring slap, and she winced, suddenly aware of just how barefoot she was in this conversation. No shoes. No armor. Just… socks. And emotion. She sat back down with a thump and a flushed face, hastily jamming her feet into her shoes like they might give her a better grip on reality.

 

Snape didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched.

 

“It’s not fine,” he said, quietly but firmly. “You are too kind for your own good, Miss Lourdes.”

 

The words hit her like a whisper wrapped in winter.

 

“I may have agreed not to tell your father what you were crying about a week ago,” he continued, tone sharpening like a knife being honed, “but that will be the last time you extract such an agreement from me.” Wait—he was bringing her father into this? Again? She wanted to laugh. Or scream. Or throw the salve at his unnecessarily elegant boots. Instead, she looked up at him, eyes wide and a little watery and a little furious all at once. “I am quite certain,” he finished, with the gravity of someone passing sentence, “that he would not take kindly to you frolicking about with Gryffindors.”

 

“Sir!” she whined, louder than she meant to—somewhere between a plea and a protest and possibly a dying goose. She nearly stomped her foot in indignation before remembering that this was Snape, not Pharell. Pharell, who wouldn’t dream of weaponizing authority against her. Pharell, who was basically a golden retriever. Pharell, who she wouldn’t dream of—

Ew. No. Stop. Bad brain.

 

She yanked her attention back to the man in front of her, the man currently glaring at her as if she'd personally offended the entire concept of logic.

 

She’d stayed behind hoping for a little idle talk. Butterflies. Ink types. Instead, she was getting grilled like a first-year who’d dared to breathe too loudly. And now they were in what could only be described as a very tense staring contest, except she was losing—badly. Because she couldn’t look at him for more than a minute without her knees going a bit wobbly.

 

“Do not test me, Miss Lourdes,” he said.

 

 “With all due respect, sir,” she muttered under her breath, then stepped closer, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold her own bravery in place. “I believe I know who I should hang out with. I’m not a kid anymore.”

 

Snape’s expression didn’t change. “I am more than aware of that,” he said—and somehow, somehow, the way he said it made her stomach do a weird little dip. She blinked rapidly, deciding she hated him a little. Just a little. Just enough to keep her sanity intact. She crossed the last few feet and placed the salve on his desk with gentle force.

 

“Father wouldn’t care who I hang out with,” she added, nose scrunching in defiance.

 

Snape’s eyes narrowed. “Let’s see about that.”

 

And that—that—was the last straw. She puffed up like an affronted kitten, cheeks pink with fury, heart pounding in a staccato that echoed betrayal! betrayal! She was enjoying her time with Eve. Eve was not Julius. Eve didn’t throw her in the bloody lake.

 

Why couldn’t he see that?

 

“Thank you for the salve, sir,” she said. “Goodbye.” And before he could say another word—another cold, calculated syllable—she turned on her heel and walked out.

 

Socks still slightly askew. Heart pounding in her ears.

 

He wouldn’t care, she told herself again. Her father wouldn’t.

 

He wouldn’t.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

He did.

 

He actually, truly, irrevocably did.

 

The next morning, the sky over Hogwarts was postcard-perfect: soft lavender clouds stretching like sleepy yawns across the towers, birds singing. Darlina, wrapped in the illusion of peace, was gently dunking a piece of toast into marmalade when it happened. A familiar owl came—it landed beside her plate and tilted its head, judgment in its beady eyes. She blinked at it, confused, then reached for the envelope.

 

A ministry seal.

 

Oh no.

 

She gave the owl a biscuit and it flapped off, its job complete. She cracked the letter open with a sinking heart and scanned the contents. Her face crumpled like over-steamed parchment.

 

He told her father.

 

Professor Snape told on her.

 

To. Her. Father.

 

She looked up at the staff table with betrayal thick in her throat. There he was. Chatting to Professor McGonagall like he wasn’t an official, certified snitch. She glared at him. He didn’t look back. Of course not. The condemned never watch their executioners. So this is it, she thought, pushing her plate away. This is my villain origin story. Because sure, their weird not-quite-a-thing bond had barely survived the whole “he literally had to give me CPR and now I can’t look at his mouth without being delusional” situation. But this?

 

This was betrayal. This was worse than betrayal. This was bureaucratic betrayal. Professor Snape hadn’t just broken her trust—he’d filled out a form and sent a memo about it. She rose from her seat. Clementine and Michael weren’t even there yet, which was probably for the best—because if one more person tried to offer her a hashbrown or emotional clarity, she might’ve snapped. As she stormed out of the Great Hall, her mind replayed the letter like a particularly nasty jingle:

 

Do not associate with Gryffindors, child. They do not mean good.

 

Darlina stopped mid-hallway and pulled a face. “Do not mean good”? She barely even knew Eve when that lake thing happened. And now that they were finally becoming actual friends—now, suddenly, Gryffindors are the enemy? Darlina furrowed her brows, only barely registering that her feet were carrying her down the familiar corridor toward her dormitory. It was Saturday. No classes. No distractions.

 

She needed space. She needed calm. She needed to scream into the unknown. Or better yet, she needed nature. The forest was calling. Whispering. Beckoning. Because if the world was going to be dramatic, then she was going to dramatically stomp into the nearby forest like a misunderstood woodland creature.

 

She whispered a guilt-ridden apology to Clementine under her breath—sorry, Clem, really—but this was a mental health emergency. Her serotonin levels were flatlining. This was triage. Emotional triage. She made a beeline for her bag and packed essentials: camera, blanket. All accounted for. Her father’s letter still lay on the table like it paid rent there. She spared it one final scowl, crumpling it slightly, resisting the urge to set it on fire. Instead, she shoved it inside her Transfiguration textbook, which somehow felt more violent.

 

She dressed quickly—ivory ribbed turtleneck, black skater skirt, semi-sheer tights, and her white winter coat. A soft scarf wrapped around her. Earmuffs. Gloves. Boots. Ready to stomp through the woods like an elegant white swan. And she loved it. The moment she stepped past the trees, her soul exhaled like it had been holding its breath since September. Snow blanketed everything in a hush. Footprints in the frost made delicate little ghosts behind her. She clicked her camera open, the shutter snapping like applause.

 

The forest was her chapel. Her cathedral. Her sanctuary with built-in squirrels.

 

She clicked photo after photo: trees bent in greeting, her path marked behind her, the branches dusted like sugar. Her breath steamed in the air and she hummed quietly—something sweet, something wordless, something that sounded suspiciously like rebellion.

 

This was peace. This was joy. This was—

 

A hand.

 

Grabbing.

 

Her.

 

Arm.

 

She let out a noise that could only be described as a ‘yelp-gasp-shriek,’ a musical piece in three parts. Seriously?! Why do people keep yanking me?! She twisted around mid-panic and met a familiar figure in black robes. Oh. Oh no. It was Professor Snape.

 

Of course it was.

 

His grip wasn’t painful, just firm. Irritated. Like she’d personally offended every moral fiber in his body by daring to touch grass. Her brain short-circuited. Her heart did something completely unapproved by Hogwarts regulations. And Clementine’s voice helpfully echoed through the spiraling catastrophe that was her inner monologue: “If we get caught… we’re looking at something far worse than detention…”

 

Oh, Merlin. What could be worse than detention?!

 

Well. This. Definitely this.

 

Her heartbeat was playing percussion in her throat as Snape dragged her through the snow like some ominous wind-up toy. Her grip on the camera slipped—her mother’s camera—and the sound it made when it hit the frozen earth? Crack. Sharp. Final. Like a bone, or a heart. She gasped. “Sir!”

 

He didn’t stop. Of course he didn’t. Why would the world's grumpiest man with the emotional range of a teaspoon stop?

 

“Please, stop—sir. Professor!” she begged, her boots squealing traitorously against the snow as she tried to halt their momentum. Nothing. He kept walking like a vengeance demon on a mission.

 

Her voice cracked next. “Stop! Stop!”

 

And that—blessedly—that made him freeze. He turned, his eyes like stormclouds behind that ever-present curtain of black hair, and dropped her arm like it had caught fire. But she didn’t care. Not anymore. She bolted back to the snowy patch behind them and collapsed to her knees beside the fallen camera, clutching it to her chest like it might slip through her fingers again. Her breathing came out in harsh sobs, hiccupped and uneven. It wasn’t just a camera. It was a memory. Her mother’s memory. The only thing she had left of her. And now—now the lens was cracked and something inside had shifted and so had something inside her.

 

Her hands trembled. Her whole soul trembled. And when she looked up—when she saw Professor Snape standing there, not close, not far, but definitely there—she glared. Not her usual soft, bratty, faux-defiant glare. This one was heartbreak. Open. Honest. Awful.

 

He took a step toward her and she bolted upright, turning and running like her tears might freeze midair if she stayed too long. She didn’t want him to see. Not him. Not when she was sobbing and shaking and feeling so stupidly fragile.

 

“Stop this instant, Miss Lourdes.” And it was like her body forgot it had autonomy. She froze, the sound of her name—his voice—hooking into her like puppet strings. She turned slowly, face red and wet and furious in a very small, very broken way. Through her blurred vision, she caught the way the snow dusted his hair. He looked like a painting. A grim, elegant silhouette in all black, against a sea of white. The cruel contrast of it almost hurt. He didn’t belong here. And yet, somehow, neither did she.

 

He said nothing. Neither did she.

 

The walk back was a funeral procession of silence. She trailed just a pace behind him, close enough for the hem of his cloak to flick at her boots. The wind howled through the trees like even it had something to mourn. Darlina hugged the broken camera to her chest like it might keep her heart from cracking further. He didn’t glance at her. Not really. But once—just once—he looked sideways. Snowflakes clung to her hair. Her scarf was crooked. Her shoulders shook.

 

He didn’t say anything. Of course not. Words were brittle things, and Snape didn’t waste them on things like comfort. When they reached the castle’s front entrance, he stopped. Not turning toward her, not even glancing.

 

“Follow me,” he said gruffly.

 

And maybe she was supposed to obey. Maybe she should have. But Darlina had nothing left in her for rules right now. So she ran. Away from him. Away from the snow. Away from the camera-shaped ache in her chest.

 

This wasn’t the first time she’d run from him anyway. And something—something—told her it wouldn’t be the last.

 

 

🦢

Notes:

Just poured down all their progress down the drain. #screamingcryingthrowingup

Chapter 22: The Lore of an Unknown Woman

Notes:

Hello! So last week, I’ve worked on flourishing the plot and chapter outlines which ultimately led to a LOT of changes. If you have read this story long ago, I would like to state that I have changed a bit of a sentence from Chapter 7 where Darlina’s mother was briefly mentioned: “The tiny, sky-blue flowers were a poignant reminder of her mother, who had nurtured her love for photography and flowers since she was a child.” I recently edited it into this: “The tiny, sky-blue flowers were a poignant reminder of her mother, a woman she only knew from Pharell’s stories and photographs taken long ago, who seemed to love flowers as much as her, the very same woman that unknowingly nurtured her love for photography.”

I forgot to mention it due to the intensity and turn of events from the prior chapter. Anyway, I hate to disappoint you, my baes, but this chapter will only act as a filler. No huge interaction with the grumpy ancient dude yet.

Happy reading!

             SATURDAY EVENING HAD LONG arrived, and Darlina was still curled into herself, similar to a wilting petal, sobbing into the warm hush of her dorm room. The camera was cradled tightly to her chest, as if her arms alone could rewind time and stitch it back together—good as new. But it wasn’t new. It was broken. The only tangible memory of her mother, shattered. And the person responsible for it was one of her favorite professors out of all people; Professor Snape. The name alone made her shoulders tense. It clanged in her chest. She sniffled again, hiccupping through her breath. Her wand flickered on her pillow, disregarded, casting stuttering pools of light on the closed curtains. The glow blinked with her, in rhythm—once, twice, three times—before flaring brighter, then slowly dimming again, as if in quiet sympathy. She ignored it, squeezing the camera gently—and if that wasn’t enough much pain, she remembered that her father had now forbidden her from seeing Eve. And she couldn’t even argue—what power did she have against him?

 

Her heart ached. Her head pounded. Her nose was blocked and raw from too much sniffling into an increasingly damp handkerchief, and she was fairly certain she was on the brink of catching something nasty. She stared at the camera, blinking, vision blurring once more, and her thoughts spiraled. The past few days had been like trying to grasp fog. One moment, she wanted to hug Professor Snape for simply existing and breathing in the same vicinity. The next, she was confused, guilty, furious, and then—this. This quiet, soul-heavy kind of grief that settled over her. She didn’t want to be sad. But as she recalled what befall, she can’t help but feel it.

 

When Darlina awoke the next morning, she felt as if she’d been trampled on by elephants. Every joint in her body ached, her eyes were puffy, and she whimpered the moment she shifted. Her arm met the mattress, and pain flared.

 

Oh.

 

Her eyes dragged open. Her forearm was bruised. Right where Professor Snape had grabbed her. A murky, fingerprinted blush of violet and stormcloud-grey was blooming against her pale skin. She frowned at it. Winced. Then—ggrrmmmghhh—her stomach groaned, loud and dramatic.

 

Oh, right. She’d skipped dinner. With a groan of protest, she peeled herself from the nest of blankets and swung her feet into the familiar comfort of her fuzzy slippers. A robe was hanging limply on her chair. She grabbed it without thinking, wrapping it around herself like armor. It was one of her favorites. A blush-pink satin dream, floor-length and floating, with a dramatic V-neckline and long, draped sleeves edged in thick marabou fluff. The sash tied neatly at her waist, cinching her into something that felt vaguely like a person again. The hem brushed against the floor with every step she took, whispering luxury and a smidge of melodrama—which, frankly, she deserved this morning. Even if she felt like roadkill wrapped in silk.

 

She went to her merry way to disturb the elves. “Elven?” she murmured as she stepped through the hidden entrance, rubbing her eyes with the sleeve of her satin robe. The kitchen, as always, was alive with warmth and bustling chatter, platters floating, kettles humming, and the scent of fresh bread curling through the air. But Darlina wasn’t here to socialize. The truth was, she was in no mood to interact with anyone—elf, ghost, human, or otherwise. Normally, she wouldn’t mind; she liked Elven, after all.

 

“Miss Darlina Lourdes!” Elven chirped, popping up in front of her with his oversized eyes twinkling. “Elven is here, miss! What is it you need?”

 

She blinked down at him, mustering the softest ghost of a smile. “Just... just a plate of food, please.”

 

“Of course, Miss Darlina Lourdes! Do you have anything set in mind?” His ears perked, anticipating.

 

“No, anything will do. Thank you, Elven.”

 

Elven’s joy was undeterred—he bounded off like someone had just told him he'd won the House Cup. Moments later, he returned with a steaming plate of warm, comforting food that looked suspiciously like the sort of thing she would’ve requested on a good day. Macaroni, fluffy rolls, something involving cinnamon. Clearly, the elves had been observing her enough to have preferences memorized. She bent down, smoothing a hand affectionately over his tiny head. “Thank you, dear. I’ll visit you again soon, okay?”

 

“It is Elven’s great pleasure to serve you, Miss Darlina Lourdes!” he declared, nearly vibrating with happiness. And with that, she ghosted back to her dormitory. The room was mercifully empty. Curtains drawn. Beds unmade. She slipped past her roommates’ spaces and ducked behind the heavy velvet of her own bed canopy. There, in the semi-dark, she sat cross-legged and ate quietly, chewing in slow, tired motions.

 

The food helped. A little.

 

She shed her robe, folding it with unconscious care, and caught sight of the bruise on her forearm again. It had darkened, blooming like some cruel little flower beneath her skin. She sighed, fingers ghosting over the mark. He hadn’t meant to hurt her—had he?

 

Professor Snape wasn’t exactly gentle, but he wasn’t cruel. Not like that.

 

Still. He had grabbed her. He had snitched. And now she wasn’t allowed to see Eve anymore.

 

Darlina pouted to herself as she set her plate aside. She liked being around Eve. True, they hadn’t had loads of time together, and they weren’t exactly braiding each other’s hair and painting under moonlight... but there had been something promising. The early twinkle of what could be a girl friend. Someone who might really understand her. Laugh with her. Maybe tell her she wasn’t being too dramatic when she cried over a broken camera and three spoonfuls of mashed potatoes. Now that possibility was blocked—shut down like everything else her father disapproved of. Maybe he really did know what was best for her. Maybe Snape meant well, too. But she had forgiven the Gryffindors. She had tried to put everything behind her. She just wanted a new friend. At least one.

 

The tray vanished from her desk with a soft pop, replaced by a goblet of water. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for it, eyes unfocused, and she had to tear her gaze away as if looking too long might make her cry again. Darlina set the goblet gently down, then turned to where her newest prize sat—a gift from Pharell. She picked them up, curling herself into a position on her belly, chest pressed against a pillow. She didn’t know what she wanted to paint—didn’t feel anything specific. But her hand moved anyway, like her heart had bypassed her brain and decided to speak in color instead.

 

So she painted. And painted. And painted. She painted until the weight in her chest dulled, until the lines made sense, until the silence felt less heavy. And then—sometime between one quiet breath and the next—she saw it.

 

A crow.

 

It was a black crow.

 

Unplanned, but undeniable. Broad wings stretched across the canvas like a scream in grayscale. A glint of something feral in the eye she’d painted. Something free. Something… alone.

 

Her hand stopped. The brush sagged in her grip. And then, as if a switch had been flipped—

 

Tears.

 

It started slow, the sort of sting you could blink away if you were quick enough. But Darlina wasn’t quick enough. And the blinking didn’t help. Her vision blurred, the crow melted into puddles of darkness, and a moment later, she was curled in on herself, sobbing into the pillow like it was her job. She didn’t want to exist. Not really. She wanted to cocoon herself into some quiet corner of the world and never come out—just stay there, painting birds and anything, everything all at once, take pictures with—oh. The camera. Merlin, the camera—her tears stuttered as her eyes fell on it again.

 

She reached for it like it might vanish if she didn’t, cradled it with both hands, and pressed her forehead to its cracked lens. A sob caught in her throat. That camera wasn’t just an object—it was a relic. A secret heirloom. A tether to someone she never got the chance to know.

 

Her mother.

 

She had never met her—not really. Not in any way that counted. Her only glimpses came in the form of quiet stories whispered by Pharell over mugs of cocoa. Never from her father. No, Bentley Lourdes shut down at the mere mention of her mother’s name. He turned colder. Harder. And after that one question—her seventh birthday, the only thing she had dared to ask—he became someone else entirely. Stricter. Sterner. Like loving her came with new terms and conditions.

 

She often wondered if that question had ruined something. If, in asking about her mother, she had somehow forfeited the right to be loved freely. Would he still have let her come to Hogwarts earlier if she hadn’t asked? Would he have trusted her more?

 

Darlina pressed her lips together and squeezed her eyes shut. That kind of thinking didn’t help. Not really. But it never really went away either. The camera had been hidden in the basement for years—tucked under stacks of old boxes. But Pharell had found it. Or maybe, rescued it was the better word. He gave it to her in secret, that same birthday.

 

“This was your mum’s,” he’d whispered. “Don’t tell your father.”

 

And oh, she hadn’t. She’d protected it like a holy artifact, like the only thing that proved her mother had existed—that she had once walked through a field, snapped a photo of a blooming violet, and thought it beautiful enough to remember. That camera had been her mother’s eye on the world. And it became Darlina’s too.

 

Pharell had shown her how to use it, his hands gentle as he guided her small fingers over the buttons. He’d let her see every photo her mother had ever taken—frame after frame of soft light and flowers, of things that might go unnoticed unless someone chose to see them.

 

Just like Darlina.

 

Nature became her sanctuary after that. Her connection. She’d always loved the sound of trees swaying and the way sunlight danced across lake water. But with the camera in her hand, it felt different. Personal. Sacred. Her mother had loved the world like this too, and Darlina clung to that with quiet ferocity.

 

The camera became the bridge. The road. The soft-spoken bond between mother and daughter, stitched across time and silence.

 

It was her anchor.

 

Her second-best lifeline after Pharell.

 

Her last physical connection to someone who had once loved flowers and sunlight and maybe—maybe—would’ve loved her, too.

 

And now it was broken.

 

Just like that.

 

Her breath hitched. A soft, watery gasp escaped her before she could stop it. She tried to paint again—desperately, almost angrily—but her hands were trembling now. She shoved her materials away with a frustrated sniffle, barely noticing the streak of wet paint she left across her blanket. Then—

 

Knock.

 

Well, not a door. Her bedpost. A polite, almost sheepish knock against the wood that made her freeze like a startled woodland creature. She blinked, wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of her sleeve, and gingerly pulled the curtain open just an inch. One of her roommates stood there, concern drawn across her features like a question she wasn’t sure she had the right to ask. “Are you okay?”

 

Darlina flushed crimson, instantly self-conscious. Her voice came out too small, too squeaky. “Oh… sorry. Was I loud?”

 

The girl’s eyes widened. “No! I mean—no, I don’t mind. I swear. It’s just…” she glanced toward the bed behind her, then back again, “...you sounded kind of sad. Or maybe frustrated? Or both? Sorry. I didn’t want to intrude.”

 

“Oh. I’m… I’ll be fine.” Darlina offered a shy smile, one she hoped looked convincing, though it felt a little crooked on her face.

 

Her roommate hesitated, then tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Well, if you need someone to talk to—I’m more than available, okay?”

 

It was a simple gesture but it cracked something warm open in Darlina’s chest. She nodded, more grateful than she could put into words. “Thank you.” The girl lingered a moment, clearly weighing whether to say more, but then gave her a gentle smile and padded off toward her own bed. Darlina let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, then quietly drew the curtain shut again. Everything settled into stillness. She sat there, blinking into the soft shadows of her canopy, cheeks still damp, fingers curling into the folds of her blanket. After a few more minutes, she remembered: there was a spell for this. So they wouldn’t hear her. She wasn’t sure why she hadn’t thought of it earlier—probably because her brain was still tangled in various emotions—but now, she grabbed her wand and gave it a half-hearted swirl through the air.

 

“Muffliato,” she murmured. A flurry of golden sparks burst from the tip like miniature fireflies on caffeine. Darlina blinked at it. “That’s… new,” she muttered. Her brows knit together in confusion. Gold sparks? Muffliato was supposed to be discreet. Functional. Slightly annoying, at best. Golden sparks were definitely not standard spell behavior. But she was too emotionally fried to investigate magical anomalies right now. “Okay... you can be mysterious later,” she told the wand, setting it aside with a little pat.

 

She picked up her brush again.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina only realized that evening had fully arrived when she peeked through the edge of her bed curtains and spotted the moon peering in through the window, full and silver, casting soft light across the dormitory floor. She blinked, the hours slipping through her mind like sand through cupped fingers. Her stomach gave a loud, sorrowful grumble, and she was just about to ignore it and retreat back into her cocoon of blanket-fort self-pity when— “Oh! You’re awake!”

 

Darlina jolted slightly, hand clutching her chest. Her eyes darted to the foot of her bed where the same roommate from earlier was standing, half-smiling, as if unsure what to actually feel. “Your friends—the Head Boy and that Quidditch captain—they’ve been looking for you.”

 

“Oh… erm, I’ll talk to them tomorrow,” Darlina mumbled, voice soft, chin ducking. “Thank you.”

                                                                     

The girl hesitated. “Oh. No. They’re… still outside.”

 

Darlina blinked. “What? Outside?”

 

“Yeah.” The girl winced a little, bracing for Darlina’s reaction. “Right outside the common room entrance. I thought you were sleeping—I didn’t want to wake you, but… they didn’t want to leave.”

 

Darlina’s eyes widened. “They’ve been out there this whole time? Shouldn’t it be dinner now?”

 

Her roommate nodded solemnly. “I think so...Clementine mumbled something but I wasn’t able to fully grasp it. Anyway—yes, it’s already halfway through dinner. I left early. Professor Snape’s essay due tomorrow.” The moment his name dropped, something in Darlina’s chest pinched. Sharp and uninvited. She glanced down for a beat, pretending to smooth out her bedsheet. But she didn’t say anything. Didn’t let it bloom further. “Thanks again,” she said with a gentle smile, and the girl returned it.

 

Darlina slipped into her pale pink robe, cinching it tightly around her waist. Her satin nightgown swished softly beneath it, and she tugged at the robe’s sleeves as she made her way to the dormitory door. As expected, the common room was mostly empty—everyone likely already at the Great Hall, stuffing their faces with whatever. She pushed the door open—

 

And stopped.

 

Michael was slumped against the opposite wall, legs stretched out like he owned the corridor. He looked positively miserable and unbothered at the same time, which was kind of his brand. His head was bowed, arms folded, hair an actual disaster. And Clementine—Clementine nearly jumped out of his shoes when he spotted her. He’d been posted like a sentry by the door, so close she almost screamed. “LILS!” he screeched.

 

“Hey,” Darlina said softly, trying to inject some cheer into her voice. “What are you doing here? It’s dinner.”

 

“Dinner, yes,” Clementine said. “But you weren’t there. We looked all over. We asked people. We even—Merlin help me—asked a painting. What’s going on? Are you okay?” Before she could respond, he was gripping her shoulders, eyes scanning her like she might suddenly dissolve. She flushed, tugging the edges of her robe closer. Her nightgown, thankfully, was modest and opaque—but still, Clementine’s protective panic didn’t go unnoticed. Nor did the fact that he hadn’t noticed her bruise, tucked neatly beneath layers.

 

“I’m okay,” she said, firm this time, and mustered a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes but at least tried. “Really.”

 

“Mike,” he barked suddenly, twisting back toward the slouching boy. “Mike. Wake your ass up, she’s here.”

 

“Oh, he’s sleeping?” Darlina’s brow furrowed, concern leaking into her voice. She gently shrugged off Clementine’s hands, padding forward with careful steps, the hem of her pink robe cascading against the stone floor. Sure enough, Michael was properly dozing. In the corridor. In this cold. Why is he like this.

 

She crouched beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder, giving him the gentlest shake imaginable. “Hey, Mike,” she whispered. “Wake up.”

 

Michael blinked awake slowly, squinting. But the second his eyes landed on her, he snapped upright, all sleep gone. “Lina!” he gasped. “You’re fine!” His gaze darted over her. “See, Clem? She’s fine. Told you. No need to freak out.”

 

Clementine arched a delicate eyebrow. “Wow. Bold of you to say. Weren’t you the one panicking and muttering ‘She better not be dead, I swear to Merlin’ half an hour ago?”

 

Michael rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, guys,” Darlina said softly, standing back up and brushing her hands off on her robe. “Go to dinner. Eat something.” She extended a hand to help Michael up, which he took, dramatically groaning.

 

“Why weren’t you at dinner last night, Lils?” Clementine asked. “And earlier today, we didn’t see you since yesterday. Are you eating at all? You look—paler than usual.”

 

Darlina managed a shaky smile. “I’m fine… really.”

 

“Tell that to your swollen eyes and red nose,” Clementine countered gently. “Something’s up, Lils. You can tell us.”

 

“Yeah,” Michael chimed in, promptly ruining the softness of the moment by reaching out and tousling her hair with both hands. “We’ve got time for a breakdown or two. Just say the word.”

 

“Mike!” she squeaked, stamping one foot in protest and scowling at him, ever so playfully. “You ruined my hair!”

 

“It was already ruined,” he smirked. “I just gave it personality.”

 

“I was going to thank you for caring, but now I hope your mashed potatoes are cold,” she muttered.

 

“Cold potatoes are still potatoes,” Michael shrugged, wholly unbothered.

 

Darlina tried to push him, one palm flat against his chest, but the boy might as well have been made of stone. “Oh, come on, you huge banana!” she huffed, half-laughing despite herself.

 

And then her stomach betrayed her.It let out a grumble so aggressive it practically echoed  down the corridor. Her eyes widened in horror. Clementine and Michael paused. Both turned slowly to stare at her. Clementine sighed, and without a word, he reached for her arm. Michael took the other. “Hey!” she protested, trying to squirm away. “I didn’t say I was coming with you.”

 

“You also didn’t say you weren’t,” Michael said cheerfully.

 

Clementine gave her a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth tugging upward into a small, patient smile. “You’re going to eat with us, okay?” he said quietly, like a parent negotiating with a very stubborn child. “Whatever’s in your head, tell us when you’re ready. But for now? Take care of yourself.”

 

Darlina faltered at that. She hadn’t noticed before how deeply the worry was etched into his face—how soft his eyes looked, even while his words tried to stay firm. And Michael, though still casual and impish, hadn’t let go of her arm. Her chest squeezed. These two. They’d been out here for hours. She let out a long, exasperated sigh—and nodded. “Fine.”

 

They began to walk together, a trio cutting through the dimly lit corridor, steps slow, robe swishing, arms linked. And then... “My robe’s dragging,” Darlina muttered, glancing down at the hem trailing behind her like a defeated train. “It’s getting dirty.”

 

Michael didn’t even glance down. “Just a quick incantation and it’ll be clean.”

 

“Still, though.” She huffed.

 

“Are you seriously mourning the robe right now?”

 

“It’s pink and fluffy, and it’s my comfort robe,” she muttered, like she was defending a living, breathing friend. “Oh, erm—am I even allowed to wear pajamas to dinner?” she asked a beat later, pulling the edges of her robe tighter around herself as they rounded a corner.

 

“It’s Sunday, Lils,” Clementine said with a patient sigh. “As a Head Boy, I can assure you that this isn’t the worst outfit anyone’s worn to dinner.”

 

Her eyes lit up, “What was the worst, then?”

 

Michael bounced beside her. “I’ll tell her! I’ll tell her!” Clementine rolled his eyes so hard it probably should’ve made a sound, but his expression betrayed him—soft around the edges, despite himself. “Fine. Go ahead.”

 

“So there’s this dude,” Michael began, already laughing at the memory. “And I kid you not, he showed up to dinner in—” Darlina barely registered the rest. She was too busy trying to laugh and walk at the same time without tripping over her robe again. They reached the Great Hall just as the warm scent of food drifted out to greet them, and when they stepped inside, the golden candles overhead cast a welcoming glow across the sea of chattering students. Familiar and distant. She sat between Clementine and Michael, not even needing to ask where she belonged. It was muscle memory by now—like the way Clementine always nudged her cup closer, and Michael immediately took it upon himself to fill her plate with reckless generosity.

 

“Stop, guys. I can do it on my own,” she said, her bottom lip jutting out in a half-hearted pout. They both shrugged, surrendering with a kind of practiced nonchalance that made it clear they’d still do it again the next time. Michael leaned over, muttering something that had her snort and bump her shoulder into his in retaliation. She pushed up the sleeves of her robe to avoid getting gravy on the cuffs—again—and finally turned her focus to her plate.

 

She ate quietly. And—try as she might—her gaze refused to behave. The only thing grounding her was the weight of her fork and the food she forced herself to chew. She fought not to glance toward the high table. She didn’t want to look. And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to catch those dark, unreadable eyes assessing her. She didn’t want the weight of his attention, didn’t want that flicker of subtle disappointment. After all, she was ignoring his advice. He’d told her to sit with her house during dinner—warned her, actually. But he hadn’t said anything the times she sat at the Slytherin table. It was only when she was with the Gryffindors that he bristled. So… maybe this was okay.

 

But no. Of course, he was there.

 

And of course, the moment she stepped into the hall, his eyes were already on her. His brow furrowed the way it always did when something displeased him, which, to be fair, was most things. But tonight… it was different. Tonight, he was studying her. And he noticed—of course he noticed—the redness at the tip of her nose, the subtle puffiness around her eyes. The kind of things most people wouldn’t catch unless they were looking for them.

 

And he was looking.

 

From where he sat, Severus Snape took in the whole scene like a man gathering evidence. The garish pink robe, theatrical and absurd, like it had been pulled from a stage production rather than a trunk. The way half the Great Hall kept sneaking glances at her as though she were a walking valentine. Not that she noticed. No, she was too wrapped up in Barlowe—who, to Snape’s quiet horror, had his arm hooked around hers, as usual. Not possessive. Just… comfortable. Familiar. With her permission.

 

She was smiling—not a beam, not the usual sunshine-soaked grin she gave to anyone. Just something small and tired. She didn’t look up, didn’t try to meet his gaze like she used to. Not even once. And that… that was telling.

 

Snape’s frown deepened as his eyes dragged slowly across the rest of the table. She sat curled between her constant friends, Barlowe and Harrington. Her outfit—technically permitted, albeit questionable—was loud. Ridiculous. Utterly her. But she was unusually subdued. Her shoulders hunched. Her smile dimmed. The sparkle she usually dragged into a room with her? Gone.

 

“Severus?”

 

His attention snapped sideways. “Hmm?”

 

Flitwick blinked up at him. “I asked if you would like to weigh in on the proposal for next week’s study group sessions?”

 

“Yes. Fine,” he said briskly, trying—trying—to listen. But his eyes flicked back toward her spot, where her head was now bowed, and the thick curtain of her hair blocked her face entirely.

 

Fine. Let her have her secrets. Let her stew.

 

He turned his gaze elsewhere, skimming the Gryffindor table instead, pretending to engage as Flitwick rambled on about scheduling logistics. He offered the occasional grunt of agreement and a clipped opinion, but it was all a placeholder for where his attention really wanted to be.

 

And then—he felt it.

 

That flicker of being watched. That unmistakable, prickle-down-your-spine sensation of someone’s gaze latching onto you like a tether.

 

His eyes darted back.

 

There she was. Caught.

 

Looking right at him.

 

Cup half-raised to her lips. Fingers trembling ever so slightly. Barely visible—but not to him. No, he caught everything. The tightness in her eyes. The silent accusation behind them.

 

She was scowling.

 

At him.

 

And Merlin help him, he deserved it.

 

He knew he did.




🦢

Notes:

I love that Darlina went to the great hall with her fancy robe... it's giving ✨iconic✨

Chapter 23: The Warmth of December

         DECEMBER’S FIRST WEEK ARRIVED cloaked in frost, but Darlina wasn’t nearly as gleeful as she’d hoped to be. She had tried—honestly tried—to feel festive. But the ache that lingered over the loss of her camera still hadn’t entirely left. Two full days she’d allowed herself—two almost-whole days—curled up in a warm blanket of self-pity. And then, she decided she’d had enough. Not because she no longer cared, but because dwelling didn’t change the past. The damage was done, and she could either keep clutching at the ruin or start to let it go, piece by trembling piece.

 

Even so, she wasn’t sure if she was angry. That word didn’t sit right. It felt too sharp, too loud, too unforgiving. No—this feeling was quieter, duller, like a sore spot pressed again and again. Sulking, maybe. Brooding, if she were being dramatic. Which she sometimes was, even if only internally.

 

She understood now, with the benefit of a clearer head and a few long walks around the castle, that Professor Snape hadn’t meant to destroy her camera. She knew that. He wasn't the type to break something just to be cruel—not without purpose. And maybe, just maybe, he’d had his reasons. Logical ones, even.

 

But what she couldn’t quite forgive—what stuck like a thorn beneath her skin—was the fact that he told on her. She told him Eve was her friend. And he’d ignored her, like it hadn’t mattered at all.

 

So now, she did what she could in return. She ignored him.

 

Well, she tried.

 

She doubted he even noticed, but the quiet protest gave her a small sense of control. It started in little ways: she sat in the Great Hall where her eyes wouldn’t drift toward the high table, no matter how much her gaze wanted to search for him. When they passed one another in corridors—those quiet, in-between moments with few students lingering—she kept her head forward, offering no glance, no beaming smile. Nothing. The first Potions class since everything had been the hardest. She’d gripped her quill like it was a lifeline, eyes locked onto parchment, scribbling diligently while his voice echoed across the room like distant thunder. She didn’t look up once.

 

Well. Only once. Maybe twice. But it didn’t count if he didn’t catch her.

 

The one thing she couldn’t avoid—no matter how hard she tried—was her “position” as the messenger between him and Professor Sprout. Her soft spot for the gentle Herbology professor had always been her undoing.

 

That afternoon, Sprout had turned to her with that warm, sun-kissed smile and gestured toward the side table. “There’s the basket, dear. It’s what he requested yesterday. Please do tell him my apologies for the little delay.”

 

Darlina paused. Froze, really. Still, she gave a tiny nod, muttered a meek, “Of course, Professor,” and lifted the basket like it weighed far more than dried herbs and bundled roots. She stalled. Took her sweet time, actually. Spent twenty whole minutes meandering through the castle like she’d never seen its walls before. She admired the way light hit the stained glass in the west corridor. Counted the floor tiles. Stopped to coo at a cat that was probably McGonagall.

 

Eventually—inevitably—she reached the dungeons. The hallway outside his private office was dim, shadows flickering from torches that hissed quietly along the stone walls. The sun had almost set; most classes were finished. Maybe, maybe, he’d gone to dinner early.

 

She took a breath and knocked with the heavy iron ring.

 

Her heartbeat answered first.

 

Then his voice did.

 

“Enter.”

 

Of course he was there.

 

Darlina inhaled slowly, letting her breath shake just slightly before pushing the door open. She didn’t lift her gaze, didn’t dare meet his eyes, though she could feel it—that familiar, weighty stare he always wore like a second skin. She used to find comfort in it, oddly enough. Not today.

 

She walked toward the hearth, basket in hand, but his voice halted her halfway there.

 

“Good evening, Miss Lourdes. Place it here.”

 

She paused. No escaping it now. Her gaze lifted—only slightly—and sure enough, he was gesturing toward his desk, not unkindly, but not warmly either. That tone of his: neutral, almost rehearsed. Always just sharp enough to remind her where she stood. She stepped closer, her eyes fixed squarely on the mountain of books cluttering his desk. The pages looked ancient, parchment frayed and corners bent from too much use. Her gaze caught on one particularly open tome, its scrawled runes beckoning her curiosity.

 

And then, as if he’d noticed, the books—one after another—shut themselves. Each closed with a soft thunk before stacking neatly on the far end of his desk like obedient soldiers. Magic without flourish. Silent and efficient.

 

Right. Message received.

 

The desk now cleared, she placed the basket down gently.

 

“Good evening, sir,” she said, tone polite but clipped. “Professor Sprout apologizes for the delay. The basket contains the ingredients you requested yesterday.”

 

“Hmm?” he muttered, distracted.

 

She hesitated.

 

“I said—”

 

“Is there something interesting on the floor?”

 

That earned a blink. Her brow twitched in the softest frown, but before she could summon a reply, he exhaled—a sigh that sounded tired more than annoyed. She glimpsed him then, briefly, just enough to catch the crease between his brows. And just as quickly, her gaze dropped again to the perfectly polished tips of her shoes.

 

“Lovely,” she muttered under her breath. “I’ll take my leave now, sir.”

 

She was gone before he could form a response, her pace quick, heels clicking like punctuation down the stone corridor. Snape stared at the door as it clicked shut behind her. He pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes closing. A dull throb had begun pulsing at his temples, and no amount of logic seemed interested in dulling it.

 

He’d noticed it, of course—how she changed around him. How her voice, once so warm, now carried a quiet edge. How she wouldn’t look him in the eye anymore. How her smile—the one he pretended not to notice—had vanished the moment she stepped into the room. He knew exactly when it started. The day in the forest. The camera. The letter to her father.

 

He also knew he could justify all of it. Reason it out until the facts were stacked neatly like those books on his desk. Given the circumstances, his actions had been logical. Even necessary.

 

If only he could.

 

His gaze drifted back to the books. He reopened one, then another, searching the pages for something useful—anything that might inch them closer to answers. Incantations, theory, forgotten literatures. He read. Re-read. Re-cross-referenced. It was easier than thinking about her face.

 

But every few pages, his eyes flickered toward the threshold again. That damned door.

 

Her eyes lingered there in his mind. Wide. Frighteningly expressive. Raw and transparent. Honest in a way he wasn’t sure he remembered how to be. She didn’t deserve cruelty. That much was certain. But kindness from him often came warped, buried beneath layers of defensiveness and control.

 

He didn’t deserve her kindness. Not after how he’d treated her.

 

He closed his eyes, and there she was again—standing before him, fragile but upright, holding her own kind of stubborn dignity like a shield. It should’ve irritated him. But it no longer did. He sighed again, rougher this time, then bent his head back toward the pages. He would keep looking. Keep searching.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina only managed a wan, hollow sort of smile when the art project was announced—just as Eve had predicted. But fate, in its rare kindness, decided the pairs would be randomized. Darlina ended up with a Ravenclaw boy she barely knew—the quiet kind who always sat near the front and never raised his hand unless called. They spoke in soft tones, a bit awkward in that polite, introverted way. Shy people learning each other’s rhythms like a new language. Still, they managed to brew a handful of ideas together, enough to call it a productive start. She didn’t even dislike him. He was kind, and he didn’t press. But the moment class was dismissed, Darlina moved like a cat hurled into freezing water—fast, quiet, determined not to look back. She only hoped it wasn’t too obvious that she was avoiding Eve.

 

She kept walking. Farther and farther from the classroom, deeper into the heart of the castle. Her steps meandering, her thoughts noisier than the corridor at midday. Today, she wouldn’t go to Professor Sprout’s greenhouse because today called for something different. Something not rooted to soil and the safety of routine. More importantly, she needed to stop crying after every Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Her papers? Stellar. Top of the year, even. But her practical performance? Let’s just say hideous was being generous. She couldn’t rely on good theory forever, not if she wanted to pass. Not if she wanted to make something of herself.

 

No more waiting. No more sulking in bathroom stalls or hiding behind alcoves with her friends. She needed to practice, and she needed to start now. That’s what she kept telling herself, like a mantra—practice is the key.

 

Only problem?

 

She couldn’t find a damn room to do it in.

 

Her lips jutted into a pout as she roamed the corridors, searching aimlessly. Empty classrooms were all either locked, occupied, or smelled like damp chalk and moldy tapestries. She didn’t want something almost right. She wanted perfect. Private. Safe. Somewhere she wouldn’t be seen failing again and again. Because that’s what it would be—failure, at first. She turned a corner.

 

And then it hit her like a Bludger to the back of the head.

 

The Room of Requirement.

 

Merlin’s beard—how had she forgotten?

 

Excitement sparked behind her eyes, warm and golden. She almost laughed. Of course. Of course! A room that gives you exactly what you need. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? Her pace quickened, skirt whispering against her legs as she made for the seventh floor, a renewed spark in her chest that could only be described as hopeful desperation. She was nearly bouncing—quietly thrilled down to the soles of her shoes—as she reached the moving staircase, each step landing with the soft urgency of someone who just remembered where they left something important.

 

And then, the world decided to test her resolve.

 

Her breath caught as her eyes lifted and landed on the other staircase—where a familiar silhouette stood, black robes gathered around him like stormclouds stitched into fabric.

 

Professor Snape.

 

Of course.

 

Her grip on the railing tightened instinctively as the staircases shifted and met with a gentle clunk. There he was, right in front of her, tall and silent and inescapably sharp. Her fingers curled into the wooden rail as she walked forward without hesitation, gaze fixed ahead, refusing to acknowledge the brush of his robes against her sleeve.

 

There was so much space. Too much space, usually. But the second they crossed paths, it felt like the castle had conspired to shrink around them.

 

She didn’t look at him.

 

He wasn’t going to care. He never did, anyway. She passed him with a breathless defiance, head high, not even flinching when she caught the scent of parchment and potion-soaked wool.

 

And then, she was past him.

 

The moment she stepped foot onto the seventh floor, her lungs loosened, and her energy returned like a lamp relit. She faced the wall and paced three times, letting her thoughts shape themselves into intent. A room for practicing Defense. A room for focus. A room where no one could watch her fall on her arse for the fifteenth time.

 

Please, she thought, as the final step hit the stone.

 

And there it was.

 

The door appeared like magic—well, exactly like magic—and swung open to reveal a sanctuary built just for her.

 

Inside was everything she could’ve hoped for.

 

A wide, open space lit with soft, floating candles, padded floors charmed to absorb impact, shelves of textbooks she didn’t remember seeing in the library, and—of all things—a swinging round hammock-chair tucked into one corner, woven with soft wool and layered in plush, mismatched pillows like it had read her soul and offered her a hug. She nearly cried. Instead, she giggled—genuinely—and twirled once in the center of the room before catching herself. She had work to do.

 

With a bounce in her step, she made her way to the shelves, grabbing the first Defense textbook that didn’t look like it would crush her spine. She flipped through the pages, mouth twitching into a half-frown as she spotted underlines and notes already scrawled in the margins in unfamiliar handwriting. “Convenient,” she muttered, before plopping herself down onto the hammock, limbs folding like a collapsible chair. It creaked gently beneath her as she settled into the nest of pillows.

 

Comfortable. Ridiculously so.

 

She could’ve fallen asleep right then—but instead, she sat up, smoothed her skirt, and began to read aloud the instructions on disarming spells. Her voice wobbled at first, then steadied, especially now that she was alone. No professor watching. No classmates whispering. Just her, and the spell.

 

Her wand trembled slightly in her hand as she mimicked the movement, whispering, “Expelliarmus,” toward a hovering cushion the room had kindly summoned.

 

The cushion flew off its hook and thumped softly to the floor.

 

Darlina gasped. “I did it!” she whispered, then quickly cleared her throat. “Okay. Calm down. Again.”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina timed her entrance with the precision of someone trying not to be noticed, which, of course, only made her more noticeable. She slipped into the Potions classroom when she was sure at least half the students had already arrived. She didn’t bother looking up—she could tell by the almost reverent silence that Professor Snape was already at the front of the room, likely gliding around like a very cross bat assessing his prey.

 

She made her way to the back, the same seat she’d claimed last time. It was close to the door—an easy escape, if necessary. She told herself it wasn’t cowardice. It was strategy. Strategy was good. Safe. Clementine arrived not long after. He blinked, momentarily confused again as if seeing her in the back row defied the natural laws of Hogwarts. But then, without question, he slid into the seat beside her like it was where he was always meant to be.

 

She smiled at him. He smiled back.

 

And then Elias, from the next table over, returned Clementine’s smile—just a faint, polite curve of his mouth—and Darlina stared at him in muted betrayal.

 

He never smiles at me.

 

She pouted, ever so slightly, as she rummaged in her bag for a scroll and a quill. Unbelievable. At the front, Snape stood slowly and let his gaze sweep across the room, sharp as flint. It passed over the students with brisk calculation before it paused—ever so briefly—on her. She didn’t see it. She was too busy digging through her bag like it owed her a favor. But he noticed. He noticed the shift in her seat choice. He noticed the slump in her shoulders. He noticed far more than he had any right to.

 

His brow twitched—just once—then smoothed.

 

"Miss Lourdes," he said, voice low but unmistakably commanding.

 

Her head snapped up. Caught. That voice always made something in her spine stiffen. But instead of looking him directly in the eye, her gaze landed just a little above. His forehead. Safe zone.

 

“Yes, Professor?” she said softly, standing with the kind of caution one might use when approaching an unstable cauldron.

 

“Tell me,” he drawled, taking a step forward, “what is the significance of Herbology in the art of brewing?”

 

Oh. That.

 

He would start with her.

 

Darlina swallowed, gathering her thoughts like spilled potion ingredients. “Well,” she began, voice delicate but steady, “Herbology provides the foundation for ingredient knowledge—what parts of a plant are useful, how they behave in different environments, and how they interact with others.”

 

Snape raised an eyebrow, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “And?”

 

“And…” she hesitated, then bit her lower lip before continuing, “it teaches us how to handle ingredients correctly. Like—devil’s snare, for instance. Mishandling it could make it useless or dangerous in a Draught of Living Death.”

 

“A decent answer,” he said, circling slowly around his desk. “But hardly complete. What of timing? Environment? Preparation?”

 

She blinked. “You mean…if the plant was harvested during a full moon or stored improperly?”

 

He inclined his head, just a fraction. “You’d be surprised how many students fail to recognize the direct correlation between magical botany and potion efficacy. How many failed attempts could be avoided if they simply respected the botanical origins of their ingredients?”

 

Darlina tilted her head, brow furrowed. “So…you’re saying Herbology isn’t just useful—it’s crucial.”

 

“I’m saying,” he said, voice dangerously low and terribly smug, “that a potion is only as good as the hand that prepares its ingredients. A poorly cut root is just as damning as a mispronounced incantation.”

 

“Then maybe you should be teaching Herbology too,” she said before she could stop herself.

 

Dead silence.

 

Clementine looked like he was about to stop breathing. Even Elias turned.

 

Darlina blinked, mortified. “I—I mean, you know, since you care about it so much. Not that you don’t have enough to do already—”

 

Snape’s gaze narrowed. “Careful, Miss Lourdes. Your mouth may be getting ahead of your intellect.”

 

Her cheeks burned, but she smiled—sweet, soft, and a little defiant. “Wouldn’t be the first time, Professor.”

 

A long pause. His expression unreadable.

 

And then—he turned away.

 

“Five points to Hufflepuff,” he muttered, as if it were nothing.

 

Darlina blinked. Clementine blinked harder.

 

Five points? Was she hallucinating?

 

Snape began the lesson without another word, returning to the front of the room and launching into a merciless explanation about infusion times. But Darlina sat down, dazed, and—if anyone had looked closely—her hand was trembling just the slightest bit. Not much—just the smallest betrayal of nerves—but it was there, like the last flicker of heat from a fire someone thought they’d extinguished.

 

She didn’t look at him. Refused to, actually. However, every time she glanced up or around the room, somehow—like he had a sixth sense attuned only to her—he would call on her. Sharp. Cold. Deliberate. So she gave up. Furrowed her brows. Tracked him, eyes glued to the general vicinity of his chest—or his forehead, when she was brave enough.

 

Never his eyes.

 

And Merlin help her—never his mouth.

 

Because looking at his mouth only brought back that thoughts. The CPR. In the cursed solitude of hindsight, she couldn’t stop wondering what it would’ve felt like if she’d been fully awake. What his touch would have meant. What he might have been thinking. And that—that—was the problem. Sinful thoughts for a sinful girl, she scolded herself, shaking her head slightly as if the motion could cleanse her of the image. Wild. You’re being wild. Pull yourself together.

 

She dropped her gaze, ears buzzing, and wrote something on her scroll that resembled notes. She didn’t even know what the sentence was. It didn’t matter. By the time Snape dismissed them, she was already half out of her seat. She didn’t bother packing her things into her bag. Just clutched her scrolls and quill to her chest like a fleeing nun with contraband and bolted. Clementine, who’d barely zipped his bag, scrambled after her.

 

“Whoa—whoa, whoa. This is new, Lils,” he said, catching up as they rounded the corner past the dungeons. “You’re not staying behind again? No sneaky cleaning duty? No martyrdom today?”

 

She sighed, lacing her arm through his and leaning into him just enough to make her weight known. “I’m just tired.”

 

“Tired?” he echoed, tilting his head. “You? I thought staying behind gave you some weird spiritual fulfillment. All that wiping tables to process your feelings.”

 

“Not anymore, it seems,” she murmured, letting her cheek rest briefly against his shoulder.

 

“Well… if you say so.”

 

For a while, they walked in silence. Then Clementine gasped. Softly. Thoughtfully. “Did…” he hesitated. “Did something happen? Is this about the CPR, Lils?”

 

She shook her head. “No. Really. I swear.”

 

“You sure? Because—” he lowered his voice a little “—I know you. You’ve been acting different. Sitting at the back, bolting like you’re allergic to the man…”

 

“I’m not acting allergic around him,” she said.

 

“Okay, fine,” he amended. “Still, you good?”

 

“Mmhmm.”

 

“You know,” he said carefully, “it was just a medical procedure. Don’t feel weird around Professor Snape just because of it.”

 

“It’s really not because of that,” she said. Then, quieter, “Really.”

 

He didn’t push. He never did when she got that tone—the one that was soft but firm, a closed door that no amount of knocking could open. “Well…” He gave her a small smile. “If you say so. Do you wanna have a picnic again tomorrow?”

 

Her whole body lit up. She bounced beside him, eyes gleaming, and let out a soft squeal. “Of course! And let’s not tell Mike,” she whispered conspiratorially.

 

“It’ll be our dirty little secret,” Clementine said with a smirk.

 

She squeezed his arm and giggled, “Really? Why? Because the grass is dirty?”

 

He cackled, the sound echoing down the hallway. “Yeah, Lils. Yeah…”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

The impromptu picnic came to a lazy close with Michael softly snoring on the blanket and Clementine quietly observing the clouds with the quiet gravitas of a philosopher in a cardigan. Darlina sat between them, humming an unplaceable tune under her breath, fingers trailing absentmindedly through the blades of grass. But time eventually nudged them back to their schedules. Michael had Apparition, Clementine had another meeting, and Darlina... well, she had nothing but space. And lately, that space had been getting a little too crowded in her head. So she slipped away, feet carrying her to the place she’d been visiting far more than she dared admit.

 

The Room of Requirement.

 

She didn’t hesitate. Not anymore. She’d done the routine so many times this week that it was beginning to feel ritualistic, muscle memory. Her visits had become so frequent, she’d even begun trading her usual quiet walks in the greenhouse for the solitude of this room. She loved Professor Sprout. She loved plants. But lately, she just needed something else. The door appeared, elegant and exact. Her fingers touched the handle, turned it gently—and—“Hey!”

 

A voice. Startling. Close. Her eyes flew to the source, panic flaring for a split second. Without checking who it actually was, she yanked the door open and slid inside, shutting it behind her with a hurried thud. “Oh, that was close,” she whispered, forehead resting against the cool wood for a breath before she turned.

 

Inside, the room was as she’d left it: large, quiet, and custom-built for her needs. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors. Hammock by the corner. A training mannequin standing sentinel like a silent partner. It smelled faintly of old books, lavender, and something warm and wooden—like cinnamon baked into oak. She moved to the mirror and struck a playful little pose, lips quirked despite herself.

 

“Cute,” she mumbled, tying her hair up with a ribbon she tugged from her pocket. Her robes came off next, pooling neatly over the chair’s arm. She tugged her sweater’s hem down—it was soft charcoal wool, the Hufflepuff crest stitched right over her heart—and unfastened her tie, placing it carefully atop her folded outer layers. Underneath, she wore a tight white button-up shirt that hugged her frame a bit more than regulation would’ve liked. But it was comfortable. And when she practiced, she preferred to shed layers. Too many clothes meant too much sweat, and honestly? She didn’t feel like dragging laundry to the dorms tonight.

 

Then her eyes caught the bruise in the mirror.

 

Her movement stilled.

 

It peeked out—dark, ugly, blooming across her arm like something her skin was trying to forget. She winced. Leaned closer. It wasn’t as dark as it had been. But still, it throbbed like a low whisper. As a child, Pharell used to press little vials into her hands for bruises like this. Quick remedies. Easy fixes. But now she hesitated. She could go to Madam Pomfrey—but the matron would definitely ask to see it, and if she saw it...

 

No.

 

No, she couldn’t risk that.

 

Because if someone pointed it out, if someone gave it meaning, she might break. Not because it hurt—well, it did—but because it meant someone else knew. And worse, she fear she might give in and mention what really occured and they might blame him entirely. But she knew Professor Snape hadn’t meant to hurt her. He’d broken her camera, yes. And maybe, okay, maybe he had snitched on her to her father in that awfully smug way of his—but he didn’t deserve to be seen as cruel. Not for this.

 

So she let it be.

 

Let it hurt.

 

Let it remind her she could keep a secret, even from herself.

 

She stretched, slow and methodical. Her limbs ached faintly. She faced the mannequin and started her drills—evasive steps, spell movements in midair, defensive stances she’d learned and half-perfected over the days. It was hypnotic. Repetitive. When her muscles began to burn and her lungs refused to behave, she collapsed into the hammock and pulled a thick tome onto her chest. Some tedious textbook. She flipped to a random page and forced herself to read.

 

Ten minutes later, she was asleep.

 

She woke with parchment and ink smudged against her cheek. Blinking, disoriented. The castle was silent. Her stomach, however, was not. She looked at her watch and very nearly cursed aloud. Dinner had ended hours ago.

 

Groaning softly, she peeled the book off her chest and sat up, stretching until her spine popped and her toes curled inside her shoes. She checked her reflection in the mirror once—twice—patted down her hair, smoothed the hem of her skirt, and grabbed her things. The moment she stepped outside, winter greeted her like a slap. An icy gust tore through the corridor, sending a visible shiver down her spine. It wasn’t until she reached the second floor that she realized the real reason she was freezing: she'd left half her uniforms behind in the Room of Requirement. Robes, tie, everything except the button-up shirt and skirt clinging stubbornly to her body like it could make up for the absence.

 

She stopped, hovering awkwardly in place. Should she go back? Retrieve her robes before she actually froze to death? She turned halfway on her heel—then felt another cold gust barrel through and immediately shook her head. Nope. Too far gone. She was closer to the common room now anyway. The sweater would just have to suffer through this with her.

 

Her stomach let out a disgruntled groan.

 

Right. She hadn’t eaten. Not lunch, not dinner. Nothing but a biscuit and a couple bites of Clementine’s jam tart earlier. And now, of course, she was ravenous and slightly dizzy, which felt very on-brand for her life lately. As she padded down the corridor, she lowered her wand slightly, illuminating only the space around her feet. The castle was dark, eerily so. Paintings muttered under their breath or shrieked when the light brushed their frames. The silence pressed in like a weighted blanket.

 

And she was very, very alone.

 

She usually never walked the halls this late without her friends. She hummed a tune under her breath to keep herself company, something low and almost tuneless, just to anchor herself. Her heartbeat tapped a rhythm against her ribs—nervous, fast, like a warning drum.

 

Then she turned the corner. And smacked into a wall. Only—it wasn’t a wall. It moved. She flinched, instinctively taking a step back, but not fast enough—someone’s hand snapped out and grabbed her forearm to steady her. Her wand clattered to the floor with a sharp thunk. Her breath hitched as fingers curled over the tender place on her forearm where her bruise bloomed. Pain sparked. She whimpered, the sound escaping before she could bite it down.

 

The grip loosened immediately. But it was already too late. A wand rose in front of her face—someone else’s—and a cool, pale light illuminated the sharply angular features of the man she’d been dodging for nearly five days.

 

Professor Snape.

 

Darlina stared up at him with wide eyes, heart hammering somewhere just south of her throat. He looked exactly like he always did—severe, sharp, like every edge of him had been sanded into a weapon and then forgotten to be sheathed. His gaze narrowed the moment it landed on her face.

 

Darlina swallowed hard.

 

Her voice, when it finally emerged, was soft and too high-pitched to sound casual. “Evening, Professor.” She avoided his eyes, which was laughably hard when he was shining a light directly at her face. The hand that had steadied her lingered a second too long before retreating.

 

Snape’s voice was silk pressed over gravel—low, sardonic. “Miss Lourdes. Lurking about at this hour, are we?” he said, one brow rising just slightly. The sound of his voice did unfair things to her heart. It fluttered stupidly, like it didn’t remember why she was mad at him.

 

No. No fluttering allowed. He’s ancient and he snitched on you.

 

That steadied her heartbeat. Barely.

 

“I wasn’t lurking,” she murmured quickly, eyes fixating on some invisible smudge on the floor tiles. “I was just… on my way to the kitchens.”

 

It was the first thing that came to mind, and immediately, immediately, she regretted it. Because, oh no. That route didn’t even make sense. The kitchens were near the Hufflepuff common room—not remotely close to where she currently stood, halfway frozen on the second floor like a lost ghost with a bad alibi. Her stomach churned with panic. Had she actually just said that? She glanced up, just in time to see his eyes narrow. “Quit lying,” he gritted out. She flinched a little—not from fear, not exactly. From being caught. From how quick he was to read her like she was an open scroll with scribbles in highlighter.

 

“I’m not,” she muttered rebelliously, lifting her chin with all the faux-confidence she could muster. Her voice came out grumpy, sulky. She didn’t care if her lie was terrible. She’d already committed. Might as well ride it to the end of the cliff.

 

He stared at her, unimpressed. “What are you really doing, Miss Lourdes?” he asked, and then, with a sudden narrowing of his gaze: “And without your robes? Are you trying to catch pneumonia?”

 

He lifted his wand slightly as he spoke, and the beam of light caught her forearm. She froze. Because that was the moment he saw it. The bruise. The one she’d carefully hidden from everyone—the same one that bloomed dark across her skin like spilled ink, tender and quietly aching. Snape faltered. Just a fraction.

 

Whatever he’d meant to say next died on his tongue.

 

And Darlina—Darlina felt seen in the worst and strangest way. She instinctively dropped her eyes, trying to play it off, trying to will herself invisible. But her mind was already racing. She should have known this would happen. Stupid sweater. Stupid second floor. And then she remembered her wand. It had dropped earlier, hadn’t it? She turned slightly to go retrieve it, saw it lying just behind him—and began to move forward.

 

But then his hand—warm, long-fingered, slightly calloused—closed gently around her wrist. She stopped breathing. Her heart did an Olympic sprint against her ribs as her eyes flew up to his face. And found him already looking at her. Not just looking. Seeing. His eyes—deep, unreadable, too dark for comfort—were slightly widened. And for once, they weren’t narrowed in judgment or dipped in disdain.

 

They were soft. Alarmed.

 

“Your bruise…” he said, his voice lower than before. Rougher. “I…”

 

He stopped.He didn’t finish the sentence. And that—that was terrifying. Because Professor Snape was never at a loss for words. He  wielded them like blades, brandished them like shields. He could slice a person open with a syllable. But now—he was speechless. His lips parted slightly, like he was still searching, still trying to find the right thing to say. Darlina could’ve sworn he looked… stunned.

 

She blushed. Horribly. Shamefully.

 

The contact, the eye contact, everything was too much. She gently shook her wrist in his grasp, not unkindly, just needing space, breath, distance. He let go immediately, like her skin had burned him. The cold rushed back in the moment his hand left her skin. Without a word, she summoned her wand. It flew smoothly into her open palm, obedient and soft as a whisper. She didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know if she should say anything. But she spoke anyway. “Am I in trouble, Professor?”

 

Her voice was quiet, the words slipping out like steam in the air between them. He looked at her again—briefly—then at the fading bruise on her forearm. His jaw ticked. And then, for the second time that night, he seemed to come up entirely short. “No,” he said at last. “Follow me, Miss Lourdes.”

 

She blinked. “But—”

 

“Did I stutter?”

 

There it was. The tone. That classic Snape snap that could send students reeling. Darlina sighed. He had no right to be bossy when he was the one who ruined her weekend and snitched on her. And broke her camera. She was mentally preparing for the dramatic dungeon haul when—suddenly—he stopped, shrugged his cloak off in one swift, fluid motion, and took a step toward her. “May I?” he asked, low and not exactly tender, but not sharp either.

 

Darlina froze.

 

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes darted up to meet his. He wasn’t looking at her directly—he was focused on the cloak, on the motion, on not being too close. And still—still—her cheeks burned as she nodded quickly, almost too quickly.

 

It wasn’t sweet, per se. But it was something. She didn’t know what. He wrapped the cloak around her with a kind of impersonal grace, but the warmth—Merlin, the warmth—hit her like a wave. They smelled like parchment and something rich and dark and complex—like him. She swallowed, clutching the thick fabric close as he turned briskly and began walking.

 

Darlina followed. Sort of. The first few steps were fine. The fourth step nearly sent her tripping over the too-long hem. “Pfft—” she tried to suppress the laugh, she really did. But the moment she glanced down at how ridiculously dramatic the cloak looked on her—sweeping like a stage curtain behind her every step—it bubbled up in her chest like a hiccup of joy. She lifted the edge like he always did, trying to get that signature Snape swish. Of course, it ended up somewhere between ridiculous and adorable.

 

Snape turned to glance back at the sudden rustle behind him. His gaze landed on her. His expression—briefly—softened. And then he glared, the familiar sternness snapping back into place. Darlina straightened up like she’d just been caught doodling in class. He did a once-over—cloak swallowing her whole like a blanket fort—and, though he said nothing, there was the barest hint of amusement flickering across his face. Almost a smirk. But it disappeared quickly.

 

The silence returned.

 

They reached the door to his office. It opened with a near soundless click, the wards responding to his presence without hesitation. He stepped aside and gestured for her to enter. Darlina hesitated, just slightly. As she passed him, her breath caught again. The scent of his robes lingered faintly in the air between them—unmistakably him. Her stomach growled, traitorously.

 

She stepped inside.

 

Behind her, the door shut with a soft, but final snick. Locked. Of course it was. She didn’t ask why. She was too preoccupied with how awkwardly she was standing in the middle of the room, arms still bundled in cloak that wasn’t hers, wondering if she looked as ridiculous as she felt.

 

And thinking about food. Because despite everything—her hunger was winning.

 

“Take a seat, Miss Lourdes,” he said, already moving. She blinked. “Where, sir?” she murmured, eyes drifting between the formal chair across from his desk and the familiar wingback by the hearth—the one that always looked too inviting for its own good.

 

“By the hearth,” he replied without glancing back. “Save yourself the trouble of the cold.”

 

Well then.

 

Darlina padded over, the thick weight of his cloak trailing around her ankles. She sank into the chair gingerly, tugging the fabric closer around her as if it could protect her from more than just the drafty air. She felt small in his office. Not in a bad way—just... aware. Of her presence. Of his. Of the silence humming with things left unsaid.

 

Snape moved with purpose, vanishing through the door that led into his personal laboratory—the same unnecessarily long stretch of corridor she hadn't seen since her detention. She watched the doorway like it might offer answers, or maybe just excuses.

And then, predictably, her mind began to wander.

 

She was hungry. Her feet were cold. And the longer she sat in his chair wrapped in his cloak, the more her body began to relax in betrayal of her better judgment. She had to fight the urge to tuck her knees under her and curl up like she had last time.

 

Instead, she tightened her hold on the cloak.

 

They smelled like him.

 

The door opened a few minutes later with a soft click, and Snape returned. He held a jar in his hand—glass, simple, utterly unthreatening—and yet, Darlina immediately tensed. Because he was coming toward her. And then—Merlin save her—he knelt beside her. Like he was proposing. Her eyes doubled in size. “Professor…?”

 

He didn’t answer right away, just set the jar gently on the table like it was something delicate. “Take off the cloak for the meantime, please.” he said quietly, voice low and coaxing in the kind of way one might use with a spooked animal.

 

Please, he’d added. Please.

 

That was new.

 

Her hands moved on instinct, fingers fumbling as she peeled the cloak from her shoulders. The chill hit her immediately, but it wasn’t what made her shiver. It was him. It was this.

 

“I’m going to touch you,” he said, and something in his voice faltered—just slightly. “Is that okay?”

 

Oh. He asked. Darlina blinked. Her brain short-circuited for half a second before her mouth jumped in. “Err—okay.” Her cheeks flared red, because suddenly she remembered the bruise. The stupid, ghostly smear across her forearm he’d noticed earlier. He hadn't forgotten it. He reached for her arm. His fingers, cool but steady, cradled her wrist. He dipped the other hand into the jar with careful precision—an ointment or balm of some kind—and then applied it to the bruise.

 

Darlina swallowed. His touch wasn’t overly gentle. It was focused. Exact. Intentional. And yet— Her breath caught. Her thighs pressed together of their own accord—in that slow, spiraling, confusing way her body sometimes reacted to things that felt… a bit too much. Focus, she scolded herself.

 

He’s ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera.

 

Right. Exactly.

 

Completely unacceptable.

 

And yet, as he brushed a thumb over the edge of the bruise, not looking at her once, she couldn’t help but notice the quiet—how the room had stilled, how she could hear both their breaths like a pendulum ticking back and forth.

 

She tried to remember all of it. She really did.

 

The camera. Her mum.

 

Her lips pressed together as the cold salve touched her skin—startling at first, sharp as peppermint, and then... oddly soothing. It bloomed warmth a few seconds later, easing into her like the kind of spell you didn’t realise you needed until it was already working.

 

She clung to her mantra. He’s ancient. He snitched on her. He broke her camera—but… who was she kidding? He didn’t mean to ruin it. Her gaze dropped to where he knelt beside her, brow furrowed in concentration like the whole world might crack open if he didn’t get this part right. Something in her chest went tight, pulled taut like a violin string—sharp and aching and far too delicate. If only he’d reacted differently. If only he hadn’t dragged her out like that, hadn’t snitched, hadn’t—

 

—hurt her.

 

The bruise throbbed like a memory, dull and throbbing.

 

She watched him. Studied him. The curve of his frown, the fine lines of focus around his eyes. He looked almost... smaller from down there. Not physically, of course—Snape was all angles and height and intimidating presence—but just then, with him kneeling and her watching, there was a strange tilt in perspective. For a fleeting moment, she felt bigger than him.

 

He must’ve sensed her gaze because he looked up suddenly, catching her eyes with surgical precision.

 

She froze.

 

Her breath caught, chest rising. Then she flushed, heat curling in her cheeks t. She turned away and cleared her throat, too quickly.

 

He didn’t comment. Just took his wand and pressed it to her skin, murmuring something low and deliberate. The spell shimmered across her arm, and when she looked again, the bruising had faded—still there, but less angry. Less raw. Her eyes met his once more, and this time... the warmth was gone.

 

The mask had slipped firmly back into place.

 

And she should’ve looked away. Really, she should have. But she didn’t. Her gaze lingered, unblinking, as if she could see through the invisible walls between them if she just tried hard enough. She gave him a small smile. Soft. Hesitant. It was barely there, but it was real.

 

He didn’t return it.

 

Her gaze dipped to his hand—the one not currently closing the jar—and something fluttered in her stomach. Not nerves. Something confusing. The kind of feeling that made her squeeze her thighs together, just to ground herself. To not spiral into thoughts she had no business having right now.

 

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

In.
Out.

 

Her stomach grumbled.

 

Of course it did.

 

Mortified, she snapped her gaze down to the floor, cheeks blooming red all over again as she bit her lip hard enough to regret it. Because now, on top of everything else, she was cold, confused, kind of mad, and undeniably hungry.

 

Fantastic.

 

“Would you like some tea?” he asked, already rising from where he’d been kneeling beside her. His voice was low, casual, as if they hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes locked in a silence that could crack stone.

 

She blinked up at him, the offer catching her off-guard. “No, sir…” she murmured quickly, shrinking back into his robes like they were armor. Or camouflage.

 

Snape paused, studying her. “Then what do you want?”

 

She blinked again. Does he know how to make everything?

 

“Um… a Chai Latte?” she offered, unsure if she was being cheeky or honest.

 

He didn’t respond—just hummed under his breath and turned away, disappearing back into the same door. Darlina stared after him, unsure if she'd just committed a crime or placed an order at a café. The fire cracked in the hearth, a soft rustle against the walls, and she sat still as the chair around her warmed, wrapping his cloak around herself once again. A few minutes passed, and then the door creaked open again. Snape reappeared with a tray.

 

Her eyes widened. “Sir—the latte’s enough, really,” she said, a little breathless. The tray had food on it. Actual food. Not hospital wing scraps or leftover biscuits. Full plates. Silver cutlery. Something that smelled a lot like roasted potatoes and lemon thyme chicken.

He ignored her protest, setting the tray on the side table with practiced care.

 

“I noticed you weren’t at dinner,” he said simply.

 

Her face flushed. He noticed?

 

He gestured toward the tray. “And before you start overthinking—no, I didn’t cook it just for you.” His eyes rolled. “I summoned a kitchen elf.”

 

The corners of her lips twitched, but she caught herself before they could betray her. “What time is it?” she asked instead, awkwardly picking at the robe. “Do kitchen elves even work this late?”

 

“They rest,” he said, not missing a beat. “Fear not, Miss Lourdes. They are not mistreated in this castle.”

 

She cleared her throat. He sat across from her, taking the matching armchair like he belonged there—as if this were a normal evening.

 

Suddenly, the table between them didn’t feel like enough distance.

 

She shifted in her seat, cheeks still hot. He’s ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera. She repeated it like a chant, like a prayer meant to keep her grounded. And when her mind drifted back to her broken camera—the small stitched moments her mother captured with it—her heart steadied again. Returned to something sharp and sore.

 

“Eat,” Snape ordered. “Now.”

 

She furrowed her brows. “Are you just going to… watch me eat?” she asked cautiously, fork hovering like a weapon. He arched a brow. “Go on. Your stomach’s grumbling is becoming insufferable.”

 

Her lips parted slightly in indignation. She squinted at him—mildly bratty now—but didn’t protest further. She picked up the fork with hesitant fingers and dug in, lowering her gaze to the plate. The food was warm. Seasoned. Perfect.

 

She hadn’t even realised how much she’d needed it.

 

So, she ate. Carefully. Quietly.

 

But she didn’t look up. Not once. Because if she did… she knew she’d find him watching her. And if she saw that look on his face—the one she couldn’t name—she might forget how mad she was supposed to be. She could feel his gaze. But strangely, it didn’t bother her. Not the way it should have.

 

Which, somehow, made it worse.

 

He’s ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera. Her grip on the fork tightened.

Right. Her camera. The only thing she had left that made her feel close to her mother.

 

And he—he—

 

She blinked hard, looking down at the plate again, as though the mashed potatoes could answer for all of it.

 

By the time she’d scraped up the last remnants of food, Snape had retrieved a newspaper from Merlin-knows-where and was now perusing it with the sort of grim concentration that suggested either riveting political scandal or a deeply outdated crossword. She couldn’t quite tell. It looked old, a bit yellowed around the edges. But she wasn’t about to ask.

 

Good. At least now she could breathe again.

 

She reached for the goblet of chai latte, cupping it between both hands like a lifeline. Her fingers trembled faintly against the warm metal. She looked around the room—the old shelves, the flickering hearth—anything but him. The smell of cinnamon, clove, and star anise rose with the steam, soft and soothing. She sipped slowly, letting the warmth coat her tongue, trying not to think of the way his eyes sometimes lingered too long. The cup was nearly empty when she finally nudged the tray away. The quiet scrape of wood on stone echoed louder than it should have—and almost instantly, Snape lowered the paper. His gaze flicked to her, then to the plate, then back. With a silent flick of his wand, the tray vanished.

 

She flinched slightly at the abruptness. “I believe we have a lot to talk about,” he said, voice low and unreadable.

 

Right. Yes. That whole… CPR thing.

 

Her cheeks ignited all over again. She nodded stiffly, folding her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl awaiting scolding. He’s ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera. She repeated it in her head like a rosary of resentment, though it was losing its sting with every awkward beat of his too-solemn demeanor.

 

Then—

 

“First and foremost, Miss Lourdes,” he began, tone clipped and careful, “I deeply apologize for…” He paused, jaw working. She noticed the tight clench of his fist. “For placing my hands on you. It was unintentional. Regardless, I hurt you.” His voice was razor-thin now, but trembling with something quieter. “And for that, I deserve whatever punishment you see fit.”

 

Her head snapped up. “No—sir—please. You don’t need punishment. It’s—it’s fine,” she said quickly, stumbling over the words.

 

He narrowed his eyes.

 

“I mean—it wasn’t intentional. I know that.” Her voice dropped, softer now, steadier. “That’s why I never told anyone. You didn’t mean to. And I… I know it wasn’t you, not really.”

 

He studied her, as if waiting for any trace of sarcasm, but found only earnestness. Reluctantly, he sighed, dragging a hand down the bridge of his nose. The tension in his shoulders ebbed—fractionally. After a long, measured silence, he gave a curt nod. But then his voice returned, steel-threaded.

 

“However…”

 

Oh, great. She straightened a little, spine tensing like a cat sensing incoming doom.

Here it comes.

 

“I won’t have you gallivanting into the Forbidden Forest whenever the mood strikes you, Miss Lourdes,” he said sharply. “It’s called forbidden for a reason. It is not a whimsical stroll for sentimental students with an affinity for trees.”

 

Her eyes dropped instantly to the floor, lashes trembling. “What could even happen in a forest?” she muttered under her breath, defiance curling like a spark in her chest. “I know nature, sir. Mind you—I…”

 

She stopped. His gaze darkened.

 

“There are creatures in that forest you have never read about, and would do well not to meet.” His tone was low, almost guttural. “You may think yourself familiar with the wild, but this is not the countryside nor a botanical daydream. You are a student. You cannot go alone. Do you understand?”

 

She swallowed thickly, hands tightening instinctively on the edge of his cloak where they still hung loosely around her shoulders. A nod, small. Almost invisible.

 

“I said—do you understand?”

 

She nodded again, tighter this time.

 

“Use your words.”

 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Okay, okay—I understand,” she grumbled, glancing toward the hearth, blinking too fast.

 

The fire crackled on, indifferent. Her shoulders drooped slightly, the weight of his authority more real than Clementine’s warnings had ever been. When it came from Snape, it felt final. Like a door slamming shut. She could already feel the ache of loss, sharp and stupid, blooming in her chest like a wilted flower. She wouldn't be able to see the willow again. Not the way it swayed like it was waving to her, not the way the breeze wrapped around her.

 

Snape let out a dramatic sigh, deep and theatrical. She looked up through wet lashes, and he rolled his eyes in that grand, exasperated way of his—as if her sadness personally inconvenienced the workings of his soul.

 

“Fine,” he muttered, like the word burned.

 

She blinked, startled. “Sir?”

 

“I will allow you to visit your beloved forest,” he said with irritation laced through every syllable, “but only if I am present. I will attempt—attempt—to spare you a sliver of my free time. Merlin help me. Just—” he gestured vaguely at her face, scowling, “enough with the pitiful tears.”

 

Her breath caught. The rest of his words blurred into background noise, drowned out by the sound of hope lighting up her chest like firelight catching on gold. He said yes.

 

A tear slid down her cheek—then another—but this time, her lips parted into a smile, wide and warm, something earnest and devastating in its purity.

 

Snape’s eyes widened minutely.

 

It was comical, almost—watching him try not to look like he’d just made a grievous tactical error. He cleared his throat again, lower this time. “You are quite impossible.”

🦢

Notes:

Your comments hyped me up y'all. HEHE. I love it so much. And eurgh, there's so many cute shit here I'm so... I WANT IT. His cloak? GIMME THAT.

And yes, Darlina bae, we get it: He's ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera. I think I'd dream of this shit just from the amount of times it was mentioned lol

We love our men ancient. Yes? Yes.

Do we forgive him...?

Chapter 24: The Bloom of Unknown

Notes:

Okay, mini confession. As I was writing this chapter, I realized it was supposed to be cloak, not robe. So just pretend Snape gave her his cloak in the previous chapter! I’m pretty sure I updated that scene a few days ago, so we should be all good now.

Also, apologies for the delay—summer classes have officially kicked in, and honestly, EURGHH. I’m doing my best to juggle everything, but thank you for being patient with me while I try not to drown in academic shits. Hope this chapter still hits all the right spots <3

         SNAPE LET DARLINA CRY in the old wingback chair near the hearth, pretending to busy himself with the books on his shelves. They didn’t need arranging—he’d reorganized them twice already this week—but the task gave his hands something to do and his eyes something else to look at. Her sniffles were soft, constant, maddening.

 

He nearly sighed in relief when the chair creaked—just a small shift of weight, but enough to draw his attention. He turned, expression unreadable save for the subtle squint of his eyes. “Where are you going?”

 

Darlina looked dazed, like she hadn’t expected him to speak. She tilted her head, wiping her cheeks—absently—with the sleeve of his cloak. His cloak. Realization dawned on her face and froze her mid-motion. Her eyes flicked to him sheepishly, as if she’d committed some high treason against the Ministry.

 

He noticed. He pretended he didn’t.

 

“I’ll head back to my dormitory, sir,” she murmured, voice soft and a little thick from the crying.

 

Snape glanced at his wristwatch and gave a curt nod. “I’ll escort you.”

 

As expected, she shook her head, polite but firm in her shyness. “No, sir. I’ll be fine on my own.”

 

“I insist,” he said, tone brooking no argument.

 

Darlina opened her mouth, clearly wanting to protest—but one glance at his face, and all the fight drained out of her. With a quiet sigh, she nodded. No one ever won against Professor Snape. Not when he used that voice. She hugged his cloak tighter around herself—far too large on her, draping like velvet armor—and followed him as he opened the door. Or rather, almost did. He stopped, lips pressing into a line, and gently shut it again. Then turned back to her, expression unreadable but for the quirk of one eyebrow.

 

“Why were you wandering the corridors late at night, Miss Lourdes?”

 

Darlina nearly groaned. Seriously? She thought they were way past that. She avoided his gaze, fiddling with the cuff of his cloak. “I really was just heading to the kitchens,” she offered, too quickly.

 

He gave her a flat look. “You’re fooling no one here.”

 

“Fine,” she muttered, cheeks puffing as she exhaled, gaze darting toward his shelves. He caught the gleam in her eyes—just for a second, but it was unmistakable. That look of wonder. That sparkle. “I fell asleep in the library,” she said at last, a little too casually.

 

He could have read her mind then. Could have seen through the lie—not malicious, not even particularly well-concealed. Just her. Deflecting. And he could feel it in his bones, the itch of unspoken truths clinging to her voice. But he didn’t press. When her eyes met his again, wide and raw in that way only hers could be, he merely sighed and gave a slow nod. He could read minds. But he didn't always want to. Some things—he believed—should be spared.

 

He opened the door once more and gestured for her to go first. She did, silently, biting her lip as she passed. He looked away.

 

They walked together in silence through the dungeons, her footsteps quiet, his cloak trailing behind her like a shadow stitched to her heels. Snape assumed she’d remain quiet the entire walk, especially after what had transpired.

 

He wouldn’t blame her for keeping her distance. In fact, he encouraged it.

 

Which is why her voice, when it came, caught him off guard.

 

“Will you really do it?”

 

It came barely above a whisper, a sliver of sound tucked between footfalls in the quiet corridor. But he heard it. Of course he did. He didn’t stop walking. “What of, exactly?” he asked, even though he knew. He always knew.

 

“You’ll come with me in the forest?” Her eyes flicked up to him—there, even in the dim torchlight, they sparkled with that strange kind of hope she always seemed to carry. No matter how many times the world handed her disappointment, she kept reaching for the next sliver of light. Ridiculous, he thought. Unwise. Soft. And yet…

 

And yet he didn’t look away.

 

There was something in those eyes. Something far too alive for the dungeons. Something warm-blooded. Restless. A terrible and beautiful contrast to his world of stone and shadow. Perhaps that was why his body leaned ever so slightly forward before his mind caught up and ordered it still.

 

“I will try to, Miss Lourdes,” he said at last. His voice was clipped, measured. “Don’t get your hopes up.”

 

But he knew she would. And she did.

 

She didn’t say anything, but her steps shifted. Livelier. Almost light. And he hated—loathed—how easily she bounced back. How easily she still wanted him to come. After everything. They reached the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room too quickly. Too soon. So many things unsaid lingered in the space between them, coiled like shadows behind torches. But Darlina, ever the fool for kindness, looked up at him with a bashful little smile, heart practically pounding out of her chest.

 

She unwrapped his cloak from around her small frame, folding it gently before holding it out with both hands. “Thank you, Professor.”

 

When his fingers brushed hers to take it, it was so brief it couldn’t be called a touch. But her breath hitched all the same, and she looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. The corridor’s chill returned without warning, curling around her like smoke.

 

“What are you waiting for?” he asked dryly.

 

Darlina blinked. Then blinked again. “Oh—um.” She gestured vaguely at the entrance like it had just appeared out of nowhere. “Yup. Got to go, sir. Thanks.”

 

She performed the rhythm against the threshold—a silly little tune she’d memorized long ago, probably humming it under her breath the entire time—and the stone door finally groaned open. He didn’t say anything else. Just nodded once. And she slipped inside. Not before glancing over her shoulder to see that, yes—he was still there. Standing in the corridor. Watching. As if ensuring she made it in safely.

 

As if her safety really mattered.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“It was you.”

 

The voice came softly, coated in mild accusation. Darlina’s steps faltered mid-hop, her muddy gardening boots scuffing against the stone as she turned her head. “Huh?”

 

“I saw you,” said the voice again, a bit more sheepishly this time.

 

It was Irmak—the Gryffindor prefect. She recognized him instantly, of course. Professor McGonagall had also once torn into him in Headmaster Dumbledore’s office for his involvement in the Black Lake incident. Something about ‘setting a poor example for younger students.’ Darlina remembered shrinking in her seat during that tirade on his behalf.

 

 

“You saw me?” she echoed, brows furrowed. “Er… well, I can see you now, too?”

 

He laughed. “No, I meant at the seventh floor. I shouted at you.”

 

She froze, back straightening like a board. Her face flushed in horror as the moment clicked—Room of Requirement. “Huh?” she squeaked, voice an octave higher than intended as she turned away, trying to will her cheeks back to a normal temperature.

 

“Hey—it’s fine. You’re not in trouble,” Irmak reassured, hands raised like she was some startled cat he didn’t want to spook. “It’s alright to visit that room. We all have… things. Stuff we don’t want seen.”

 

She blinked at him, slowly. “Then why did you bring it up?”

 

“I dunno.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I was just… curious. And sorry if I startled you when I yelled. I guess I have zero indoor voice. Shouldn’t’ve screamed like that. You probably thought I was about to hex you or something.”

 

She giggled despite herself. “You’re right. I did panic. A little. Just a little.”

 

“You heading to the library?”

 

“Yeah. Library hours,” she said with a small smile, brushing a leaf off her cardigan. “Routine, you know.”

 

“Right. That…” He walked beside her now, their paces falling into an accidental rhythm. They reached the familiar creak of the floorboard just outside the library doors when he spoke again.

 

“Listen… about the incident—I mean, you know—I didn’t mean for that to happen. It wasn’t intentional.”

 

She blinked again. His awkwardness was almost endearing.

 

“It’s okay,” she said with a gentle smile. “I forgive you.”

 

 “Still, if there’s anything—anything I can do—”

 

“Really—there’s nothing—”

 

Except there was. Her words stopped halfway to the surface.

 

She’d spent that morning in the Room of Requirement again, flinging spells at mannequins like a madwoman with something to prove and no one to witness it. The embarrassment from last night—the forgotten uniform, the camera, Professor Snape’s eyes—it all still clung to her ribs like a too-tight sweater. But somewhere between her fifth and sixth misfired Stunning Spell, she’d realized that practicing alone wasn’t enough.

 

She needed someone to fight back.

 

Clementine and Michael were her first thoughts, but the idea of harming either of them—accidentally or not—made her want to lie down and never get back up. She couldn’t duel people she loved. It felt wrong. Like betrayal in wand form. But Irmak? She wouldn’t feel so bad if she accidentally knocked him off his feet. She opened her mouth. And then—

 

“Is there any particular reason as to why the both of you are blocking the path?”

 

She flinched so violently it looked like she’d been hit with a mild jinx.

 

Of course.

 

Him. Again.

 

Professor Snape stood at the other end of the corridor, arms folded beneath his cloak like an omen made flesh. His eyes flicked from Irmak to Darlina, and she swore the air in the library entryway turned several degrees colder. Irmak stood a little straighter. Darlina, meanwhile, tried very hard not to spontaneously combust.

 

This was Irmak Ibrahim beside her. Irmak, who was already on thin prefect ice because of one bad decision. And Professor Snape witnessed her… what? Talking to him—about to request some help from him? She wasn’t thinking. Obviously. Maybe her brain had gone all fuzzy because of last night, when Professor Snape’s voice had dipped low and something in her chest had done a thing. She hadn’t thought this through. What if he assumed things? What if he reported things to her father?

 

The panic was starting to crawl up her throat.

 

She heard Irmak respond, something neutral and unbothered, but the words passed through her like vapor. Her ears buzzed. Her vision narrowed. And when Snape stepped between them, parting them with nothing but presence, both she and Irmak reflexively took a step back. She looked up at him—eyes narrowed just a fraction, just enough to suggest Really?—then turned to Irmak and offered him a tight, apologetic smile. It wasn’t his fault. But she was already falling in step behind Snape, her legs moving before her logic caught up.

 

Why was he even here?

 

That question hung unanswered as he strode wordlessly into the library, toward the circular table enchanted to materialized every Saturday like an awkward, oversized dinner arrangement. The kind of table that made you feel like anything you said would be archived forever in some invisible ledger of adolescent sins. It looked less like a study session and more like they were all about to confess to crimes they hadn’t committed. All seventh years were required to attend, of course. This study session is mainly a preparation for the important examination that would determine the fate of their academic career—to which magical university they could possibly apply to. The sessions only happened twice a month, strictly scheduled. One week on, one week off. She remembered: Hufflepuffs this week, a break next week, then back again. Usually, the pairings were fixed. Hufflepuffs with Slytherins. Ravenclaws with Gryffindors. Today, though, there wasn’t a single Slytherin in sight.

 

But Gryffindors? They were everywhere.

 

Perhaps the schedule changed, or maybe something had happened behind the scenes. More pressingly, Professor Sprout wasn’t there.

 

She blinked, confused. She’d just come from the greenhouse and hadn’t seen her there either—she’d assumed her Head of House was running late, but clearly, she wasn’t coming at all. Which meant—oh. Of course.

 

Professor Snape was overseeing the session today.

 

“Hi, Darlina!”

 

Oh no.

 

The scrape of a chair echoed behind her, sharp and cheerful.

 

“Hi, Eve,” she smiled, but it was about 40% enthusiasm, 60% thinly veiled dread. Eve, however, remained blissfully unaware. The girl chirped happily as she sat beside her. Darlina cast a sideways glance at Snape. He didn’t look at her. Not even once. Her shoulders relaxed half an inch. Maybe he wouldn’t notice. Maybe he wouldn’t report it.  But even as the hopeful thoughts skittered through her brain, another, more dangerous one crept in behind them: Would he tell her father, again? And if that happened… she didn’t even want to think about the consequences. Her freedom, her privileges, all were already hanging by a thread. What would be next? Would she be pulled out of Hogwarts entirely?

 

She twirled a loose strand of hair around her finger, trying to steady her breath.

 

In. Out. Breathe. Don’t spiral.

 

Another body dropped into the seat beside her. She turned, half-expecting a Hufflepuff, maybe someone quiet. It was Irmak. Her smile faltered. Again. Not because she didn’t forgive him already—but because behind him came his friends. Gryffindors. A gaggle of them. Sliding into chairs with a casual confidence. She was surrounded. Again. And maybe it would’ve been fine—would’ve been—if a certain professor weren’t within earshot. If said professor hadn’t already made her the star witness in the trial of her ‘own mistake’. And, worse, shattered her trust in the one authority figure she thought might give her a tiny break.

 

She crossed one leg over the other, slowly. Her life was kind of a mess right now.

 

“What the fuck, Irmak? Go away!” Eve whisper-shouted, practically draping herself across the table like a deranged tablecloth, aggressively shoving at Irmak’s shoulder.

 

Irmak didn’t flinch. He raised a perfectly unimpressed brow. “I’m a prefect. I can sit wherever I want.”

 

“Prefect, my ass. We all know—”

 

“Quiet!”

 

The word cracked through the air like the snap of a wand. Professor Snape was now glaring straight at their corner, brows drawn with such precision it could cut glass. Darlina’s stomach plummeted.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he said, cool and clipped, “quit talking and start reviewing. Come.”

 

He beckoned with two fingers, as though summoning a house-elf. And like one, she obeyed—albeit with a distinctly human lack of enthusiasm, rising from her seat at an agonizing pace. Eve gaped. “But it was me—!”

 

Snape didn’t even blink at her interruption. His eyes were still on Darlina, hard and unreadable, and when she reached him, he gave a subtle nod toward a seat isolated from the rest of the students—quiet, distant, dreadfully close to where he stood. It was strategic. Of course it was.

 

Without a word, Darlina took the seat. Her chest tightened. Not a soul near her. Not a single familiar laugh or harmless distraction to buffer the weight of his presence. “Begin reviewing. Now,” came his voice again.

 

A book unfolded itself on the desk before her, enchanted and eager to begin. Dutifully, Darlina flipped it open.

 

Nature of Defensive Charms... Lingering Effects of Minor Curses... Blah, blah, blah.

 

Her chin sank into her palm as she turned another page, a yawn escaping before she could trap it behind her lips.

 

“Fix your posture, Miss Lourdes.”

 

The words came without hesitation. She tensed, startled—and straightened up, quickly, almost on instinct. Her sleepy eyes darted back toward him, narrow with vague annoyance, but he wasn’t even looking at her. Not directly, anyway. His gaze was cast across the room, scanning the far end of the circular table as if she hadn’t just been gently scolded.

 

Still. She obeyed. Of course she did.

 

A few more pages in, and she realized she was still staring at the same sentence she'd read five times already. The words blurred.

 

Something about curse aftereffects. Something about spell residue and energy drainage. Something she was definitely going to fail to explain later if asked. But none of it landed. Not really. Her mind was elsewhere. It drifted, again, maddeningly, back to last night.

 

Back to the quiet, breathless moment where he wrapped his cloak around her shoulders like it was nothing. Back to the touch that had been too gentle to be an afterthought. Back to the maddening warmth of wool and fire and him, and the way, for one split second, she—

 

No. She cut the thought off with a breath. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the page. She had no business remembering it. And yet, she kept doing just that. Each time she tried to concentrate, her mind drifted—not to the page, but to him. To the way he moved. The nearly inaudible sound of his robes as he paced. The way she just knew he lingered a little longer by her side than anyone else’s.

 

It was maddening.

 

She exhaled. She was overthinking again. Overreacting. Projecting softness where there was none.

 

He's ancient. He snitched on you. He broke your camera.

 

Right. Her personal mantra. A slap back to reality. She clung to it. She almost forgot about that. Almost nearly forgive him—just with that kindness he showed her—but really, who wouldn’t? He was being so kind. Then again… having access to the forest is one thing—but what about her blooming friendship with Eve? What about her camera? She didn’t even know how to fix it. Didn’t have the heart to ask. Didn’t have the guts to tell Pharell. And she hated disappointing people. Hated that lump in her throat when she imagined Pharell’s face if—when—she told him the truth. So no. No forgiveness. Not yet. Not just because of one unexpected act of kindness.

 

Then, finally, salvation: the bell rang.

 

A collective shuffle echoed through the room as students began packing up. She shut the book gently but left it lying on the desk, committing the page number to memory as she stretched. Her spine cracked softly. She arched her arms over her head, shook out her legs beneath the table, and let out a yawn. She reached for her bag—and froze.

 

Professor Snape stood just ahead, his black eyes catching hers like a net.

 

Just for a second.

 

Just long enough to make her stomach twist.

 

She hesitated. She didn’t know whether she should speak. Say something polite. Pretend like they were back on civil terms again—if they ever had been. With Professor Sprout, she’d have said thank you and goodbye. She’d have smiled, sweet and genuine and soft.

 

But this wasn’t Professor Sprout.

 

This was him.

 

Instead, she offered a small, barely-there smile and turned away without a word. And even as she walked out, something in her chest remained slightly unsteady.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“Guess what, Lina?” Michael’s arm slung lazily over her shoulders as they strolled toward the Great Hall. Darlina cast him a wary side glance. “If you say dragon hunting again, I swear I’ll hex you.”

 

Michael snorted. “Please. This is better. An adventure, without Clementine, obviously.”

 

She wrinkled her nose. “Why do I feel like this is going to involve breaking rules?”

 

“Because it absolutely does,” he said proudly. “And before you start—yes, we’re keeping it from him. Clem’s the head boy, Lina. He practically breathes responsibility. He’d rat us out by accident.”

 

“He’s not a snitch,” she defended, voice soft but laced with conviction, crossing her arms under Michael’s hold.

 

Michael smirked. “Sure he’s not. But this party?” He leaned in dramatically. “It’s hush-hush. Forbidden. Alcohol-soaked. Possibly involves a live niffler. You in?”

 

Darlina hesitated, her lips twitching. “I guess…” Her voice was quiet, but her eyes held that spark—that familiar flicker of rebellion she always denied she had. Her thoughts flicked back to the Halloween Party. The Room of Requirement. The chaos. The music. The moment she danced with a Slytherin boy who sang Bowie lyrics to her. And just like that, nostalgia won over hesitation.

 

By the time they slipped into the Room of Requirement—now transformed into something between a speakeasy and a rave—her senses were swallowed whole.

 

It was chaos.

 

Glorious, glitter-drenched chaos.

 

A Gryffindor girl in a sequined corset was balancing two glowing goblets while riding a broomstick over the crowd. Someone had conjured enchanted snow to fall from the ceiling, but it smelled faintly like firewhiskey. The music pulsed like a heartbeat, loud enough to rattle one’s ribs.

 

Darlina blinked. “Merlin’s beard…”

 

Michael, already hyped, took her hand and pulled her into a less-crowded corner. “Too much?”

 

She didn’t answer right away. Her heart was a little wild, and her voice might’ve been too soft to hear anyway. But then she nodded—once, sharply—and snatched a cup from a floating tray like a girl on a mission.

 

Michael raised his eyebrows. “That’s my girl.”

 

Drink after drink, her nerves melted. Compliments followed her like shadows—“Stunning, Darlina,” “You look like a cursed Victorian doll, and I mean that in a good way,” “Is that a vintage collar?!” She wasn’t used to it—being complimented by many outloud. But tonight, maybe she didn’t mind. Her outfit helped. The pink off-shoulder dress fit like a spell. The creamy white collar and the bow that trailed like ribbon candy down her chest made her feel like something out of a Rococo painting. Her sheer tights shimmered faintly under the lights, and her chunky pink Mary Janes gave her height she didn't need but adored anyway.

 

They danced like they’d been set loose from a spell—untamed, breathless, and far too tipsy to care that the music was now just a vibrating wall of bass. It didn’t matter. Not when Michael kept spinning her like she was made of air, and not when the whole Room of Requirement pulsed with candlelight and chaos.

 

Everywhere she turned, there was glitter. Glitter in hair, glitter on shoes, glitter enchanted midair like suspended snowfall. Someone had charmed a giant rubber duck to crowd surf.  At one point, a Gryffindor—shirtless and sweating glitter—jumped on a table and began twerking while casting Lumos Maxima at the ceiling like it was a spotlight. Michael pointed, gaping. Darlina followed his gaze—and then burst into laughter. She leaned into him, dizzy from more than just alcohol, and squealed, “What is happening?!”

 

Michael threw his head back. “This! This is what Hogwarts is supposed to be!”

 

She raised a cup like she was toasting to that idea, and he clinked his own against it. Her lipstick left a print on the rim of her glass. Somewhere between a snort and a hiccup, Michael tilted his head and narrowed his eyes at her. “Something’s missing.”

 

“Hahahaha—what, your dignity?”

 

He made a face. “No, seriously.”

 

Darlina squinted, wobbling a little on her heels. “Is it… Clem?” She smirked, nudging him. “What if he’s somewhere being a nerd and crying ‘cause we didn’t invite him?”

 

Michael gave her a lopsided grin. “Nah… he’s fine.”

 

“Why?” she pouted, dramatically, because everything felt dramatic. “He’s probably having a much greater time.”

 

“Headboy duties?” she teased with a giggle, fluttering her lashes.

 

Michael just shrugged. “Dunno. But hey… your camera. Where is it?”

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

The question hit like a cold gust of air—and the drunk fog in her chest twisted into something sharp. Darlina’s eyes welled before she could stop them. Michael’s brows drew  together in alarm, even in his dazed state. “Hey—hey, Lina. I was just asking, I didn’t mean—”

 

“It’s broken,” she mumbled, voice cracking as she rubbed her eyes too roughly, vaguely grateful for the enchanted setting spray Pharell gave her that kept her makeup from running. “He—he broke it…”

 

Michael gasped like it was a death in the family. “Horrible!”

 

“I know!”

 

“You need another drink,” he declared solemnly. But before she could answer—before she could decide whether she wanted more fire in her throat or to sit down and cry into a sequin pillow—a sharp crack of light flared at the edge of the room.

 

Sparks. Spells. Screams.

 

Michael stiffened. “What the fuck?”

 

He shoved his cup into a floating tray and grabbed Darlina by the wrist, steering her toward a quieter part of the room where a few plush sofas and some half-conscious Ravenclaws lay slumped in glitter-dazed stupors. “You—sit. I’m going to check that out.”

 

“I want to go, too!” she huffed, swaying slightly and blinking too hard.

 

“Shut up, Lina,” Michael grinned, ruffling her hair, “sit and be pretty.”

 

She pouted, adjusting her bow and watched as he jogged off into the mess. But of course she didn’t stay put. Darlina stood after approximately three seconds, ignoring the swaying world and beginning her wobbly pursuit. Whatever those sparks were, she deserved to see them too, dammit. She’d come all this way, worn the stupid shoes, drank the fizzy pink liquor, and cried in public. She earned her right to chase down drama. She walked—well, she tried to walk—clutching onto strangers’ shoulders like makeshift banisters, giggling every time she slipped or stumbled.

 

And then…

 

“Oh wow,” she murmured dreamily. “A door.”

 

No idea how she got there. No idea why the air felt colder now. But suddenly, the warm thunder of the party was behind her, and she was standing in the corridor just outside the Room of Requirement. “Okay…” she whispered, blinking slowly. “Okay. Maybe that’s a sign. Go back. Go sleep.”

 

She walked, weaving down the hallway with no particular direction, just following wherever her glitter-splashed Mary Janes decided to go. The torches flickered. The shadows danced. She spun once, giggling softly. The corridor spun with her.

 

And then—

 

Whump.

 

She tripped on something. A stone. Or an enchanted dust bunny. Or nothing at all. She fell to her knees, landing on cold stone with a tiny dramatic gasp. But it didn’t even hurt. She sat there for a second, pouting and rubbing her leg with exaggerated care. “Oh no,” she mumbled to no one, “I’m injured. Call the Healers. Tell Madam Pomfrey she needs to bring glitter.”

 

And then she giggled again, flopping backward onto the floor, her hair fanning out like ink on parchment, and stared up at the darkened ceiling. She looked… beautiful. In a drunken, tragic, kind of way.

 

“Darlina?”

 

She blinked up at the sudden voice, her vision slightly blurry and head tilted at a funny angle as she lay sprawled on the cold floor. Her lashes fluttered like she was waking from a dream. Squinting against the soft glow of wandlight, she made out a boy’s silhouette.

 

Familiar.                                                         

 

Istanbul-sounding name. Prefect badge. Eyebrows that always looked slightly concerned. “Irmak?” she guessed, slowly.

 

He crouched down beside her, wand hovering midair. “It’s nearly midnight. What are you doing out here?”

 

She gave him a lazy little wave. “Hiiiii.”

 

His brows furrowed. “You’ll get detention if a professor finds you like this.”

 

She frowned, tilting her head dramatically. “You’re a student too, aren’t you? What you doing here, huh?” Her voice slurred around the edges, the syllables sticky with alcohol and sleep.

 

He chuckled softly, amused and mildly alarmed. “Prefect rounds.”

 

“Ohhh,” she blinked slowly. “Fancy.”

 

Irmak watched her, eyes wide. “Wait—are you drunk?”

 

She grinned at him like he’d just discovered gravity. “Obviously.”

 

Irmak exhaled through his nose, half-laugh, half-prayer. “Where were you? A party?”

 

“Mhm,” she nodded enthusiastically, standing on unsteady feet. He quickly reached out a hand. She paused, staring at it like it was a foreign object, then took it delicately, wobbling slightly as she rose.  “You… look pretty,” he said, gently. Almost embarrassed.

 

Darlina blinked. Then blushed, the tips of her ears turning as pink as her lips. “Thaaanks,” she whispered, all shy smiles.

 

“Let me walk you back to your dormitory. You really shouldn’t be out here like this.” She didn’t argue. Just nodded, letting him loop a careful arm under hers—not too close, not too tight, respectful in that quiet Irmak way.

 

As they walked, Darlina talked.

 

And talked.

 

About the party (which she rated “ten thousand stars”), about a Slytherin boy who tried to dance like a chicken, about her favorite pair of socks (yellow, fuzzy, with ducks), and then—abruptly—she began to sniffle.

 

“I’m going to fail DADA,” she whimpered, bottom lip trembling.

 

Irmak blinked. “What?”

 

“I’m going to fail DADA!” she wailed, stopping in the middle of the corridor like she’d just discovered her own funeral arrangements.

 

He looked around nervously, whispering, “Shhh! Merlin’s sake, not so loud!”

 

She pouted, eyes glossy. “I try to pay attention, I do! But then I blink and I miss things and then I think of how Professor Grimshade looks like an owl with indigestion and then it’s all downhill from there.”

 

He tried not to laugh. Really, he did. “I almost failed DADA once.”

 

“Really?” she sniffled, wiping her cheek with the sleeve of her dress.

 

“Yeah. It’s a hard subject. A lot of us struggle with it. The practicals are terrifying.”

 

“So how’d you survive?” she asked, voice small and curious as she tilted her head.

 

“I practiced,” he said simply. “With friends. Repetition helps.”

 

Her eyes suddenly lit up like she’d just remembered she had a wand and a brain and a whole future. “You could help me!” she gasped, bouncing on her heels. “Please, pretty please, Irmak? Please, please, please?”

 

He looked taken aback by the force of her sudden sparkle attack. “I—I don’t know if I’m that good—”

 

“Please!” she pouted, hands clasped together like she was summoning the mercy of the gods.

 

“…Maybe we can talk about it in the morning?”

 

“Yaaay!” she squealed, hugging him spontaneously.

 

He froze mid-step. Awkwardly patted her back.

 

Then she skipped ahead, twirling once and walking sideways like a penguin in heels. It was a miracle she hadn’t broken her ankle.

 

Irmak sighed and resumed walking ahead of her, gently guiding her away from completely wrong turns. Left to her own devices, she would’ve wandered into the dungeons or worse, ended up in the Black Lake asking the squid for tutoring help. They were just a few corners from the Hufflepuff common room when the loud clash of something heavy falling echoed behind them. Irmak stopped.

 

So did Darlina—but only to giggle.

 

His wand was up in an instant, brows drawn.

 

“Darlina?”

 

“Yes, yes, yes?” she replied sweetly, completely unconcerned with the noise of chaos.

 

“Can you get to the dormitory on your own?”

 

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yup! Of course! Totally!” She saluted, then immediately staggered sideways. He hesitated, clearly torn, but another sharp sound—voices, hurried footsteps—had him looking toward the source.

 

“I’ll check that out. Just… walk straight. Don’t talk to portraits. Don’t fall asleep in the corridor.”

 

“Got it!” she grinned, giving him two thumbs up. And before he could change his mind, she twirled in the opposite direction, hands skimming the wall for support as she cheerfully began to hum a tune that sounded suspiciously like the Celestina Warbeck remix they’d danced to earlier.

 

The night wasn’t over.

 

She made it down one staircase. Then another. Then—

 

Oh.

 

Another.

 

She tripped on the fifth step of the fourth flight, barely catching herself before her chin hit the stone. “Ow,” she mumbled to no one, blinking blearily as she clutched her forehead, the corridor spinning slightly. The castle was too big. Or maybe she was too small. Too wobbly. Too… teary?

 

She touched her face, confused.

 

Were those… tears?

 

She hiccupped, a strange, wet sound. “Oh no,” she whispered, sniffing. “Not now.” But it was too late. The dam had cracked, and soon she was crying. Not loud, not wailing—but soft and miserable, like something precious had been lost and she wasn’t sure when. Still, her feet moved. Somewhere between muscle memory and blind faith, she stumbled through shadows and silence, the drafty halls whispering around her ears. She turned a corner. Another one. She had no idea where she was going.

 

Then, miraculously—

 

A door.

 

A familiar one.

 

Relief poured into her like light through a keyhole.

 

She rushed toward it, breath catching, steps quick and clumsy. The corridor behind her was all darkness and cold; it felt like something was watching. Waiting.

 

She grabbed the door handle and pushed.

 

Nothing.

 

She pushed harder.

 

Still nothing.

 

“No, no, no—” she whimpered, the panic curling hot in her throat. The hallway seemed to stretch behind her, shadows flickering like movement at the edges of her vision. Her wand—yes, her wand. It was still tucked neatly into the strap of her shoe. She reached for it with trembling fingers, heart racing.

 

And then—

 

Click.

 

The door opened.

 

A wash of warm air met her, honey-thick and safe-smelling, and she didn’t wait. She squeezed past the tall figure holding it open without looking up, without even registering who it was, her only goal the hearth and the heat and the stillness. She collapsed into the wingback chair in front of the fire like it was a friend, yanking off her shoes with uncoordinated fingers. They hit the floor with a soft thud. She curled into the chair, knees to chest, arms wrapped tightly around them.

 

And cried.

 

Tears poured down her cheeks again—quiet, endless things. She didn’t even know why she was crying. Maybe it was the party. Or the stairs. Or the camera.

 

Or him.

 

Her head was spinning, the fire casting flickering shadows on her face. It was too warm, and yet she was still cold inside.

 

Snape stood at the door, unmoving.

 

There she was. Again.

 

Slumped in his chair like it was hers. The same as yesterday. As if this were routine. As if her presence didn’t interrupt the harsh geometry of his office with something too soft, too pink, too human.

 

It should have annoyed him. It did. But—

 

There was something unshakably raw in the way her shoulders curled in on themselves. Her curls stuck to her tear-streaked cheeks, lips trembling in a small, helpless pout that reminded him far too much of something he'd spent his whole life pretending he didn’t want.

 

"Miss Lourdes..." he began, voice low, "it is the middle of the night."

 

She didn’t respond, unless louder sniffles and a hiccup counted as a response. Her whole frame trembled, and the scent hit him a moment later—alcohol. Clumsily masked beneath something floral and sweet. His brow twitched.

 

Of course she was drunk. Crying. In his office. Again.

 

And of course, despite every rational bone in his body screaming to escort her straight to Pomfrey—or better yet, not get involved at all—he was already taking a step forward. Then another. She hiccupped again, lifting her head slowly. Her eyes met his—and for the first time since she'd walked in, she seemed to register who he was. He stopped cold when his eyes caught the swelling on her forehead.

 

Bloody hell.

 

She’d hit her head.

 

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight, and spun on his heel. “Stay there,” he snapped, more to himself than to her. He swept into his adjoining laboratory, boots tapping sharply on the floor, fingers already reaching for the upper shelf.

 

This girl would be the death of him.

 

He found the salve quickly, fingers tightening around the glass jar. Merlin’s beard. It wasn’t even his night shift. And yet, here he was—again—patching up a reckless little Hufflepuff with a pout like thunder and eyes like heartbreak.

 

The lab door creaked open behind him.

 

Of course.

 

She’d followed him.

 

Snape glanced over his shoulder and froze at the sight: she stood in the doorway, one hand clinging to the wood as if gravity had grown suddenly hostile. Her face was blotchy with dried tears, but her gaze was sharp—defiant, almost bratty in a way he wasn’t entirely sure was intentional. She looked like a damp kitten trying to pick a fight. He should be angry. Merlin, he wanted to be. But instead, he simply sighed, salve still in hand, and gave a small nod toward the office. “Miss. Back to the hearth.”

 

She blinked at him, eyes glassy, then rolled them with a dramatic huff before stomping away—stomping, as if she wasn’t one step away from tripping over her own feet. He followed close behind, observing the way she half-used the wall for support, her socked feet sliding slightly on the cold stone. Her shoes were gone. Just socks. No coat.

 

Was she trying to give him an aneurysm?

 

She looked around the office like she was seeing it for the first time—gaze flitting from bookshelf to desk to fireplace—before slumping back into the wingback with a sigh. The fire crackled softly beside her. Snape wordlessly flicked his wand toward his desk. Papers, letters, open books—all of it flew into a neat stack. He stepped past her chair and retrieved a blanket from the shelf, tossing it toward her without ceremony. It landed half on her head.

 

She shrieked, muffled. “Hey!”

 

“Cover yourself before you pass out and freeze.” She groaned but pulled it over herself anyway.

 

He turned back to her, crouching before the chair, his eyes narrowing at the purpling bruise on her forehead. “What happened?” he asked, voice quieter now. There was a rasp to it. She paused, blinking at him from under the blanket like a kitten from a burrow. Her voice, when she spoke again, was quieter. “I fell,” she mumbled with a shrug, lower lip poking out just slightly.

 

He raised a brow. “You fell?”

 

“I was walking,” she said, gesturing vaguely to the side, “and then I… fell?” Her brow furrowed like she couldn’t quite remember the plot of her own evening.

 

“You sound unsure.”

 

She tilted her head, blinking owlishly. “Are you questioning me?”

 

His lips twitched, but he didn’t smile. “Heaven forbid.”

 

He dipped two fingers into the salve, cool and green, and gently reached for her chin. She didn’t resist. Instead, her eyes met his, slow and unblinking, like he’d pulled her into orbit and she hadn’t realized it yet. “I dunno…” she whispered.

 

He ignored the way her breath hitched and focused instead on the task at hand. The bruise wasn’t deep, but it would swell further without treatment. He applied the salve with featherlight pressure, the pads of his fingers brushing her skin like a ghost.

 

She shivered.

 

He ignored that, too.

 

Silence fell. The kind of silence that lingered, intimate and strange. The fire popped. Her breathing slowed. She stared at him.

 

And then—

 

“You made me sad, you know?” she murmured.

 

Snape’s hand stilled mid-motion, fingers hovering just above the fading bruise. He didn’t look at her—not quite. His eyes remained fixed on the center of her forehead, as if that were the most urgent thing in the room. She pressed on, slurring slightly, “Like… really sad. You’re mean.”

 

A long silence stretched between them.

 

Snape, to his own horror, found his mouth twitching.

 

Mean.

 

The understatement of the century.

 

She trailed off, blinking slowly, the words tangling in her intoxicated mind. Her tongue felt heavy, like every syllable had to swim through syrup before it reached her lips. “I thought we were…” Her nose scrunched, and her forehead creased like the act of thinking physically hurt. “Like, not friends—‘cause, you know, you’re still you.”

 

That earned a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, but he said nothing.

 

“But we talk,” she continued, trying to focus. “We always talk. Like our little yapping sessions—you don’t act like you hate them. Not like with other students. And I thought maybe that meant something.”

 

Her voice cracked a little, just at the edges.

 

“But now you’re pretending like it didn’t. Like none of it mattered.”

 

She shook her head, trying to chase away the way his silence was making her feel—hollow. “I didn’t want to say we’re friends,” she went on, “because that sounds like, I don’t know, something you’d reject. Like you’d scoff and say, ‘Don’t be absurd, Miss Lourdes’—” she deepened her voice in a mock imitation of him, “but I don’t know what else to call it. You don’t glare at me like you do at everyone else. You don’t ignore me. You actually…you listen. Sometimes. And I… I like that.”

 

She blinked again, rapidly this time, as if she could hold back the rising heat behind her eyes. Pharell said to always communicate, to say it out loud when something hurts. Don’t bottle it up, he always said. Don’t let it rot.

 

And Merlin, Darlina was trying.

 

“I don’t know how to do it right,” she admitted in a whisper, staring into the flickering fire behind him. “Any of this. I feel like I’m always floating. But you… you feel solid. Even when you’re being mean.”

 

“Miss Lourdes—” His hand lingered for a moment on her forehead. There was something grounding about his touch. Intentional. Careful. But she pulled back slightly, and her voice rose with the kind of passion only drunken honesty could birth.

 

“You snitched on me,” she accused, eyes wide and glassy. “Do you even know how horrible that is?”

 

Snape's lips drew into a thin line, the sharpest part of him reserved for silence. Yet still, she looked at him—right at him, not away, not through, but into him. And it did something—lodged an unfamiliar tension low in his chest.

 

“I know you’re close with my father,” she hiccupped, fingers clutching the front of his cloak like a crumpled napkin. “But you don’t need...don’t need to tell my father about my friendship with Eve. Do you have any idea what it’s like to crave a friend? A girl friend? Someone to do hair with, and sneak sweets with, and just talk to about stupid girly things without being looked at like I’m a baby?”

 

Her voice cracked entirely on the word baby.

 

“We weren’t even close enough yet,” she continued, the words spilling out like a busted faucet, her breath shaky. “And now—now I can’t go against my father’s wishes. You know that. That’s why you told him, isn’t it? Because you knew he’d shut it down. You used that.”

 

There were no tears—not really—but it was somehow worse. Her voice was soaked with heartbreak, her tone too fractured to be rehearsed. She sounded like she’d tried to hold herself together, but the glue didn’t set right.

 

Snape exhaled, his jaw flexing. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if retreating to someplace quieter in his mind. That familiar throb bloomed behind his temples again—the kind of headache only Darlina seemed to cause.

 

“It was for your safety, Miss Lourdes.”

 

“I told you she was a friend,” she said, voice rising slightly. “And I forgave them, those Gryffindors. You remember that, don’t you? I told you.”

 

He did.

 

“And you’re the Head of Slytherin—you should know that houses don’t mean everything. People are more than colors and common rooms. And I really, really believe that Eve is nice.” Her voice cracked on the last word, so earnest it hurt. “I know she is.”

 

Then quieter, almost like a secret: “And my camera…”

 

He stiffened.

 

“That was so important to me,” she whispered, clutching his cloak tighter. “So special... and it’s just… gone.”

 

He opened his eyes and looked at her—really looked at her. Her lashes stuck together at the corners, her nose faintly red, cheeks flushed in a haze of alcohol and sorrow. She was a picture of heartbreak. He could explain. Of course he could. He could lay out the whole web of concern and danger and lineage and politics. But what would that do, except complicate a night already unraveling?

 

So instead, Severus Snape—who had never once, in all his years of teaching, apologized to a student—took a breath and said, quietly: “I am sorry.”

 

Another apology to her. It seemed that he was striking a streak.

 

Her gaze flicked up, stunned.

 

“I… I am truly sorry for the emotions I’ve caused you these past few days, Miss Lourdes,” he said, the words stilted, foreign on his tongue. “If I had meant to…” He stopped, exhaled, recalibrated. “I did not mean to inflict such harm.”

 

His hand, still hovering at her forehead, gently brushed against the swollen skin. He drew his wand without a word, murmuring an incantation under his breath. Warmth bloomed where the bruising had been, gentle and thorough.

 

She was still watching him.

 

Still waiting for something more.

 

“Perhaps,” he said slowly, “this is best discussed once you’ve sobered up.”

 

She giggled. A little, breathless one, like the word itself had tickled her. “Sober up,” she repeated in a whisper, as if it were an unfamiliar fruit on her tongue. “That’s such a silly phrase. I don’t think I wanna do that yet…”

 

He stood, the cloak slipping from her fingers like silk.

 

She didn’t protest.

 

Instead, she leaned back into the chair with a little sigh, eyes tracing the outline of his retreating figure as he crossed the room. When he paused at the doorway, she was still looking at him, lids heavy but lips parted as if she might say something else—something final, or brave, or ridiculous.

 

But instead, she smiled. Just barely.

 

And then she closed her eyes.

 

When he left, the firelight flickered quietly behind him. Darlina slept curled into herself in the same chair as before, small and warm and unknowingly devastating.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina awoke with a groan, muffled and dramatic, as she tried to squeeze her pillow closer. Her arms found only cotton and air. No warmth. No sleep. Sunlight stabbed through her eyelids like an aggressive wake-up call. Her brows furrowed. Why were the curtains open?

 

She never left the curtains around her bed open.

 

And then the night hit her.

 

The party.

The dancing.

The alcohol.

The—oh Merlin.

 

She pressed her palms against her temples, her brain pulsing like it was trying to escape through her skull. This is it. This is the hangover that will kill me, she thought solemnly. With an exaggerated whimper, she forced herself upright, peeking through one squinting eye at the clock on her bedside table.

 

“An hour 'til breakfast ends,” she muttered, voice gravelly. “Brilliant.”

 

She did not want to beg the kitchen elves again. Not after the last time she sleep-ordered twenty-two buttered crumpets and accidentally cried on one of them. They deserved peace. Groggily, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and reached for her pink robes—only to pause. Something glass clinked on her nightstand. A small, familiar flask.

 

Her eyes narrowed.

 

A potion bottle.

 

She picked it up gingerly, inspecting the label as if it might explode. Pepperup Potion, written in clean, clipped handwriting. Not the clumsy scrawl of a student. No—this was precise. Measured. Neat.

 

Darlina blinked, her headache slightly sidelined by confusion. “Wait a minute…”

 

She uncorked it and gave it a sniff. Definitely not water. Definitely Pepperup.

 

But… why?

 

She shuffled to the bathroom and nearly jumped when she saw herself. Same dress. Hair a bit of a mess. And on her forehead—a faint pink flush, like the leftover hue of a vanished bruise.

 

What even happened last night…?

 

She remembered snippets—Michael’s laugh, the sound of thumping music, flashes of her twirling, hands raised like she was summoning the moon. And then—

 

Nothing.

 

Just a yawning blackness, stitched together with fog and the vague memory of something—or someone—softly murmuring a spell near her temple.

 

She shook her head, willing the ache to stop. It didn’t.

 

Soon after, she made her way out of the Hufflepuff dormitory, only to be ambushed right at the threshold. “Lina! Goodness gracious, you’re alive!” came the hoarse voice of a very sleep-deprived Michael.

 

Darlina blinked. “Mike…?” she said slowly, like she wasn’t quite convinced he was real.

 

“You—you’re okay?” His tone cracked between disbelief and panic. “Bloody hell, I thought I was going to get murdered by Clementine. I mean it, he’s always got this look that says he’d shove a wand up my—”

 

“Wait, what?” she interrupted, brows furrowed. “Didn’t you take me back last night? You always take me back. I usually… I mean, I don’t remember things when I’m drunk…”

 

Michael stared at her, jaw slack. “No. Shit, Lina. I didn’t. I didn’t even see you leave. I turned around to check the ruckus—somebody broke a bloody bottle or something—and when I looked back, you were gone. Gone. I searched everywhere for you.”

 

She blinked slowly, the realization sinking in like a stone.

 

“Oh.”

 

Michael ran a hand through his already tousled hair, muttering a stream of curses. “I stayed out here all night. Thought you’d come stumbling back, maybe you went to puke in the corridor or—I don’t know. But you never did.”

 

Now that she was really looking at him, she noticed it—his outfit was still the same from last night, shirt half-buttoned, shoes mismatched, and circles under his eyes like bruises painted in. He had waited. Her stomach twisted with guilt. “I didn’t… I really can’t remember.”

 

She pressed her fingertips to her temple again, like she could squeeze a memory out of the dull throb there. “I must’ve walked back on my own.”

 

“You couldn’t walk in a straight line at all, Darlina. Don’t gaslight me.”

 

She winced. “Okay, okay, I don’t know! Maybe I did, maybe the walls helped me home. Who knows? Maybe the suit of armor outside the Astronomy Tower had a moment of chivalry.”

 

Michael narrowed his eyes. “Or someone walked you back.” Her lips parted to reply, but nothing came out. Her fingers brushed the pocket where the flask rested.

 

She shook her head quickly. “Look—I’m fine. See? Alive. Intact. And I’ve got a Pepperup Potion, we could share it.” she added, patting her pocket and looping her arm through his. “Come on. Breakfast.” Michael grumbled but didn’t resist, letting her steer them toward the Great Hall.

 

“Keep it, I’m immune to hangovers.”

 

“You better eat like your life depends on it, then. I swear, you looked like a ghost ten minutes ago.”

 

“I feel like a ghost. A stylish one, though.”

 

“You still reek of glitter and alcohol.”

 

“Trendy.”

 

Michael snorted.

 

By the time they reached the Great Hall, Darlina’s stomach was making sad little protest noises. She made a beeline for the Hufflepuff table and grabbed whatever was hot. Clementine slid into the seat beside her a few moments later, giving her a once-over. Darlina just gave him a sheepish little smile and a hum, too focused on not collapsing to explain anything yet. It was a quiet breakfast. She just shoveled toast and eggs and whatever else her trembling hands could manage into her mouth. Michael stole a few hashbrowns. She let him. Finally, when she couldn’t pretend the pounding in her head was a “vibe” anymore, she pulled out the flask. It felt oddly heavier now—like her fingers knew it had history. Like it meant something. Maybe it did.

 

Maybe she didn’t want to think about why it looked like one of Snape’s.

 

With a small breath and a barely visible tremble, she uncorked it. The scent was unmistakable. And she drank it down in one go, her eyes fixed on the opposite wall—anywhere but the potion in her hand.

 

It slid down her throat in one clean swallow.

 

And oddly enough… it tasted good. Not just tolerable. Actually good.

 

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly. Can potions taste… yummy? She wasn’t sure if that was a red flag or a romantic gesture in disguise. She hoped it wasn’t poisoned. That would be very on-brand for her life lately.

 

“A potion?” Clementine asked.

 

“Headache,” Darlina muttered, licking the last taste off her bottom lip as she stood, slowly, testing the waters of her now-murmuring headache. Still there, but dulling.

 

“Should we go to the hospital wing?” Clementine offered.

 

“No, no. I’ll just… sleep it off,” she said quickly, brushing them off with a soft smile. “Seriously. I’m okay.”

 

Clementine leaned over his bowl and pointed his spoon with exaggerated flair. “Suit yourself. But this soup? Fire. You’re missing out.”

 

Darlina chuckled weakly, her head already aching for the softness of her bed more than the spice of the soup. “I’m going back to my dorm, guys,” she murmured. She leaned over and placed gentle kisses on both their cheeks, a sleepy kind of affection that neither resisted. And before either of them could stop her with more questions or concern, she turned on her heel and walked away.

 

The hum of the Great Hall faded behind her as she reached the threshold—and nearly collided with someone.

 

“Whoa—sorry—” she looked up and found herself face-to-face with Irmak. He raised a hand, brows slightly lifted, as though he was about to say something. Maybe even ask something. But Darlina offered only a polite smile, fleeting and light, before brushing past him.

 

She really needed to sleep.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Her camera was gone.

 

She had torn her dorm apart searching for it—flipping through drawers, pulling at bedsheets. Her hands had even trembled when she’d lifted the edge of her mattress, heart racing with the same hope as someone checking for a heartbeat. But it was useless.

 

No camera.

 

Her stomach clenched with a quiet sort of dread, the kind that didn’t scream, just settled in. Lodged in her chest like a pebble in a shoe she couldn’t take off. She was on the edge of yet another breakdown when the clock chimed, dragging her back into the cruel reality of time and obligations. She closed her eyes, forced herself to inhale. One breath in. One breath out. She wasn’t going to cry—not yet, anyway.

 

There was class to get through first.

 

By the time she reached the dungeons, her feet felt like lead. The air was colder here, thicker. Professor Snape’s voice echoed across the room—smooth, clipped, with that ever-present condescension that somehow managed to sound both elegant and brutal.

 

She wasn’t listening. Not really.

 

Something about powdered bicorn horn and flame control. Her brain was stuck in its own echo chamber: It was on the bedside table. I know it was. It was there. It was there.

 

“Just half, right?” she mumbled under her breath, fingers curling around the pestle as she crushed the dried petals.

 

“Yes,” Clementine replied, steady and composed beside her.

 

Thankfully, Clementine had taken the lead today—measured, methodical, humming quietly to himself as if they were making soup instead of something that could explode if stirred improperly. Darlina drifted beside him, following instructions on muscle memory alone. By the time their cauldron simmered into the correct shade of turquoise, Snape was already making his rounds.

 

She stiffened as he approached, eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he peered into their cauldron. His hands were clasped behind his back. His black robes whispered with each step.

 

A pause. A subtle tilt of his head.

 

“Outstanding,” he said, voice like cold velvet.

 

Darlina blinked. Her eyes flickered to his face, and for one strange second, their gazes met—his dark eyes unreadable, hers uncertain. She swallowed and quickly looked away, directing her smile toward Clementine instead.

 

She didn’t know how to feel around him anymore.

 

There was something off-kilter in the air between them, something skewed and quiet and odd. Like the room had tilted ever so slightly and no one else had noticed.

 

 As soon as class was dismissed, she didn’t linger. Her bag was half-zipped, parchment fluttering like wings behind her as she slipped past the benches and practically bolted through the door. “Wow, Lils,” Clementine called after her, amused. “You really don’t want to help clean up anymore?”

 

“Stop with the teasing, Clem,” she said, rolling her eyes—but not quite turning back.

 

“What? It’s just a little odd, is all. But it’s fine.”

 

She huffed a noncommittal sound but slowed her steps until he caught up. The corridor was dim and quiet, lit only by the flickering torches and their soft footsteps echoing against the stone. They reached the corner of the hallway where a Slytherin prefect waved Clementine over for some quick announcement or question—whatever it was, Darlina didn’t care enough to listen. She leaned in, kissed his cheek goodbye, and stepped away before the weight in her chest could get any heavier.

 

 

 

🦢

Chapter 25: The Promise of Forgiveness

Notes:

The realization hit me like a brick. While I was eating breakfast, I read through the first few chapters of this to justify if I am still able to write Darlina in character. Remember “Elias” from Chapter 6? Yes, that blond boy? Elias and Thaddeus is the same character—I only realized that I named him Elias when I read through Chapter 6. In my chapter outline, I could swear that I named him Thaddeus. But well, whatever. Screw my poor brain for not remembering all names accurately. So, yep, if you ever came across Elias in the succeeding chapters, just know that he was named Thaddeus in the recent chapters (I’ve edited it already weeeeks ago, don’t worry).

I would stick with the name Elias from now on.

             NATURALLY, HER GAZE SWEPT across the Great Hall, the dull hum of chatter barely registering in her ears as her fingers idly twirled a strand of hair. She wasn’t paying attention anything. No, her eyes were searching—almost desperately—for a particular figure. The man who had somehow carved himself into the deepest parts of her thoughts over the past few weeks, stubborn and unrelenting. She didn’t know why she was looking for him. Or at least, that’s what she kept telling herself.

 

“Are you sure you’re quite alright, Lils?” The soft inquiry snapped her from the whirlpool of her thoughts. Clementine’s head tilted slightly. He sat opposite her, posture neat as always, while Michael lounged casually at her side.

 

The familiar endearment—Lils—pulled a weak smile from her lips as she dragged her attention away from the high table. “Sorry… what was that, Clem?”

 

“I was asking if you’re okay.”

 

 “Of course…”

 

It was a lie. She wasn’t okay. Not even close.

 

Her mind flickered back to the morning, to the sudden realization that her camera—the broken remnants of it, at least—had vanished. She didn’t know what had happened. She could have sworn she hadn’t taken it to the party. But… No. Not here. Not now. This was not the time to spiral down that path. “Well,” she said brightly, forcing her voice to lilt in that familiar melody, “enough about me. How about the two of you? What’s going on in your lives? And don’t you dare try to dodge this question, Clem.” Her eyes narrowed, sharp but playful. “I see those heavy bags under your eyes—are you even sleeping?”

 

It was the perfect diversion—redirect the spotlight and scold them while she was at it.

 

Michael smirked, his elbow resting lazily on the table. “Right. Trouble in paradise, Clem?”

 

Darlina blinked, brows knitting. Trouble in paradise?

 

What was that supposed to mean?

 

“Are you stressed from your workloads, Clem? Is it that?” she mumbled, concern dripping in her words. Clementine’s eyes widened, “No—no, of course not. Shut up, Mike.”

 

“Then why’d Mike said you’re having a trouble in paradise? Hogwart’s your paradise, right?” she probed, her focus now intently on Clementine—and...woah, was he blushing? Slowly, the pale tips of his ears flushed pink, blooming into the kind of cherry hue that was impossible to ignore. Darlina wondered absently if she’d ever blushed like that—so obvious, so maddeningly human.

 

“That’s not—err—you know what, hell yes,” Clementine muttered finally, the words tumbling out in a flustered heap. “I’m stressed. Over academics. But it’s no biggie.”

 

Michael snorted into his palm, failing spectacularly to smother his laughter. Darlina’s palm met his arm in a light slap, a wordless behave, and, miraculously, it silenced him.

 

“Do you need help?” Darlina asked, her eyes sparkling with what one could deem as concern—love—God forbid one of her friends is in a deep, deep hole.

 

“Nah, I can handle it,” Clementine said smoothly, but his fingers were drumming against the tabletop, a nervous tell if Darlina ever saw one. “Maybe we should talk about Mike instead—all those late nights, the partying—yes, Mike, I know all about them.”

 

“Yes, so?”

 

“You even dragged Darlina along to the last one,” Clementine added, raising a perfectly unimpressed brow.

 

Oops…

 

“I receive no invitation from the both of you. Leaving me out, really? What for?”

 

“Heard about your plans,” Michael smirked.

 

That silenced Clementine. Clementine’s throat worked as he swallowed, eyes darting away. Slowly—painfully slowly—the tips of his ears flushed crimson, the color blooming down his neck.

 

Darlina blinked, head tilting, pouting in confusion. “I’m lost.”

 

“You always are…” Michael teased; his finger jabbed playfully into her side. The sound that tore from her throat wasn’t dignified in the slightest. She squealed, instinctively slapping her hands over her mouth to strangle the helpless giggles threatening to spill.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

There was a little skip to her steps as Darlina wandered farther from the Great Hall. She had no destination in mind—just the quiet corridors and the comforting thought that curfew was still a whole hour away. But her stride faltered when something cold and steady wrapped around her wrist. Darlina froze mid-step, heart stuttering. Slowly—hesitantly—she turned her head, neck craning, eyes narrowing to make sense of the figure standing in the dim light.

 

“Irmak?” Her voice came out soft, laced with confusion.

 

At the sound of his name, the boy blinked twice as if shaken from a trance, realization flickering across his features. They were closer than they should’ve been—close enough for her to see the sharp angles of his face, the faint crease between his brows—until he stepped back abruptly, releasing her.

 

Almost.

 

For a heartbeat too long, his fingers lingered on her wrist before slipping away, leaving a phantom chill behind.

 

Darlina instinctively drew her arm inward, cradling her wrist across her chest as she looked up at him with wide, unblinking eyes.

 

“Sorry,” Irmak muttered, his tone caught somewhere between embarrassment and resolve. “That… came out of nowhere.”

 

“You don’t say,” Darlina murmured, unsure whether to laugh or gape. Her voice wobbled awkwardly as she added, “I—uh—what’s going on?”

 

He cleared his throat. “I was just—Merlin, this sounds weird… okay, well—” He cut himself off, groaning softly as one hand shot up to scratch the back of his head, his dark hair falling forward like a curtain. The sight was oddly endearing. Darlina’s lips twitched despite herself, a breathy chuckle escaping before she could stop it. “What is it?”

 

Irmak glanced at her then, eyes searching hers as if bracing for impact. He lowered his voice. “Don’t you remember?”

 

Her brows knit. “Remember what?”

 

“During the weekend?” He hesitated, shoulders tightening. “When you were… drunk?”

 

Drunk.

 

The word slammed into her.

 

“Oh, heavens above.” Darlina’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. She stared at him with the intensity of someone trying to will the floor to swallow her whole. “What did I do?” The question tumbled out too fast, too breathless. She shut her eyes tight, sifting through foggy fragments of memory—grasping for even the smallest thread.

 

But alas, there’s none.

 

“I can’t remember things when I’m drunk,” she groaned, one hand rising to massage her forehead as though that might coax some clarity from the void.

 

Irmak’s lips parted, an almost imperceptible gasp slipping free. Was that relief in his eyes? Or disappointment? She didn’t have time to decipher it because panic clawed its way back into her chest. “What did I do?” she pressed, stepping toward him. “Nothing too embarrassing, right?”

 

Her eyes shone like stars begging for mercy.

 

He swallowed hard, throat bobbing. “Perhaps… we should walk while we talk?” he suggested, gaze flicking down the empty corridor. There was no one—just the two of them suspended in the hush of evening. Still, she nodded, bouncing slightly on her feet before falling into step beside him.

 

“Really,” she babbled, hands fidgeting as they walked. “Sorry if I said something weird. Or did something weird. Or both. Actually—what did I do? Tell me everything.”

 

“Please?” she added in a breath, tilting her head just so.

 

 “Okay, okay,” he murmured, casting her a sideways glance. “I’ll tell you. Just… calm down.”

 

Darlina’s grin bloomed, cheeks warming into a soft blush that painted her face in delicate pink. “Yay… okay. Go on.” Her words tumbled out in a rush before she caught herself, chuckling. “Sorry. Can’t stop talking.”

 

Merlin helps him, she was adorable.

 

Irmak smirked, the urge to pinch those flushed cheeks gnawing at the edges of his restraint. How was it possible for someone to look like trouble and innocence all wrapped in one maddeningly sweet package?

 

“I was doing my evening patrol,” Irmak began, tone hesitant as though carefully picking his words. “Since, you know, I’m a prefect…”

 

Darlina nodded quickly, lips pursed, silently urging him to get to the mortifying part already.

 

“Anyway,” he continued, “I saw you sprawled on the floor—”

 

“Merlin!” The squeak ripped from her throat before she could stop it, hands flying up to cover her burning face.

 

“Yeah,” Irmak muttered dryly, “Merlin indeed.” A beat of silence, then a cough. “Then we talked briefly. Nothing too embarrassing, don’t worry.”

 

Somehow, that didn’t reassure her in the slightest.

 

“It was only… a mundane conversation,” he added, but his voice faltered as though the word mundane was doing a lot of heavy lifting. “And you looked—well—” He cleared his throat so abruptly she nearly laughed. “Okay, nonsense. Forget that. The point is, you talked… about everything and anything. All at once. Dance moves, your favorite socks—”

 

“Oh, no…” Darlina dragged her hands down her cheeks, pressing them hard against the heat threatening to consume her. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

 

Irmak’s lips curved, barely hiding his amusement. “Then you started on Defense Against the Dark Arts.”

 

A groan tore from her chest, muffled against her palms. Of course. Out of all the subjects… it had to be the one she dreaded most.

 

“You were convinced you’d fail,” he said simply, though his eyes glimmered with something she couldn’t tell. “And then you asked me to help you. So… here I am.”

 

Darlina peeked through her fingers, meeting his gaze reluctantly, her blush deepening until it painted her ears. “So I basically… bothered you?” she mumbled, voice small. “Sorry. Really.”

 

“No, no!” Irmak’s reply was almost too quick, his hands waving in a frantic dismissal. “It’s fine! Totally fine. I’m—willing to be bothered.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.” His hand shot up to scratch the back of his neck, his own cheeks betraying him with a soft, rosy flush.

 

A sudden thought sparked in her mind, her eyes widening. “Wait—were you also the one who escorted me back to the Hufflepuff dorm?”

 

“Yes. I escorted you.” he confirmed with a wry smile. And just like that, the final piece of the puzzle clicked into place. Relief flooded her, warm and bright, washing away some of the mortification. Well, most of it. There was still the undeniable fact that she’d babbled to him about socks.

 

“Thank you,” she breathed. “If we put aside all the embarrassing bits—thank you.”

 

He waved her gratitude away like it was nothing. “It’s no biggie.”

 

“Really?” Her eyes narrowed, a playful gleam replacing the earlier panic as she wiggled her brows at him.

 

“Really.”

 

“If you say so.” Her shrug was casual. They walked in silence for a while after that. “You know…” Irmak’s voice broke the stillness. Darlina turned her head; her attention pulled from the drifting clouds beyond the high windows. “Hmm?”

 

“I’ve been thinking.” He hesitated, “And I realized—why not?”

 

Brows knitting, she tilted her head. “Why not what?”

 

“Why not help you?” He offered a small, crooked smile, hands buried in his pockets now. “I mean… this is our final year. Heaven forbid I do something good for once. Especially for you—” His voice dipped, almost faltering. “Given our history and all that.”

 

For a fleeting moment, her entire face lit up—eyes shimmering, lips parting in the beginning of a smile. The offer dangled before her like a lifeline, and instinctively, Darlina wanted to seize it. She could almost taste the relief of having someone patient enough to guide her through the mess that was Defense Against the Dark Arts.

 

Almost.

 

But then—then the reality crashed in.

 

Her father.

 

She could hear his voice echoing in her head, all steel and venom. Gryffindors? No daughter of mine will stoop to asking them for scraps of help. He had been firm on that, especially lately. To defy him over this? Over one class? Foolish didn’t even begin to cover it.

 

And then there was Professor Snape.

 

Her stomach twisted at the thought of his gaze, dark and unrelenting, picking her apart with precision. If he caught wind of this arrangement—if he so much as suspected—he would waste no time running to her father. The man thrived on rules and repercussions.

 

Agreeing to this would be the equivalent of kissing Hogwarts goodbye.

 

“What do you say?” Irmak’s voice cut through her spiraling thoughts, light and teasing as his brows danced upward. A smirk curved his lips, and—Merlin help her—her heart gave the most traitorous thud, pounding loud enough she swore he could hear it. They’d stopped walking somewhere along the dim corridor. Darlina’s gaze darted to the empty stretch ahead, as though the silence itself might offer an answer.

 

“I don’t know if that’s—” she began, only to falter when his soft chuckle threaded between her words.

 

“Come on, Darlina,” he coaxed, his voice dipped in quiet amusement. “After all that begging, you’d give up now?”

 

Her head snapped toward him, heat pricking her ears. “I—I begged?”

 

He only shrugged, the smallest tilt of his mouth daring her to deny it. And then, after a pause thick with unspoken things, he cleared his throat. “No one would know. Swear it.” His voice softened. “It won’t do my prefect badge any good anyway—I just… want to help.”

 

“I just…” The words tumbled out. “My father—he won’t…”

 

She couldn’t finish, so she stared at the floor instead, lashes sweeping low, “I don’t need it,” she added quickly, almost too quickly. “Perhaps I’ll pass without much help.” The last part slipped out, barely louder than a whisper.

 

“Really, girl?”

 

And apparently, Irmak could be relentless when he wanted to be.

 

Because half an hour later, after circling the same argument so many times she felt dizzy, Darlina found herself nodding despite herself—nodding while her fingers twisted anxiously in the ends of her hair, while her feet bounced against the flagstones. Irmak grinned, rattling off their first meeting time while she tried to memorize it through the hazy buzz in her ears. She caught every third word at best, her thoughts an unhelpful chorus of what have I done, what have I done, what have I done.

 

By the time she slipped through the Hufflepuff entrance and into the soft glow of her dormitory, her heart was still thrumming. Her head felt oddly light, as though someone had opened a window in her skull and let all reason escape.

 

She almost didn’t see it.

 

Almost.

 

But then her toe collided with something—thunk—and she yelped, stumbling as her eyes darted downward.

 

A box.

 

Not just a box—a perfectly wrapped gift box sitting innocently atop the plush carpet, its ribbon tied in an elegant bow that gleamed. Blinking through her daze, Darlina stared at it, her breath catching somewhere in her throat. “What in Merlin’s name…” she whispered as she glanced around the dormitory, but the room was steeped in stillness. She crouched tentatively, reaching for the bedpost for balance as her heart stuttered again, for an entirely different reason this time. Her fingertips brush the smooth lid as if expecting it to vanish like smoke. No tag. No name. Not even a scribbled note.

 

Weird.

 

Clutching the box to her chest, she climbed onto her bed, drawing the curtains tight. There, cocooned in silence, she set the box before her and began peeling away the paper with careful precision.

 

And then her breath caught.

 

Nestled in folds of tissue paper was a camera—light pink, soft as blush, so achingly familiar it sent a pang straight through her ribs. Her heart thudded once, twice, before her gaze snagged on the second object lying beside it.

 

Her old camera.

 

Or… what used to be her old camera.

 

She reached for it with trembling fingers, expecting the cruel jagged crack that had shattered her prior weeks. But the glass was smooth now, the damage gone as if it had never been. She pressed the latch, and the hinge yielded without resistance. Darlina’s vision blurred for a fraction of a second, heat blooming behind her eyes as she scrambled to check the box for a card, a note, anything to anchor this impossibly tender act to a name.

 

Nothing.

 

But she knew… deep down, in that unspoken space where instinct hummed louder than logic, she knew who it came from. Who else could it be?

 

Her lips curved slowly, helplessly, until the smile softened into something warm. Gathering both cameras against her chest, she hugged them close, the weight grounding her in the sweetest disbelief. All thoughts of Irmak’s persistent offer dissolved into a haze of quiet giddiness. Every beat of her heart drummed for a different reason now, and it was fast, breathless, and impossibly alive.

 

Sleep found her with a smile still tugging at her lips.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“Dear girl! You’re too sweet for this world!”

 

Madam Pomfrey’s voice rang bright as bells before Darlina found herself swept into an embrace that could put a boa constrictor to shame. The box of cookies she’d brought was clutched in the matron’s capable hands, the scent of sugar and butter mingling with antiseptic and potions. Darlina laughed softly, arms circling the older woman without hesitation. She liked hugs—always had—and Madam Pomfrey gave one of the best ones.

 

“You spoil me too much, Darlina.” The healer pinched her cheek with fond severity.

 

“Well, you deserve it! Really, Madam Pomfrey—it’s no biggie.” Darlina grinned; cheeks pink from more than the pinch. “You’ve saved half this castle. Least I can do is bribe you with sweets.”

 

A chuckle bubbled from the older woman, but before she could reply, her gaze shifted past Darlina’s shoulder—and fixed there.

 

Brows furrowed, Darlina twisted slightly to follow that line of sight—then promptly wished she hadn’t.

 

Standing in the doorway was Professor Snape, black robes flowing in an elegant sweep, arms burdened with a crate brimming with bottled potions. His expression was the picture of indifference, save for the slight arch of a brow.

 

Oh, no.

 

Heat licked up Darlina’s neck as if the castle’s entire heating system had decided to converge beneath her skin. She spun back around so fast her hair brushed her face, fingers knotting in the hem of her jumper like that might anchor her soul in her body. By the time she inhaled to say something—anything—the deep baritone of his voice cut through the room.

 

“What,” he drawled, each syllable dipped in quiet disdain, “is happening here?”

 

If the floor had opened then and there, Darlina would have gladly yeeted herself into the abyss. Instead, she stared at the tiles as if they held the meaning of life, willing her cheeks to please, for Merlin’s sake, stop glowing. Snape’s gaze lingered on her for a fraction of a second—long enough to make her heart riot—before sliding to Madam Pomfrey. Because, of course, he would never waste actual words on Darlina if he could help it.

 

“She’s perfectly fine, Severus,” Madam Pomfrey said with unflappable cheer, brandishing the cookie box as evidence. “Just came to spoil me rotten, that’s all.”

 

One dark brow ticked upward, eyes flicking briefly from the box to Darlina’s bowed head. For a heartbeat, something unreadable glimmered there—something she couldn’t quite name. Then it was gone.

 

“I came to deliver the stock for this week,” he said at last, tone clipped, matter-of-fact. “Shall I put it in your office?”

 

“Yes, please. Thank you, Severus.”

 

He inclined his head in the barest ghost of a nod, muttering something that sounded like a grunt as he moved past. His robes whispered against the flagstones, and Darlina—poor, foolish Darlina—made the grave mistake of glancing up at the exact wrong moment.

 

Their eyes met.

 

Just for a breath.

 

Dark. Intense. Searching.

 

And then her gaze skittered away, heart pounding loud enough to drown out reason entirely.

 

“Well,” Madam Pomfrey chirped, oblivious. “I wouldn’t want to keep you, dear girl. Off you go now. Keep being kind.”

 

Darlina nodded so hard her curls bounced. “Right—yes—of course. Bye, Madam Pomfrey!” Her voice cracked halfway through as she waved a little too enthusiastically before making the most dignified retreat she could manage. Which, regrettably, looked suspiciously like a full-on flight. The smell of antiseptic faded behind her as the hospital wing doors closed.

 

It had only been yesterday—merely hours—since she received the box. That gift. And yet, somehow, it already felt like a lifetime ago.

 

Darlina descended the moving staircase with her head full of static, thoughts looping endlessly like a broken record. Her mind was fixed on one truth—well, one possibility—that refused to leave her alone.

 

She believed it came from him.

 

Professor Snape.

 

Of course, she couldn’t know for certain. But in her world of limited suspects, he was the most logical choice. He was the only one who knew about the camera being damaged—mostly because, well, it was partially his fault.

 

And sure, Michael had mentioned she’d cried about it at the party before they parted ways, but Michael… no. If it had been him, he would have delivered the thing personally with a grin wide enough to split his face. He wouldn’t go through the trouble of pink wrapping paper and a bow—oh, heavens above, the bow.

 

Darlina’s steps faltered, her brows knitting as the thought resurfaced.

 

The bow.

 

The box had been wrapped so perfectly, all soft blush and delicate folds, crowned by that cheerful ribbon. If that truly came from Professor Snape—stern, scowling, monochromatic Professor Snape—then Merlin help her, she didn’t know what reality even meant anymore.

 

The very idea painted her cheeks in rose.

 

No. Oh no. She could not possibly be this fluttery over one gift.

 

And yet… it was a cute gift. Tender in a way she couldn’t even begin to reconcile with the man who deducted house points like breathing. And because her brain had the structural integrity of a wet sponge when it came to feelings, Darlina promptly began spiraling. She didn’t feel this with gifts from Clementine. Or Michael. Or even Pharrell with his extravagant, borderline ridiculous surprises. She’d felt happy, sure—but this? This urge to squeal into a pillow? To kick her feet while giggling? That was new. Terrifying. And infuriatingly giddy all at once.

 

Snap out of it, Darlina.

 

Right. Snape was… ancient. He broke her camera. He snitched on her.

 

Yes. Good. Keep listing reasons.

 

Except—except now her camera wasn’t broken anymore, was it? And he had apologized that night in the forest. Granted, it was about her bruise, not the camera, but still…

 

Ugh. This was hopeless.

 

By the time she floated through her classes, it was a wonder Professor McGonagall didn’t dock points for daydreaming. Everything felt muffled, distant. And then came Advanced Potions.

 

She arrived early.

 

Earlier than usual. Earlier than most.

 

And, judging by the slight flicker of surprise that crossed Professor Snape’s face when his gaze snapped up from a stack of essays, earlier than even he expected. His lips parted, a word forming—perhaps a cutting remark, perhaps nothing at all—but the door swung open just then, and Elias strode in with his usual heavy-footed scowl. Darlina slid into her original seat at the front, fingers smoothing the parchment on her desk as if that would tame the tremor in them. She’d sat at the back for weeks—ever since everything between them shifted. But today, without planning, without reason, she was here again. Where she used to be.

 

She didn’t glance at Snape. Didn’t dare.

 

And for all her desperate efforts to focus on her quill—on the blank, accusing parchment before her—her mind refused to stay tethered. It wandered back to a pink box tied in satin, to a nestled repaired camera, and to the question that threatened to swallow her whole.

 

Was it really him?

 

And, more dangerously still—

 

Why does she want it to be him?

 

The scrape of chairs and low murmur of students filled the dungeon as the room began to swell with bodies and the familiar scent of crushed ingredients. Clementine slid into the seat beside her. He leaned in, voice lowered. “Back in our usual spot? What happened?”

 

Darlina blinked, startled by how obvious the question felt. She glanced at him, then at the desk as her fingers fumbled with the edge of her parchment. “I don’t know… just felt like it,” she said with a shrug.

 

Class began on the dot, Professor Snape sweeping in with his usual precision and all the warmth of a snowstorm. He moved through the rows, and launched into his lecture with that voice—low, deliberate, threaded with authority sharp enough to cut glass.

 

And Darlina… well, she wasn’t in the right headspace to save her life.

 

The words spilling from his mouth were perfectly clear, but her mind had reduced itself to a puddle of static, focusing instead on the curve of his hand as it chalked elegant script on the board, the sweep of his hair when he turned just so. Professional admiration—that’s what this was. Pure, academic respect. Obviously.

 

Merlin’s beard, she needed to get a grip.

 

Her chin had found its way to her palm, her lips parted slightly, eyes following him like she was tracing constellations in motion. She didn’t even notice Clementine’s stare burning a hole into the side of her head—at least not until his elbow nudged her gently.

 

She jerked upright, heat blooming scarlet across her cheeks. Oh no.

 

By some miracle—or fate’s pity—Snape didn’t call on her. If he had, she would’ve gone down in flames faster than a flobberworm in a firework. When dismissal came, she bolted. One second she was gathering her things, the next she was halfway up the stairs, the chill of the dungeon air clinging to her robes as her heart performed an awkward waltz.

 

“Lils!” Clementine’s voice chased after her. Footsteps quickened. She tried to keep going—walking fast, not running. Definitely not running. That would scream guilt. She was calm. Completely calm.

 

Until his hand closed gently around her wrist.

 

Darlina froze, spine stiffening, breath catching. Slowly, she turned. Clementine’s expression was soft, but his eyes searched hers with that unnerving clarity she both admired and feared. “What was that?”

 

Her lips parted, heart hammering as she blinked up at him. “What?”

 

“You… with him?” The words sounded strange on his tongue, almost reluctant, and her brows knitted in confusion.

 

“Huh?”

 

“Why were you looking at Professor Snape like that?”

 

Her pulse spiked, the rush pounding in her ears so loud it drowned everything else. She stared, doe-eyed, feeling the heat crawl mercilessly up her neck.

 

“I—I wasn’t—” Her voice cracked, and she swallowed hard, fumbling for sense, for normalcy, for any explanation. “What do you mean?”

 

“Lils—”

 

“I don’t get it—did I do something wrong?” The words tumbled out in a rush, breathless and almost pleading. Her lower lip wobbled as panic gnawed at her ribs.

 

Clementine’s shoulders slumped. With a quiet sigh, he drew her into his arms, his hand warm and grounding at the back of her head. “No, Lils… Merlin, no. Maybe it’s just me. I’ve been… stressed lately. Headboy duties, you know how it is.”

 

Her body softened instantly, concern flooding out all the frantic sparks. “Stressed?” She pushed back just enough to look up at him, eyes wide and imploring. He only sighed again, weary and worn in a way that made her chest ache.

 

“Don’t worry,” she murmured, sliding her arms around him in return. “If you need anything—anything at all—I’m here.”

 

“I know,” he said quietly, pressing his chin lightly atop her hair. “I know you are.”

 

Clementine insisted on walking her to the next class under the pretense that his meeting with prefects was “just nearby.” Darlina didn’t argue—how could she? And so, she chattered instead, filling the corridors with her airy voice, bouncing from topic to topic without pausing long enough to catch the amused curve of Clementine’s mouth. By the time Herbology rolled around, the weight that had been dragging her down felt lighter. Bearable, even.

 

And Merlin, wasn’t it nice to feel like herself again?

 

Her prior classes had gone smoothly—better than she expected—and her little talk with Clementine had helped unclog the tangled mess in her head. So, when she stepped into the greenhouse and the earthy scent of soil and blossoms hit her senses, her smile came easily. She didn’t just do well—she thrived. Hands deep, wand steady as she coaxed shy seedlings from their pots, Darlina managed to earn thirty points for Hufflepuff before the period ended. Thirty! She practically glowed under the praise. When the last of her classmates trickled out, Darlina lingered behind, fingertips grazing along leaves. She bent low to admire a lone yellow blossom—a tiny, stubborn thing that dared to bloom despite its prickly neighbors.

 

“Feeling better today, Darlina?”

 

The familiar, hearty voice made her glance up. Professor Sprout stood by one of the larger worktables, cheeks flushed from the greenhouse heat, eyes twinkling. “More than ever,” Darlina said brightly, giggling as she gave the little flower an affectionate tap.

 

“I can tell,” Sprout said with a grin. “You’re glowing, dear girl. Absolutely glowing.”

 

Darlina turned so quickly she nearly toppled a watering can. “Really?”

 

“Oh yes. Quite obvious.” Sprout’s tone was light, teasing, “Well… what happened, if you wouldn’t mind sharing?”

 

Heat flooded her cheeks, and she pivoted back toward the rows of plants, suddenly fascinated by the curl of a vine she’d seen a thousand times before. Professor Sprout didn’t mean any harm—she never did—but the woman had a knack for extracting confessions with nothing more than a raised brow and a kindly smile. And what could Darlina even say? That her heart had been doing odd, traitorous things lately—especially when a certain dark, brooding professor crossed her mind?

 

Ridiculous. Absolutely ridiculous.

 

He’s just a professor, she reminded herself fiercely, straightening a wayward stem with unnecessary care. Like Professor Sprout. Like Madam Pomfrey. Like any of them.  Except Grimshade—she grimaced at the thought of his next exam—but even then, her feelings toward Snape weren’t… whatever Clementine thought they were. They weren’t. They couldn’t be.

 

Right?

 

“Darlina?”

 

She flinched so hard the vine snapped back against her wrist. “Yes?”

 

“I lost you there for a moment,” Sprout said gently, tilting her head in that patient, knowing way that made Darlina’s stomach squirm. “Well, my next class is about to begin. Would you be a dear and send this over to Professor Snape?”

 

Darlina’s breath caught, sharp and quiet, and she prayed it wasn’t obvious. “Sure,” she said after what felt like a lifetime, forcing her voice into something that resembled normalcy. Sprout’s grin was bright as sunlight. With a flick of her wand, a small basket floated from the counter toward Darlina, landing neatly in her arms. “Thank you, dear. You’re a treasure.”

 

Darlina clutched the basket. “No biggie, Professor Sprout!” she chirped, voice wobbling only a little. And then Darlina spun on her heel and all but fled the greenhouse, heart pounding. Darlina took her time, letting the last traces of sunlight warm her shoulders as she wandered toward the castle. Herbology had been her final class of the day, which meant no reason to rush—not when her thoughts were already sprinting leagues ahead of her feet.

 

Her gift.

Her utterly confusing emotions.

And him.

 

Should she thank Professor Snape? That seemed reasonable—polite, even. It was a gift, after all. A thoughtful one. Except… was it? Or was it simply restitution? An obligation born from the fact that he broke her camera in the first place? Probably the latter. Definitely the latter.

 

Still, the thought of saying “thank you” had her insides tying themselves in knots. She was rehearsing possible sentences in her head—somewhere between dignified gratitude and casual indifference—when fate decided to shove subtlety into the Black Lake.

 

Speaking of the devil, and the devil shall appear.

 

Because there he was.

 

Gliding across the stone corridor, his presence swallowing the narrow hall as easily as the shadows did.

 

Oh, Merlin.

 

Her heart stuttered. She nearly dropped the basket in her hands.

 

“Professor!” The word escaped her in a frantic whisper-shout as she quickened her pace. The echo bounced off the walls, and she winced—there weren’t many students about, but still.

 

Snape’s head turned fractionally, one brow already arching in that way that made her feel about three feet tall. She flushed hot and fast, suddenly incapable of meeting his gaze—Merlin forbid she drown in the obsidian sharpness of his eyes—so she settled for staring somewhere near his forehead instead. “Professor Sprout asked me to bring these, sir.” She thrust the basket up, nerves bubbling into a too-bright smile. “Just ingredients. Nothing fancy.”

 

He looked at the basket.

Then at her.

Then… back at the basket.

 

And did absolutely nothing.

 

Not a word. Not a twitch of a hand. Just stood there, inscrutable. Darlina blinked at him. Once. Twice. “Sir?”

 

Still nothing—save for the faintest flicker in his gaze before he turned. No explanation. No gesture. Just… walking away.

 

“Professor?” she tried again, scrambling after him, basket clutched to her chest. “Sir? Hello?”

 

Was she invisible? Did she—oh no—did she become a ghost?

 

“You did not become a ghost, Miss Lourdes,” came the dry reply, his voice slicing clean through the corridor without so much as a backward glance. “Follow me.”

 

She blinked.

 

Oh.

Did I say that out loud?

 

“Err—follow you, sir?”

 

His stride didn’t falter. “Is that a problem, Miss Lourdes?”

 

She nearly collided with the sweep of his cloak when he glanced back—a sliver of his profile as sharp as a dagger—and promptly turned back ahead. Her cheeks burned hotter than a freshly stoked cauldron. “No, sir. Of course not,” she mumbled, hugging the basket tighter.

 

Merlin’s saggy socks, could she stop blushing? It was utterly infuriating. She wasn’t even sure which was worse—the heat in her face or the ridiculous flutter in her stomach every time his voice curled through the air. And honestly, why couldn’t he just take the basket? Was that so hard? Why drag her along like some awkward apprentice heading into the belly of the dungeon beast? Not that his office was an actual beastly lair… but still. It might as well have been, with how dark and foreboding it felt in her imagination.

 

He moved fast, too. Cloak snapping behind him, strides long and purposeful. She had to half-jog just to keep pace.

 

“Sir—” she puffed after a moment, lowering her voice into a tentative murmur, “do you mind maybe… slowing down? You walk too fast.”

 

That earned her an actual glance. One long, deliberate look that made her toes curl. Then—finally—he sighed. A sound like pure exasperation. But his steps… slowed. “Thanks,” she added softly, a sheepish grin tugging at her lips before she could stop it.

 

After what felt like an eternity of descending staircases, Darlina found herself deep in the dungeons, trailing behind Professor Snape like some very confused, very small shadow. The corridors twisted and coiled—dark, damp, and humming with an unsettling stillness. She clutched the basket tighter, her footsteps light against the cold stones. She had just convinced herself they were nearing his office when—of course—fate threw another wrench in the works.

 

They were intercepted.

 

By Clementine.

 

Darlina froze mid-step, nearly colliding with Snape’s robes when he stopped. She peeked around the sheer wall of black fabric shielding her view—and immediately regretted it. Because Clementine’s eyes found hers almost instantly.

 

Her heart thudded violently against her ribs as she ducked back behind Snape, practically plastering herself to the shadows. She didn’t even register a single word exchanged between the two men; her ears were too busy roaring with panic. She just offered Clementine the most awkward grin known to mankind when they finally moved past him, accompanied by a fluttery little wave that screamed everything is fine, nothing to see here, please stop looking at me like that.

 

Then she scurried after Snape.

 

By the time they reached his office, her pulse had only barely started to settle. The heavy door swung open of its own accord—clearly charmed, familiar—and, as if that weren’t enough, Snape stood there… holding it for her.

 

Darlina blinked. Twice.

 

Yes, the door was already open, but he still stood there, a looming silhouette framed by flickering torchlight, as though waiting for her to pass. Which she did—awkwardly, cautiously—doing her absolute best not to brush against him.

 

She failed.

 

Just barely. Just the faintest graze of her sleeve against his. And yet it was enough to steal the breath from her lungs, to send something sharp and electric ricocheting down her spine.

 

Merlin.

 

Snap out of it, Darlina!

 

Right. Focus.

 

“Where should I put this, Professor?” she asked, voice a little too airy for her liking.

 

“By the hearth,” came the curt reply.

 

She nodded quickly, scurrying across the room to obey. The warmth from the flames licked at her chilled fingers as she set the basket down with more care than necessary.

 

And then—click.

 

The door shut behind her. The lock slid home with a soft, final sound that seemed louder. Darlina turned, blinking, heart vaulting into her throat. Not that she minded, necessarily. In fact, a reckless little part of her almost… hoped. Maybe they would talk now. Like, really talk. About everything that had unraveled between them. About the way he’d—Merlin help her—fixed her camera. She was ready to call it what it was: a gift. And no amount of Snape’s biting retorts could change that.

 

She didn’t even bother asking if she could sit. She just… did. Sliding into the familiar comfort of her usual wingback chair, curling into it. Her eyes followed him, every movement precise and deliberate—like watching a storm rearrange itself in the distance. He paced briefly, before flicking his wrist toward his desk. Papers straightened themselves with obedient little snaps. The chaos melted into order, just like that. She watched as he crossed to take the basket, disappearing momentarily into what she assumed was his adjoining lab. And then—finally—he returned.

 

And sat across from her.

 

The table between them felt like a barricade. And yet… not enough of one. Not with the air so thick it could choke her.

 

Darlina exhaled slowly, dragging her gaze away from the restless flicker of the hearth to… his hands. Long, pale fingers drumming absently against the polished wood. She shouldn’t look. She really shouldn’t. And yet she did. And it did something strange to her chest—something that had her thighs pressing together instinctively, her breath hitching in the quiet like a guilty confession.

 

Her eyes drifted upward—hesitant, slow—only to jolt when they collided with his.

 

Because he was already looking at her.

 

Merlin only knows for how long.

 

“Days ago, you came barging to my door.”

 

The words dropped like stones into the silence, and Darlina blinked—confused at first, her brows knitting delicately before something icy slithered down her spine. She searched his face for clarification, but he simply regarded her with that infuriating calm… Oh no.

 

Oh no, no, no.

 

Memories flickered in her head—except there was nothing, only a yawning gap where there should have been sense. “Oh, dear Merlin…” Her voice thinned to a whisper, horror blooming across her features as realization began to dawn in the most horrifying shade imaginable. “I… I can’t remember… Did I… did I do anything? Merlin—did I come here?” It slipped out before she could stop herself.

 

“Indeed, Miss Lourdes.” His tone was all silk and thorns, dark amusement lingering. “You came here while you were—inebriated—during the weekend. And it led to quite a… number of confessions, I would say.”

 

Her heart slammed against her ribs so violently she was certain he could hear it echo in the room. Confessions? Dear Merlin, what confessions?

 

 “Confessions?” she squeaked, already gripping the armrest as though she might launch herself straight out the window.

 

Snape’s brow arched, “About your camera. Your… Gryffindor friend.” The way he uttered ‘Gryffindor’ was dripped with venom, his disdain for the House practically oozing from the syllables.

 

She blinked rapidly, cheeks heating. “I—I don’t follow… Sorry, Professor, but… I don’t remember a lot when…” She faltered, cheeks flaming brighter as her voice dipped to a murmur, “when I’m drunk.”

 

The admission burned. He saw her. Drunk. Not tipsy. Drunk. Her father didn’t even know she’d been drinking—Merlin, he’d send a Howler from hell if he did. The summer nights with Clementine and Michael had seemed harmless at the time, but this—this was catastrophic. Would Snape tell him? Would this be her final moments at Hogwarts? Would she be expelled and hexed into oblivion all before dinner— “Your thoughts are far too loud, Miss Lourdes.”

 

The smooth interjection made her flinch. His voice was quiet, but sharp enough to slice through her spiraling panic. “Don’t be absurd,” he continued coolly, “Your father will not be notified. I have learned my lesson about indulging your father in matters that—” he allowed a pause to linger, deliberate and dark, “—concern you.”

 

Her breath caught. Indulging your father? There was weight there, something she didn’t dare probe. His eyes fixed on her, black and bottomless, and when he spoke again his voice had dropped into something quieter, graver. “If only you would pledge not to get intoxicated again.”

 

Her throat tightened at the shift in his tone, the shadow darkening his expression as he added, “Especially since you don’t seem to remember your… activities under the influence. Is that correct?”

 

Darlina swallowed, shrinking further into the wingback chair. “Yes…” she whispered.

 

“A concerning issue, Miss Lourdes.” His voice held no sympathy, only clinical disappointment that felt heavier than any scolding. “If you know memory lapses follow intoxication, then why indulge in it at all?” His eyes flickered over her like cold fire, dissecting, condemning. “Learn your limits. Drink within them. It is neither difficult nor negotiable.”

 

Her heart sank, guilt curling in her chest like smoke. She wanted to speak, to defend herself, to explain that— “And yet,” he pressed on, voice darkening into something far more cutting, “this circumstance will not be repeated. Do you understand?”

 

The finality in his tone made her stomach twist. And then—Merlin help her— “I will see to it that such… gatherings are banned at Hogwarts. Effective immediately.”

 

Her eyes widened, panic flashing for Michael and his entire social life. “Sir…” she started weakly, though the words scattered before she could form them.

 

“Am. I. Understood?” His voice lashed out like a whip, quiet but merciless.

 

“Yes, sir,” she breathed, eyes round as Galleons, the fight dying in her throat. “It won’t happen again.”

 

“Good.”

 

A beat of silence passed. Then another.

 

“Now…” He leaned back slightly, steepling his fingers with lethal calm. “If you could just tell me once again about your… issues with me, that would, perhaps, suffice.”

 

Issues. Plural.

 

Darlina’s breath caught in her throat. It sounded so official when he said it, like she’d filed a formal complaint instead of… what? Mumbling incoherently in his office days ago? Merlin’s beard, he’s staring at her so intensely. Like he could read her thoughts if she dared to think them too loudly. The fire crackled in the silence between them, mocking her. Every second that ticked by only amplified the pressure until her skin felt too tight for her bones.

 

Say something. Anything.

 

Her mouth opened before her mind caught up. “Did you… send me the box?” Her voice was a whisper, shy and wavering, her eyes fixed on the hearth like it might save her from the weight of his stare. When she finally risked a glance, his brows had drawn together in a frown.

 

“Look at me when you talk.”

 

Her heart skipped, her throat tightening painfully. Sir— The protest died before it lived. What could she say—that she physically couldn’t look at him because… because what? Because he was Severus Snape, and her brain turned into pudding every time their eyes met?

 

Slowly, pitifully, she obeyed—lifting her gaze with all the courage she could scrape together. He studied her in silence, then spoke, voice as even as ever. “Does it contain the cameras? If so, yes. I was the one who sent it.”

 

For a moment, all the air in the room seemed to vanish. She just stared at him, wide-eyed, wonder striking through her. Then reality jolted her back, and she shook her head furiously because no—she could not afford to spiral into… whatever this was. “How?” It tumbled out before she could stop herself, her nose scrunching in pure curiosity. “I mean… can professors just… come and go in the dormitories?”

 

One corner of his mouth twitched—though not quite into a smile. “Merlin—no.” His tone was almost offended by the idea. “An elf. I sent an elf to your quarters.”

 

“Oh.”

 

A beat of silence. Then, in that deceptively calm voice, he continued. “In fact, I sent the same elf to apparate you back to your dormitory when you came here drunk. You fell asleep in that very chair—” his gaze flickered briefly to the wingback she currently occupied, and her stomach performed an acrobatic twist “—and refused to move. The elf also retrieved your original camera. All under my instruction.”

 

Her breath hitched. She didn’t know why her heart was fluttering so violently. There was nothing remotely romantic about house-elf intervention, for Merlin’s sake—so why did this feel like some strange, twisted version of chivalry?

 

“An elf…” she murmured under her breath. “I must thank that elf someday.” She shook her head quickly, redirecting before she humiliated herself further. “Well—err—sorry, Professor. For… all of that. You really didn’t need to… to deal with my… intoxicated self.” The words tasted bitter and embarrassing all at once. “It won’t happen again. I swear. And…” Her voice softened, hesitant. “Thank you. For the camera. And for fixing my old one.”

 

His response was immediate, cutting the gratitude clean in half. “Do not thank me.”

 

 Her eyes darted back up, startled. “I was the reason it broke in the first place,” he said evenly, his gaze like a blade against her skin. “The reason you were… unhappy these past few days. For that, I take full responsibility.” His voice lowered almost imperceptibly—still controlled, but lacking its usual venom. “And I would like to sincerely apologize. Again.”

 

Her chest constricted. Unhappy. Merlin—what else had she said to him that night? Did she pour her heart out? Did she cry? Curse? The silence stretched, heavy and charged, until she finally sucked in a breath and forced herself to speak.

 

It was now or never.

 

Pharell’s voice echoed in her head—never suppress, always communicate. Right. Easy for him to say when he wasn’t sitting across from Professor Snape in a dungeon office. Still. Enough was enough. She would tell him everything. Or… well, not everything-everything, but—enough.

 

“Okay.”

 

The single word escaped before she could think better of it. From the corner of her eye, she caught the faintest shift in him—the subtle stiffening of his shoulders. Then her own memory betrayed her: look at me when you talk.

 

Right. That.

 

Summoning every scrap of courage, she dragged her gaze up until it met his. Merlin, his eyes were a weapon. Dark, bottomless, and entirely too intense for someone with a heartbeat. “I…” Her throat bobbed. “I felt more than sad when you broke my camera. It wasn’t just a camera, it was… the only real connection I had to my mother.” The words came out shaky but unstoppable now. “And then—you started behaving so… so out of character. At least, out of the character I thought you were.”

 

Her chest rose and fell too fast. She forged ahead anyway. “I thought—” She faltered, then corrected herself. “I think I see you as a friend already. Not in a weird way! Just… the way I do with Professor Sprout or Madam Pomfrey. And I thought maybe you could at least tolerate… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely between them, cheeks aflame. “Professionally, of course.”

 

The silence pressed in, but her mouth refused to stop. “And then—then you told my father about my Gryffindor friends when I specifically—okay, maybe not specifically, but I implied I didn’t want that. And Eve—Eve’s great, I swear she is, but now I can’t even go against my father because his word is basically law. It just feels so abrupt, and so unfair, and—Merlin, I really… I really miss our yap sessions now.”

 

By the end of it, her lungs burned. She had delivered the entire confession in one desperate breath. If she stopped to think, even for a second, she would have swallowed the words and buried them where they’d gnaw at her forever. And now? Now she sat frozen, pulse hammering in her ears, watching his face for any sign—any flicker—of what he might be thinking. There was nothing. A blank mask of composure so absolute it bordered on cruel. Except… no. For a split second—gone as soon as it appeared—something shifted in his eyes. Too quick to name. Too quick to hold.

 

When he spoke, his voice was steady, low, and threaded with something she couldn’t quite place. “We could still have our… yapping sessions, as you call them.”

 

Her heart gave a ridiculous little leap.

 

“And if you are so certain your Gryffindor friend is as exemplary as you claim,” he continued, voice dipping into a faint drawl, “I will endeavor to make your father… see reason. Though I cannot guarantee his agreement. As it stands, I myself do not condone such associations.”

 

But this is my life, she wanted to argue, lips pressing into a pout instead. Still, warmth bloomed in her chest at the simple acknowledgment: we could still talk.

 

“And again—your camera.” His tone softened by a hair. “I am confident it is fully repaired. It will not suffer further damage under any circumstances.” Her throat tightened. She nodded, quiet, her thoughts tangling in a mess of relief and longing and something else she didn’t dare name. For the first time in days, the heaviness in her chest loosened—just enough to breathe again.

 

“Is that all?”

 

No. No, it wasn’t. There were things she’d never admit out loud—like how she sometimes imagine the CPR incident in her mind, wondering what his mouth had felt like for that one impossible second—

 

Stop. Get a grip, Darlina.

 

“I think that’s all,” she whispered instead.

 

“Good.”

 

He rose, fluid and commanding as always, and some reckless impulse surged in her before reason could throttle it. Her hand shot out, curling around the sleeve of his robe.

 

Merlin. She had grabbed him.

 

Heat scorched her cheeks, but she didn’t let go. Not yet. His eyes flicked to the contact—then to her. That gaze could have frozen oceans. “Thank you,” she said softly, even though he’d forbidden the words. “Even if you don’t want to hear it.”

 

For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then, with the smallest of nods—stiff, reluctant, but there—he replied, “You should head to the Great Hall. Dinner will begin shortly.”

 

“Are you not going?”

 

“That is not your concern, Miss Lourdes.”

 

She pouted, half to mask the embarrassment crawling up her spine. “Fine. Just—drop the lock then, sir.”

 

“Right,” he murmured, almost to himself. A flick of his hand, and the wards fell away with a soft click.

 

Grinning despite herself, she gave his arm a quick squeeze before finally releasing it—because apparently, she had no regard for her future self’s mortification. Her blush deepened when she caught it—the barest hint of color staining the tips of his ears.

 

“See you around, sir,” she whispered, slipping out before she could do something truly catastrophic.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“Hey!”

 

Darlina’s grin stretched wide the moment she spotted Irmak at the edge of the Great Hall. Her mood was practically floating—light, airy, almost too good to be real. It was ridiculous how the heaviness that had chained her for weeks seemed to vanish after a single, tense conversation in the dungeons. Well… not ridiculous. She and Professor Snape were—what? Back on civil terms? Maybe even good terms? Whatever it was, it was enough to make her feel like the world had color again.

 

Irmak grinned back, then paused mid-step, his brows pulling together in mild confusion before curving into something softer, warmer. “You’re in a good mood, as it seems?”

 

“Yep,”

 

Irmak chuckled. “Want to sit at the Gryffindor table tonight?” He wiggled his eyebrows with exaggerated mischief.

 

Her steps faltered. “I… don’t know…” The words came out slower, her earlier giddiness dipping as if someone had tugged the rug beneath her feet. Sitting with Gryffindors tonight? After everything? Was that tempting fate?

 

Irmak shrugged, unbothered. “Fair enough. No pressure. But we’re still on for tomorrow, yeah? The grand—you-know-what?”

 

Darlina’s eyes widened as she glanced around, heart skipping at his volume. “Uhh… of course,” she whispered back, forcing a small smile.

 

“Great—”

 

“Heyyyy!”

 

“Eve,” Irmak muttered under his breath, rolling his eyes so hard they nearly fell out.

 

“Stealing my friend now, Irmak? I didn’t take you for a thief,” Eve announced dramatically, tossing her hair as if she were about to duel him in the middle of the corridor.

 

“I am not stealing anyone,”

 

“Whatever,” she waved him off without mercy. Before Darlina could say anything, Eve swooped in and wrapped her arms around her, pulling her along toward the Great Hall without missing a single step. Darlina froze under the sudden affection, then forced herself to relax and keep walking as Eve’s chatter hit full throttle. “Honestly, you missed so much—oh, and did you see McLaggen during dinner last night? Absolute disaster. And don’t even get me started on the rumor—”

 

Eve was still mid-rant Michael materialized out of nowhere, and the girl didn’t even get the chance to fight for custody before Darlina was pulled out of her grasp like a snitch snatched midair.

 

Darlina blinked.

 

“Sorry!” She mouthed helplessly as Michael steered her toward the Slytherin table. Darlina lifted her hand for a tiny, apologetic wave.

 

“Why,” Clementine began the moment Darlina sat down across from him, tone laced with suspicion, “were you following Professor Snape earlier?”

 

Darlina froze mid-sit, heat creeping up her neck. Michael, sprawled comfortably beside her with his usual lack of boundaries, tilted his head in mild confusion. “What’s going on…?”

 

Darlina forced her face into what she hoped was casual neutrality and not crimson panic. “I wasn’t following him,” she muttered, waving her hand dismissively before reaching for her goblet. “Professor Sprout just asked me to deliver something. That’s all.”

 

“A basket,” Clementine deadpanned, “Of ingredients. Which he, a fully grown wizard, apparently could not carry himself?”

 

Merlin’s beard. Could the ground swallow her now? She stabbed her fork into an innocent potato, praying it would act as a stress ball. Michael snorted before she could combust. “Really, Clem? Why are you making a big deal out of this?” He reached for a dessert. Relief swept through her. She exhaled quietly, shoulders loosening as Clementine sighed, long-suffering, and pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

“You’re right. I’m making a big deal out of this. Sorry.”

 

“Is it because of your stressful duties again?” Darlina ventured, her voice soft, trying to redirect him. Anything to erase the flush in her cheeks. She didn’t even touch the food in front of her—her appetite had apparently fled the scene along with her composure.

 

“Yeah… yeah,” Clementine agreed too quickly. Michael’s glance flicked toward him, sharp and knowing, but he kept his mouth shut.

 

“You’re not eating?”

 

“Oh—I will,” she mumbled, fumbling with her spoon. “In a while.”

 

He didn’t press. Instead, his grin slid into place. “What’s your plan for your birthday, then?”

 

Darlina blinked at him, mind screeching to a halt. Her birthday—Merlin, she’d almost forgotten. “I almost forgot!”

 

Clementine groaned, tossing a grape at Michael’s forehead. “I told you we should’ve just surprised her instead.”

 

“Sorry! I thought she had plans!” Michael laughed, unbothered as the grape bounced off him.

 

“You’re an idiot,”

 

“Hello?” Darlina interrupted, rolling her eyes. “I’m literally sitting here.”

 

Michael grinned, utterly shameless. “Sorry, Lina.”

 

She puffed out her cheeks in mock outrage. “I forgot I’m turning nineteen… It’s my last teenage year!”

 

“We’ve all been there, sweetheart. Tragic, really. Utterly unavoidable,”

 

Clementine coughed pointedly. “You act like you’re ancient, Mike. You’re literally nineteen right now.”

 

“So are you, so shut up, Clem.”

 

Darlina giggled despite herself, tension finally melting as she started piling food onto her plate. She let their banter wash over her, softening the chaos in her mind.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Irmak had claimed the hammock corner like it was his throne, legs crossed, looking far too composed for someone who’d just tossed her across the room—twice. Meanwhile, Darlina sat on the floor with her back pressed against the mirror, breath coming in soft, frustrated little puffs.

 

“This is absurd,” she muttered, running her fingers along her wand as though the poor thing could absorb her despair.

 

“We’re barely starting, Darlina,”

 

She lifted her head to glare at him, but his grin was disarming, almost infectious. Her lips tugged into a reluctant smile. “Right. I must not feel crestfallen already. Merlin, it’s only been—what? Minutes?”

 

“See?” Irmak gestured grandly at her grin. “That’s the spirit.” He shifted, resting his chin on his palm in a way that screamed here comes the psychoanalysis. “So… what do you think is the root of all this?”

 

She blinked at him, confused. “The root of all what?”

 

He waved his hand vaguely at her—at everything, really. “This. Your… defensive incapability.”

 

“I don’t know,” she said honestly.

 

Irmak tilted his head. “Or do you just wish not to acknowledge it?”

 

She squinted at him. “That’s uncomfortably spot on, Irmak.”

 

He only grinned wider.

 

“Well,” she sighed, brushing loose strands of hair from her face. “I’m not entirely certain, but… I think it’s because I wasn’t really taught to defend myself in the first place. I didn’t have DADA in my homeschool years.” She shrugged, like that explained everything.

 

“Merlin,” he said flatly. “And that’s… okay?”

 

“Err… not that I know of, but it seemed okay at the time?” She fiddled with her wand, voice softening. “I never thought I’d really need to defend myself. I mean… who would want to hurt me anyway?”

 

Irmak gave her a look. “There’s a lot of people who’d hurt anyone just because they could.”

 

“Scary,” she whispered. And it was.

 

“Yes. Which is exactly why you need to know how to defend yourself.” He pushed himself up, wand twirling between his fingers. “So… you’re up for another round?”

 

“Of getting thrown around?” She raised a brow, lips quirking. “Sure. Why not.”

 

He grinned. “It won’t be like that forever.”

 

Spoiler alert: it was.

 

By the second session—yes, the same day—Darlina was sprawled on her back, limbs splayed. “Shit—sorry, Darls!”

 

Her eyes cracked open. “Darls?”

 

“Yeah. My silly little nickname for you.” Irmak crouched beside her. “It’s too early for silly little nicknames, isn’t it?” She tried to laugh but managed only a groan as she clutched her back. Merlin’s bloody beard, she was going to feel this for days.

 

“Here.” He offered his hand without hesitation, and she grabbed it. His grip was warm, grounding, and he pulled her upright with surprising gentleness for someone who’d just flattened her twice in a row. “My back hurts,” she whined, rubbing the sore spot.

 

“You’re not even trying, Darls,” Irmak said, half-exasperated, half-amused. “You have to at least try. Maybe hex me first?”

 

“Merlin, I can’t even shield myself. Do you really think I have the guts to throw a spell at you?” She shook her head, lips curling into a rueful smile. “I wouldn’t wish my enemy to be tossed around like this, much less a friend of mine.”

 

“Oh, so I’m a friend now?” His grin turned smug.

 

Darlina laughed softly, despite the ache in her ribs. “Of course! You’re helping me, and you’re… really a sweet soul, you know that? I see you as a friend.”

 

“Well then, friend,” he said, sweeping his arm toward the cushions, “take a break. Let’s talk about something else before you stage a coup against this training session.”

 

“Gladly,” she muttered, sinking into the nearest beanbag with a sigh that felt like surrender. “How long have you been a prefect, anyway?”

 

“Since fifth year,” Irmak said with a little shrug.

 

Darlina blinked. Fifth year? Merlin. “Oh, wow. And is it really difficult?”

 

He tilted his head in thought. “Not really. I kind of enjoy the duties, so it’s fine anyway.” A beat passed before his expression softened with curiosity. “What’s your favorite animal?”

 

Darlina laughed under her breath. “That’s such a difficult question to answer!”

 

“Is it?” His brows lifted, teasing. “You’ve got to have an answer. Come on.”

 

“Well…” She tapped her chin, thinking. “I do have affinities for swans. We have this small pond back at home, and I—well—I have a swan there.” Her lips curved at the memory.

 

“I thought you’d say your owl,” Irmak chuckled.

 

“Oh—” Heat crept up her cheeks as guilt crashed into her chest. How did her mind completely skip Twila? “I love Twila,” she said quickly, with the kind of urgency that made Irmak laugh even harder. “She’s like family to me! How about you?”

 

That opened the floodgates.

 

What started as small talk turned into a spiral of questions and answers—favorite animals, favorite spells, dream vacations. They veered off into tangents about books they’d read, professors they secretly admired, and somewhere in between, Darlina realized she was genuinely enjoying herself. Irmak had that easy kind of humor that made everything feel lighter. It wasn’t until she checked her wristwatch that reality crashed back in. “Merlin—” Her eyes widened. “Classes will start in a few.”

 

Irmak followed her gaze and cursed under his breath. They scrambled up, laughter bubbling between them as they bolted out the door, gathering books and wands. They were halfway down the corridor when a stray thought slammed into Darlina, rooting her in place.

 

Irmak had said before that he escorted her back to the Hufflepuff dormitory the night she was drunk. But if that were true… how did she end up in Professor Snape’s office? Professor Snape had said the elf apparated her straight to her quarters. The only timeline that made sense was if she’d wandered after Irmak left her. Before she could lose her nerve, she reached out and caught Irmak’s wrist.

 

He stopped mid-step, turning to her with a questioning look. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Did you really escort me back to the Hufflepuff dormitory that night?”

 

Irmak blinked, clearly thrown. “That’s… random.” His brows furrowed for a moment before he nodded. “Yeah. I did.”

 

Her stomach twisted. She believed him, but something still didn’t line up.

 

Then Irmak’s expression shifted. “Well—” he admitted, scratching the back of his neck, “I didn’t actually take you to the door. But it was close. A few steps corners away. I heard some ruckus, and you said you’d find your way so…”

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

That explained it. Sort of. Maybe her feet had carried her elsewhere… to Snape’s office in particular. The thought alone was enough to make her pulse quicken.

 

“Why’d you ask? That’s so random.”

 

“Nothing,” she lied, waving it off with a smile that felt too bright. “Just a thought. Well—bye. See you soon?”

 

“See you, Darls.” He flashed her a grin before disappearing down the opposite corridor.

 

Her steps toward Advanced Potions were slow. She should feel anxious about what she was doing—practicing in secret, spending more time with a Gryffindor who accidentally drowned her, getting tangled in things she wasn’t sure she could handle. But she didn’t. Not completely. Maybe it was because of Snape—because he’d said he would try. Try to get her father to see reason. Try to keep some part of their fragile… whatever this was.

 

And Irmak wasn’t so bad either. He was a prefect, after all. Both he and Eve were good people—she could feel that deep in her bones. She hoped Snape saw it too. Hoped her father would. By the time she pushed open the classroom door, the weight in her chest had shifted, lighter now. And somehow—thank Merlin—she arrived just on time.

 

“You look stressed,” Clementine whispered, deft fingers fastening the last button on Darlina’s shirt. Darlina flushed scarlet, fumbling to pull her robes around herself. “I feel awful,” she murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

 

“Why?”

 

But Darlina didn’t get the chance to answer—because, at that exact moment, the classroom fell into silence. Snape stood and any thoughts scattered from Darlina’s brain. She fixed her eyes on her parchment, willing her quill to stay steady as she took notes with almost religious fervor. Don’t look at him. Don’t even think about him. Merlin, don’t think about the way his voice sounds when—

 

Nope. No. Focus.

 

And, to her credit, she managed it.

 

The class crawled by in measured doses of tension until, finally, Snape dismissed them with a sharp flick of his hand. Benches scraped back, chairs screeched, and her classmates spilled toward the door. Clementine lingered for half a second, eyes questioning, but Darlina waved him off with a smile. When the last of them slipped out, the heavy door closing with a deep thud, the quiet that followed was so absolute it pressed against her ears.

 

She crossed the room slowly, her soft smile still playing at her lips, and stopped a few paces from his desk. “Sir?”

 

He didn’t turn. His back remained a solid wall of black; his movements deliberate as he wiped the chalkboard clean, pale fingers curling around the rag. “Yes, Miss Lourdes?”

 

He didn’t need to look at her to recognize her voice. Darlina clasped her hands behind her back, rocking lightly on the balls of her feet as she watched him, a little thrill sparking under her ribs despite herself.

 

“Will you… will you really convince my father that Gryffindors are okay?” Her voice came out soft, uncertain, almost childlike in its hope. Granted, she wouldn’t even need to ask this if Snape hadn’t gone and tattled—because honestly, how would her father even know who she was spending time with otherwise? But all that was done now. The damage was done. And all she could do was clutch at the possibility—however slim—that Snape might help her.

 

Snape turned at last, black robes sweeping as he faced her fully. His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering. “The only exception,” he said, his voice smooth, clipped, “is Genevieve Itari, Miss Lourdes. I will give you my word on that.”

 

Darlina bit her lip hard, disappointment prickling. “What about… others?”

 

“Are there others?” His brow arched, and she looked away so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash.

 

“I mean…” She fiddled with the edge of her sleeve, words tumbling out in a low murmur. “I just think Gryffindors are… generally okay.”

 

Snape’s expression didn’t soften—if anything, it sharpened. “Generally okay,” he repeated, “And yet, four of them nearly sent you to an early grave.”

 

Here they go again.

 

Darlina exhaled, her lungs feeling too tight for her ribs. Okay—yes—fine, she almost died. But in her head, the thought flickered anyway: so what?

 

Merlin help her. Maybe she really wasn’t looking at her situation as seriously as she ought to. Maybe her hope for new connections had erased too much of the gravity of what happened.

 

“Just Eve, then,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

 

Across the desk, Snape pinched the bridge of his nose like the very sound of her voice exhausted him. Then, with that quiet, contained grace of his, he sank into his chair—his throne of shadows—folding his long hands atop the dark wood as his gaze speared into her.

 

“Nonetheless,” he said at last, each syllable deliberate, “rest assured, Miss Lourdes, that I will, of course, try my best.”

 

Relief washed through her like sunlight. She managed a small grin. Eve was enough. Eve was good. And maybe—just maybe—she could still see Irmak in secret. They’d been sneaking in practice sessions anyway, hadn’t they?

 

A thrill skittered through her veins, strange and reckless. Merlin, when did I become rebellious? Her homeschooled self would be horrified.

 

“Thank you, sir,” she whispered, meaning it more than she could say. She turned to go, but his voice followed her. “Miss Lourdes.”

 

She stilled, glancing back. His expression hadn’t changed, but his tone… his tone was almost—almost—gentle. “How is your bruise?”

 

Darlina blinked, thrown. “It vanished already, sir. It’s fine now.” But the bells in her mind started clanging, because Merlin, if only he knew—if only he saw—the fresh constellation of bruises blooming across her back from today’s practice session with Irmak. She swallowed the truth, let it slide down, and said nothing more.

 

Snape inclined his head in the faintest nod. “Good.” A pause, heavy, deliberate. “You may take your leave now.”

 

 

 

🦢

Notes:

This month has been nothing but brutal. Honestly thought I had escaped the infamous AO3 writer’s curse, but nope… My beloved laptop decided to betray me (screen started flickering), and I ended up in the hospital. Sick for a week and a half, completely knocked out. Fun times!

But! I’m finally okay now (I think??) and my midyear just ended a few days ago. I have a two-week break before the new semester starts, so I’ll try my absolute best to spoil you with updates. Seriously though, this month was pure chaos.

On a brighter note… Darlina is getting a little bolder, isn’t she? Our shy little bean is stepping up and I love her for it. And let’s talk about Irmak, any thoughts? He’s starting to hog the spotlight, and I’m not mad about it (but maybe Severus is…)

Speaking of Snape… nonstop apologies from him? WILDDDD. Honestly, Darlina is living the dream. And the gift!! I saw your comments saying you wouldn’t forgive him unless he bought her a new camera… Well, he did. AND fixed the old one. Do we forgive our broody bat now? Petition to officially forgive ancient dude starts NEOW.

Also, this chapter turned out LONG. I regret nothing.

Chapter 26: The Forest of Hogwarts

         LINGERING AFTER ADVANCED POTIONS had started to feel... dangerous. Not because of poisonous fumes or exploding cauldrons—though, admittedly, those were hazards worth mentioning—but because Clementine had developed a habit of assuming things. Things that Darlina was absolutely, one-hundred-percent certain did not exist.

 

Like the absurd claim that she had a look when she stared at Professor Snape.

 

What does that even mean? She looked at him professionally. Academically. The way any responsible student would look at their professor—preferably when taking notes, or Merlin forbid, listening. But Clementine’s eyebrow raises had started to feel like personal attacks, and Darlina wasn’t about to feed the fire with another post-class ambush at Snape’s desk.

 

Which is why, when Professor Sprout cornered her bright and early that morning with a cheerful, “Miss Lourdes, would you be a dear and take this down to the dungeons for me?”—Darlina nearly hugged her. The universe had aligned. Fate had knocked—and this time, fate came in the form of a familiar basket full of herbs and cuttings. She practically skipped all the way down to the dungeons, grinning like an idiot, though she told herself it was because she liked helping. Not because of the recipient.

 

Definitely not that.

 

She knocked three times. Waited. Tried the door. Locked.

 

Her shoulders slumped. Did she jinx the whole meeting just by being excited about it? Because that would be painfully on brand for her.

 

Five minutes later, she knocked again. The silence on the other side of the door stretched so long that she considered leaving the basket on the floor and fleeing.

 

She’d just turned around when the latch clicked.

 

Darlina’s heart leapt before she could scold it back into place. The door opened. Slowly. And there he was. “Professor—good morning!” The words tumbled out far too cheerfully for the gloomy dungeon corridor, but she couldn’t help it.

 

Snape stood in the doorway, tall and dark. His eyes landed on her, then on the basket in her hands, then back on her face. Wordlessly, he stepped aside and opened the door wider. She slipped past him cautiously. She placed the basket on the table near the fire as she always did. And then—of course—she glanced back at him.

 

And—of course—he was already looking.

 

It startled her every time; the way she looks at him only to find out that he’s already looking. Bewildering, really. She cleared her throat, tugging nervously at her sleeve as if that would erase the sudden weight in the air.

 

“Is there anything else?”

 

His voice sliced through the silence, and Darlina nearly jumped. She had been so busy drowning in her own thoughts—don’t stare too much, don’t look suspicious, for Merlin’s sake breathe—that she forgot how to function as a human being.

 

She blinked. Smiled. The small, shy kind that tugged awkwardly at the corner of her mouth as she clasped her hands behind her back like a schoolgirl with a secret. “Uhm…” Her voice tripped over itself as she took a breath, her teeth catching her bottom lip. For courage, she supposed.

 

Look at me when you talk.

 

Right.

 

Her eyes flicked upward, grazing his face.

 

“Are you… quite busy today, sir?”

 

It wasn’t much. Just a simple question. But it hung in the room. Snape’s gaze lingered on her for a fraction too long before shifting toward his desk. The movement was so slight that Darlina didn’t even notice, though the soft clear of his throat reached her. “I have a spare time this afternoon,” he said finally, his tone deliberately neutral—because, of course, he would never sound anything but.

 

Hope flared so brightly in Darlina’s chest that it nearly burst out of her in a squeal. She smothered it with effort, but her eyes betrayed her, shimmering. “Can we please, please go to the Forbidden Forest then?” she blurted, rocking on her heels, practically vibrating with excitement. And then, because she had no shame—or perhaps because she had too much of it to do this halfway—she added, “With a cherry on top?”

 

The room fell still.

 

Snape stared. Not at the floor, not at his desk, but at her. She was all wide eyes and ridiculous optimism, hands fidgeting behind her back like she was praying for salvation—or for him to say yes.

 

He should say no. The answer was obvious. He had work, responsibilities, a reputation as Hogwarts’ resident dungeon bat to uphold. But his mouth, traitorous thing that it was, opened before the thought had fully taken form.

 

“As you wish…”

 

And just like that, he doomed himself.

 

Darlina clapped her hands together with such ferocity it could have summoned a Patronus. “Thank you, thank you, sir!” she gushed, grinning so wide it was a wonder her face didn’t split in two. For a fleeting second, the urge to throw her arms around him hit with the force of a bludger. She didn’t, of course. She had some survival instincts left.

 

But Merlin, it was close.

 

The afternoon couldn’t come fast enough. Darlina had floated through the morning—barely tasting her breakfast, daydreaming through her first two classes, and now… now she was in the courtyard, practically vibrating where Snape had told her to meet him. It was an odd hour, the kind when the castle fell into a rare hush. Two hours before lunch, when most students were chained to their schedules. Not her, though. Lucky her. Blessed by fate—or maybe just Professor Sprout’s overenthusiasm for delegation. Either way, she’d take it.

 

Her heart gave a treacherous leap when she saw him at last, striding toward her with the purposeful gait of a man who always looks like he’s on his way to hex someone for breathing incorrectly.

 

She waved anyway. Because of course she did.

 

The camera—his gift—hung from her neck, catching stray glints of winter light. December was in full swing, the second week closing in with snow thick enough to blanket the courtyard. Delicate flakes clung to her cloak in soft little constellations as if they’d claimed her for their own. And Merlin, she had dressed for the occasion. The striking scarlet coat she’d chosen swirled dramatically with every movement, thick and velvety with sleeves wide enough to feel regal. Plush ivory fur lined the edges, cascading down the front, fastened neatly at her chest in a charming knot.

 

She carried a transparent umbrella overhead, its surface gathering flakes like petals in a glass dome, shielding her curling waves, which were tucked beneath a round red headband—almost like a halo. Beneath the coat, the hem of a short black skirt peeked out, stark against the pale lengths of her bare legs. Bare. As in, completely exposed. Because in her whirlwind of excitement, she had forgotten something rather essential—like tights.

 

Not that she cared. Not when she was buzzing, giddy, and absolutely incapable of being still. Well… if bouncing on her toes counted as stillness. Minutes ago, she’d even done a frantic double-check to make sure there weren’t any bruises on her legs—despite already checking yesterday. There weren’t. Praise Merlin. Her fresh bruises were all across her back instead.

 

The umbrella’s handle was clutched between both her hands, which were freezing because, of course, gloves had also failed to make the trip from her dormitory. Priorities, apparently, were for people who weren’t about to have an afternoon with Professor Snape. And then—he was there. Standing in front of her, his gaze sweeping over her with an expression she couldn’t read.

 

She beamed up at him instantly. “Hello, sir.”

 

His eyes flicked down—at her hands, her coat, her umbrella—and then narrowed slightly. “You appear to be without gloves,” he said.

 

“Oh—yeah,” she admitted, squeezing the handle tighter, as though strangling the umbrella might make up for her incompetence. “I forgot. It won’t happen again next time. Swear!”

 

He rolled his eyes. Then, with a sharpness that startled her, he began tugging at the fingers of his own gloves. Darlina’s eyes widened.

 

“Wear these.” The words were clipped. He extended the gloves toward her without flourish, as if the gesture were nothing.

 

Which, of course, it wasn’t.

 

She nearly tripped over her own tongue. “No thanks, professor. You wear them. They’re yours, anyway.” Her voice came out quick, a little breathless, accompanied by the kind of nervous nodding. But her heart—that traitorous thing—felt warm.

 

“Nonsense,” he said flatly. “Wear these, or we will cancel this arrangement immediately.”

 

Darlina’s mouth opened—possibly to argue, possibly to plead—but all that escaped was a quiet huff as she accepted the gloves. She pouted—because sometimes one had to protest silently—and her fingers brushed his in the exchange. And Merlin. His hand was warm.

 

Wrestling the gloves on while juggling an umbrella turned out to be a pathetic little circus act. She fumbled, nearly dropped the thing twice, and completely forgot she was a witch with access to basic levitation charms. In her defense, the cold was doing strange things to her brain. Apparently, it was doing the same to Snape because the next thing she knew, his long fingers closed around the umbrella handle and—just like that—he was holding it for her. Not a word. Just that simple, casual efficiency that somehow made her want to faint dramatically into a snowbank.

 

She slipped her hands into the gloves, which promptly swallowed them whole. She wiggled her fingers miserably. They looked ridiculous—like she’d stolen Hagrid’s mittens.

 

“Can I… perhaps, transfigure them to fit—”

 

She didn’t get to finish. A subtle pulse of magic curled around her fingers, precise and warm, and the gloves shrank neatly to her size. Her breath caught. “Oh,” she murmured, flexing her fingers inside the perfect fit. “Thank you. They’re warm…”

 

Her smile tilted upward, soft and instinctive, and for a heartbeat, her gaze lingered on his face—on the sharp planes, the shadowed eyes, the slight curve of his mouth that wasn’t quite a scowl today. And Merlin, he was tall. She had known that, obviously, but knowing it and standing here with her head tipped back to meet his eyes were two very different things. Before the thought could nest and turn embarrassing, he moved. No acknowledgment, no verbal response, just turned and started walking as if their exchange had been nothing more than a transaction.

 

Darlina scrambled to keep up, the crunch of snow filling the quiet between them. She didn’t have to remind him to slow down this time—his stride was still long but not punishing. It was… almost leisurely.

 

“How many times have you been in the Forbidden Forest before?”

 

The question startled her so much she nearly tripped on her own boots. He had initiated conversation. Actual words, directed at her. She blinked, cheeks heating, her fingers finding a strand of hair to twist like a lifeline.

 

“Uh… I used to go a lot in September,” she said carefully, her voice laced with nervous brightness. “Then a friend of mine found out and told me I shouldn’t.”

 

A low hum. Approval? She couldn’t tell.

 

“I take it that was Harrington?”

 

She glanced at him, though briefly. “Yup,” she replied softly, then added aloud for good measure, “Yes…”

 

“Well, since I respected my friend’s wishes, I stopped,” she continued, her words quickening now that her tongue had remembered how to work. “Not until… um, the incident with me talking to Gryffindors. When Father’s letter came. I just—” Her voice hitched. She swallowed, forcing a smile that wasn’t entirely steady. “I needed a break. And the forest seemed… peaceful. You know. Until you found me and one thing led to another…” She let out a laugh that was far too awkward to be convincing. “Anyway, that was my first time back in months.”

 

Snape’s eyes flicked toward her, dark and sharp, “It’s only right that you are not permitted to wander this forest alone, Miss Lourdes. I’m counting on you to grasp the gravity of that fact—because if you do not, then it appears you have little regard for your own well-being. Do you?”

 

Darlina almost stopped walking. Almost tripped over nothing, too, which would’ve been an excellent way to prove Snape’s point. She managed to steady herself, though her thoughts were less composed.

 

She did care about her well-being… right?

 

Blinking against the snowfall, she realized she’d never really examined the question from anyone else’s perspective. Maybe she had this blind, almost laughable trust in the universe—a quiet belief that it would always spit her out whole no matter how deep she wandered into danger. Or maybe—just maybe—she’d been deliberately ignoring the truth. Because the truth was ugly. She’d nearly drowned. Nearly died. One moment away from vanishing off the face of the earth like she was nothing more than a name on a parchment. And yet… the magnitude of that had never fully landed. Maybe because if she admitted how terrifying it all was, then it would become real. And she wasn’t sure she could live with that reality.

 

If she gave fear a name, it might devour her.

 

“I do care about my well-being,” she murmured at last. Her voice sounded smaller than she intended, carried away on a puff of white breath.

 

“That took you a while to answer,” he said, and she felt his gaze before she saw it. She didn’t dare look back right away. “But I did answer,” she grumbled under her breath.

 

When she finally risked a glance, something else caught her attention: he was still holding her umbrella. Tilting it over her head in a quiet, infuriating act of chivalry. And it was ridiculous, because the umbrella barely covered her, let alone both of them. Snowflakes were stippling his hair like stray starlight, melting into the dark strands. He hadn’t adjusted it for himself at all.

 

Her nose scrunched up. He could enlarge the umbrella with a flick of his wand, but fine, if he wouldn’t, then she would. She waved a hand, and the umbrella stretched effortlessly to shelter them both. Snape’s head turned at the sudden adjustment, dark eyes cutting toward her.

 

“You’re quite skilled in wandless magic,” he said, voice low, and—was that curiosity? Just a thread, but enough to make her blush.

 

“Yes, yes…” She waved him off. “I also love nonverbal spells. But I love my wand as well.” Her grin was wide, a little cheeky. He hummed in response, and somehow that noncommittal sound felt like a conversation all on its own. “You’re also quite good at it, sir,” she continued. “I’ve seen you use such. I didn’t even realize until recently how rare it is for people to manage either. Which is… honestly surprising.”

 

Her tone wasn’t bragging—just wonder threaded with warmth. Because magic, to her, had always been something deeply intimate. Something that flowed from the core outward, a part of her like breath or heartbeat. Wands were tools—elegant, beautiful ones, but still tools. She couldn’t fathom why people didn’t explore what their own magic from within could do.

 

Snape gave a single curt nod, clearing his throat. “What is your favorite part of this forest?” he asked. “Do you favor any particular location?”

 

Darlina’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes!” she gushed, her voice carrying the soft lilt of someone about to monologue. “There’s this willow tree I absolutely adore—big, twisty branches, very dramatic. But honestly…” She hesitated, sheepish now, biting her lip. “Most of the time I just… wander.” She caught the sharp edge of his glare from the corner of her eye. To her credit, she pivoted with high-level speed. “How about you, sir? Do you—uh—have a favorite spot? And where are we even going?” Her grin widened. “Not that I mind. I just… like to know if I should brace for venomous tentacula or something.”

 

“I know of a place,” he said, voice smooth but guarded, “where rare ingredients grow. It is of particular value to me… but I am not bringing you there.”

 

“Oh…” Her lips curled mischievously. “So this is a surprise, then?”

 

He rolled his eyes heavenward and kept walking. Which, naturally, Darlina interpreted as silent agreement. Her grin doubled in size. She started twirling a strand of her hair between her fingers, her gaze flicking between him and the snow-dusted canopy above.

 

The silence stretched—comfortable, surprisingly so—until her voice shattered it. “Look!” She squealed it. Actually squealed. And before she could blink, Snape had moved—swift, silent—grabbing her shoulders and guiding her behind him with a practiced sweep of his arm.

 

“Whoa—what—” she sputtered, blinking up at the expanse of black wool and even blacker hair. Her fingers had curled into his sleeve without permission, clutching it. His body went rigid, his head whipping side to side in a predatory scan of the trees.

 

And then he saw it.

 

The threat.

 

“It’s… only a deer,” Darlina said slowly, brows arching as her voice tilted toward a pout. Her grip loosened when realization sank in. He glanced down at her—those fathomless eyes flat as a coin—before exhaling through his nose, a sound that vibrated with long-suffering patience. When he stepped aside, she slipped back to his side like nothing had happened.

 

“It can be anything,” he said darkly.

 

“Oh, come on, professor. Let your guard down. We won’t die here.” She laughed softly, a shrug rolling through her shoulders. His expression sharpened—grim, shadowed—and something about it tugged at her gut. For a second, she wondered if she’d said the wrong thing. If she’d grazed a wound she couldn’t see. So she did what she did best when the air got heavy: she detonated it with nonsense. “You know,” she blurted, words tripping over each other, “bears and worms have absolutely nothing in common—except gummy bears and gummy worms. Which are, like, basically the same.”

 

He stared at her. “What are those?”

 

Her jaw dropped. “No way—you don’t know?” Her voice leapt an octave. “Gummy bears? Gummy worms? Muggle candies—chewy, colorful, little pieces of happiness?!”

 

His brow twitched, and his voice came smooth, laced with something almost—almost—like amusement. “Clearly.”

 

Darlina’s grin exploded. “Okay, I’m bringing you some after winter break. Non-negotiable.” His lips curled—just barely—and Darlina’s stomach performed an extremely rude flip.

 

As they walked deeper, the forest began to change. Winter flowers unfurled shyly through the snow, their petals vivid against the white. Darlina’s breath hitched in awe. And that was it—the dam broke. Words spilled like honey, sweet and relentless. She talked about every bloom she recognized, every herb and sprig, threading the conversation with bits of trivia plucked from long afternoons with Pharell and stolen forced hours buried in books. She spoke like someone in love—with life, with magic, with color—and Snape, for all his silence, didn’t stop her.

 

If anything, his pace slowed.

 

“I love magic!” she giggled, fingertips brushing over a magicked cluster of eranthis hyemalis, their yellow petals glowing faintly in the frost. The Forbidden Forest was alive in winter—brimming with secret pulses of enchantment—and Darlina felt cradled by it. Snape stood a few paces away, a looming shadow among the snow. Patient. Every time she crouched to pet some random plant (as if it might purr for her), he’d clear his throat or utter a pointed, “Miss Lourdes,” steering her forward.

 

Several “few more steps” and “just one last flower” later, after breathers and murmured botanical trivia, they reached the spot.

 

And Darlina’s breath vanished in an instant.

 

The clearing unfolded—an untouched sweep of snow where winter-blooming flowers curled out of frost, jeweled petals shimmering as though sugared with starlight. Some glowed faintly, their magic pulsing slow and tender, casting ripples of light over the white expanse. It was breathtaking in the way that made her chest ache. Without thinking, she darted ahead, skirts swishing, the umbrella still following—because of course Snape trailed her. She crouched near a winter jasmine, its butter-yellow blossoms clinging stubbornly to a slender vine, and smiled so wide her cheeks hurt. He, meanwhile, looked like someone assigned the world’s oddest field trip. Almost a chaperone—well, technically he was one. A very sarcastic, very reluctant chaperone.

 

“You’re blocking the sunlight,” she announced suddenly, lips curling into a bratty little pout.

 

One brow arched. His gaze flicked skyward, then around. True—the glade was drenched in pale winter light, a miracle considering the barricade of dark trees circling them. Somehow, though, he still managed to plant himself squarely in her sunbeam. Without comment, he sidestepped, though the umbrella stayed angled over her.

 

Darlina lifted the camera dangling from her neck moments ago and snapped a shot of the winter jasmine. She blinked at the camera, blinked at the little print sliding out in a neat curl. “Oh,” she breathed, snatching it before the snow could kiss its edge. The photo winked at her before the flakes on her boots had melted, the winter jasmine inside swaying softly as though stirred by the memory of wind. An animated photograph. Merlin’s beard, of course it was.

 

“Where did you even get this, sir?” she demanded, words tumbling as she practically skipped to her feet. “And—did you know it does this?” She shoved the photo into his periphery, waving it.

 

Her heart thudded; this only meant no more point-and-click recklessness; every photo had to matter. Every frame counted.

 

Snape didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. But silence had never been enough to stop her. “It’s amazing!” she barreled on, her words tripping over themselves. “Thank you—I totally love it. Really. My mother’s camera doesn’t even do this. I mean, I love hers, but this—this is just… fantastic. And it’s pink!”

 

The last word escaped like a squeal as she bounced on her boots, the crimson of her coat flaring. Her hair caught flecks of snow, glowing under the pale sunlight, and Snape found his jaw tightening against the oddest urge to… what? Brush them off? Ridiculous.

 

“Merlin,” she sighed, spinning slowly with her arms out just enough to make his pulse stutter in alarm, “it smells wonderful here. How did you even find this place, sir?”

 

“Gathering ingredients,” came his gruff answer.

 

She didn’t mind—he could answer in hieroglyphics for all she cared. The wonder in her gaze didn’t falter as she began weaving between clumps of frost-tipped flowers, her boots crunching softly in the snow. She didn’t walk so much as orbit—full of erratic little twirls and sudden crouches to coo over a bloom. And Snape—he followed. Or rather, his feet betrayed him into following, his stride loose enough to feign detachment while his gaze betrayed him at every turn. He scanned the trees, yes, but his eyes—traitorous, ungovernable—kept dragging back to her. To the way she giggles under her breath when she spotted a rare winter aconite. To the pink curve of her cheeks when the wind nipped at her. To the way joy radiated off her like heat, thawing even the frost at his edges.

 

“Sir?”

 

He blinked. “Hmm?”

 

“Can you take a picture of me?”

 

The words landed like a Stupefy straight to his spine. She was looking up at him—wide-eyed, lashes fluttering, her mouth soft with hope. Sweet. So impossibly sweet. He felt his throat constrict around the gruffness of his own voice. “I do not have prior knowledge of how to—”

 

And then she did it. The unthinkable.

 

She rolled her eyes.

 

At him.

 

Merlin help him, the audacity. He could almost—almost—imagine...no. No. The thought was so feral, so utterly wrong, he clamped it down immediately. His tongue was already shaping a reprimand when she smiled. That soft, almost-shy smile that should be classified as a Class A Restricted Item because—honestly—it was lethal.

 

“I’ll teach you,” she said brightly, practically vibrating with the thrill of this new conspiracy. “It’s literally easy. We’ll swap positions today.” Her voice dipped mischievously, eyes glittering. “I’ll be your professor.”

 

The brat wiggled her eyebrows. Actually wiggled them.

 

Snape’s sanity—what frayed little thread remained—screamed in protest. His body remained frozen. He refused to retreat a step, though the wild energy rolling off her nearly knocked the breath from his lungs. She closed the space between them without hesitation, her boots crunching softly in the snow, and he could feel her warmth now—small, human, terrifying. She lifted the camera high, stretching on her toes in a valiant effort to reach his height. Snape’s mouth twitched before he caught it. With a low sound—half sigh, half surrender—he raised a hand and pressed it lightly to her shoulder. Firm enough to ground her, gentle enough to startle himself.

 

“I’ll lean down,” he murmured.

 

Her breath hitched—just a flicker—before she nodded, eager, oblivious, and began her lecture. “Well, you only have to click this—then this—and, um, this button if you want the flash, but it’s not really needed because we’ve got sunlight—oh! And hold it steady or it’ll blur, but other than that it’s basically foolproof—”

 

He listened intently, gaze tracking the delicate animation of her hands as she gestured, her words spinning around him in a warm, dizzying current. And for the strangest, most unsettling moment, he wondered when the world had grown so bright.

 

“And that’s it!” Darlina announced with a grin, turning her head toward him—only to realize just how close they really were.

 

Oh. Oh, dear Merlin.

 

He’d actually leaned down to her height. Which, frankly, was… astonishing. Did he have joints of steel? Or had he sacrificed his lumbar spine in the name of pedagogy? Bless his knees. Bless his back. Bless—

 

Her thoughts screeched to a halt because his face—his eyes—were right there. Close enough for her to see her own reflection in those endless depths of ink. She blinked—once, twice—feeling her brain scatter. For one glorious, terrifying moment, she simply drowned in them.

 

Then, abruptly, he straightened to his full, looming height, and the spell shattered. She shook herself—get a grip, Darlina—and seized the nearest distraction. Flowers. Yes. Beautiful, waist-high flowers. She unclasped the camera strap from around her neck, fingers twitching with the ridiculous urge to—what? Loop it over his head? Make him bend down again so she could? Her cheeks went up in flames at the thought, and she immediately blamed the cold. Definitely the snow. Definitely not him.

 

“Is this angle good?” she asked brightly, positioning herself in front of a spray of blossoms that brushed her coat.

 

“Yes…” he grumbled. Any angle of the girl was good from his perspective.

 

Darlina beamed, brushing a stray lock behind her ear and adjusting her headband. A flash exploded before she could even inhale. “Professor!” she squeaked, scandalized. “I wasn’t ready!”

 

“You were standing still. That counts as ready,” he said blandly.

 

“No, no, no,” she argued, wagging a finger. “You’re supposed to count and then say ‘cheese’ so I can be super-duper ready.”

 

Snape winced as if she’d suggested an Unforgivable.

 

“Oh, come on, pleeeeease,” she pressed, pouring enough sugary imploring into her tone to give him a toothache.

 

“Fine.”

 

She grinned. After fixing her hair with meticulous care, she looked up, radiant. “Okay, I’m ready!”

 

He leveled her with a look, then muttered, “Three… two… one… cheese.”

 

Utterly devoid of enthusiasm. Completely uncheesy.

 

Darlina, however, didn’t care. She lit up for the lens—smiling wide, then tossing one arm toward the winter sky. She ran towards him, bouncing on her feet as she waited for the tangible copy to emerge. The photo printed itself moments later, sliding into Snape’s waiting hand. He passed it to her wordlessly, watching as her grin somehow doubled just by staring at her animated self in that tiny moving frame.

 

Only then did she notice something else—the umbrella now floating serenely above her head. Not over Snape. Not shared. Just hers. He’d let it hover him while taking her picture as he gripped the camera firmly in both hands. Now it’s looming over her. Her throat went warm with something she didn’t dare name.

 

“Can I also take a picture of you?” she asked, eyes bright.

 

His reflexive “No.” was instantaneous, clipped, absolute. He thrust the camera back at her.

 

“Oh, come on, sir.” She tilted her head, the pout emerging—a dangerous, weaponized pout. “For memories.”

 

That earned her a glower. Which she met with wide-eyed innocence and a very blatant refusal to blink. Somewhere between the fifth and fifteenth second of this silent duel, something in him cracked.

 

“I will only indulge this once,” he said finally, voice low, as if the trees themselves might gossip.

 

Darlina’s grin bloomed once again. “Stand right where I stood,” she ordered cheerfully, all faux-authoritative, and Merlin help him, he obeyed. With a sigh of martyrdom, he crossed to the spot. The umbrella, naturally, bobbed after her—hovering loyally above her instead of him.

 

“Will you… smile?”

 

If looks could kill, Darlina would currently be a corpse fertilizing the snow. His scowl deepened into something almost artful. She burst out laughing. “Okay, fine. Don’t, sir.”

 

He just stood there, rigid as a gargoyle, his black cloak pooling dramatically against the white frost. And, well—Darlina couldn’t help it. She admired him. Professionally, of course. Totally academically. “Are you ready?” she teased, wiggling her eyebrows for good measure. He rolled his eyes, which almost—almost—made her giggle.

 

“One… two… three… say cheeeseee—” She drew out the word in singsong, biting back laughter when his expression didn’t so much as twitch.

 

Click. Flash. Perfect stoicism immortalized forever.

 

“One more—” she began brightly, but he was already striding toward her with long, deliberate steps. She pouted, clutching the camera, her developed photo in her other hand. When his moving image slid free, she lifted it to compare to her own, and laughter bubbled from her chest. The contrast was glorious: she, all sunshine and dimples, grinning like a lunatic in a field of winter blooms. And him? Utterly motionless. He might as well have been posing for a Ministry-issued wanted poster. If the flowers behind him weren’t swaying gently in the breeze—and his hair hadn’t given the faintest ripple—she’d swear it was not a moving photo.

 

And Merlin help her, she loved it. It was so him.

 

The walk back to the castle was comfortable, almost quiet. Darlina wanted to freeze the moment, bottle it up, live in it just a little longer. Snow drifted lazily from the pewter sky, and once again, Snape held the umbrella over them, its charm-widened dome shimmering faintly. He could have floated it, but no—he carried it. Just for her. Her boots crunched softly in the frost, legs prickling now from the cold she’d pretended not to feel earlier. Class loomed ahead, but for now… she breathed in the forest-scented air and dared a little sigh.

 

“I haven’t seen a dandelion,” she murmured, pouting for the hundredth time of that afternoon. Snape’s answer was a low, noncommittal grunt.

 

“You know what’s funny, Professor?”

 

She half-expected him to ignore her—he often did when she lobbed conversational grenades into silence—but then came that deep, velvety tone: “What?”

 

Darlina grinned at the opening and seized it. “Everyone thinks dandelions are useless. Just weeds cluttering up perfect lawns. But they’re amazing.”

 

His eyes flicked to her, slow and deliberate, the way he always looked when he was preparing for a lecture. “Miss Lourdes,” he said in that deep, silken tone that made her heart lurch, “it is, in fact, a weed.”

 

She rolled her eyes so hard she swore they saw past the veil. “Yes, but that’s the point! People overlook them because they’re everywhere—but they’re strong. They grow through cracks, Professor. They’re… stubborn.” She laughed softly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “And when they turn to fluff, you can make wishes on them. Isn’t that… magical?”

 

He didn’t speak right away. Then, very softly, he muttered, “Perhaps… you have that in common.”

 

For a beat, she froze. Heart skipping, cheeks blooming scarlet—but then her grin came back, brighter than ever. “That’s why it’s my favorite,” she said.

 

At some point, Darlina started to lag behind. Not because she was tired—oh no—but because she was busy admiring the sheer drama of her professor striding through the snow. His cloak didn’t just move—it billowed, swirled, practically conducted its own symphony of menace. And then there was his hair. She grinned like a fool watching the inky strands bob with every measured step.

 

Before she could stop herself, she lifted the camera, framed him perfectly in the falling snow, and clicked. A crisp snap, a flash of magic—and a perfect candid of him. Right on cue, he turned, his head swiveling with the grace of a predator and the glare of a man whose patience was currently sprinting for the hills. Darlina froze, nearly tripping over her feet.

 

“Walk beside me, Miss Lourdes,” he said. “And do try to be careful. Did I, at any point, give you permission to photograph me?”

 

“Yes,” she chirped, jogging up to him. “Earlier. Remember?”

 

“That was only once, Miss Lourdes. Once.”

 

“But it’s cute, sir!”

 

His scowl deepened. Meanwhile, she glanced down at the photo developing in her hands and giggled softly. “Thank you, sir,” she said sweetly, which made absolutely no sense in context, but her gratitude was real.

 

“Hmph,” came the dignified grunt of a man.

 

She grinned wider, practically glowing in the cold light. “Pharell said my camera—my old one—once belonged to my mother,” she added, her voice softening like snow settling on branches. “It even had photographs of flowers she’d taken. That’s… part of why I love photography.”

 

There was a beat—a flicker of something unspoken in the air. He didn’t stop walking, but the subtle hesitation in his stride said more than words. Darlina smiled at the ground, let the silence settle warm for a heartbeat, then steered them back into safer waters. “Anyway!” she chirped, voice bright as winter sun. “Maybe you could, oh, I don’t know—lessen your essay requirements, Professor? Just a little?”

 

The look he shot her could have curdled milk.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

She was on her tiptoe, peering over the tall shelves of the library. Snape assigned their class to research about the history of potion and write an essay about it, specifically to find an aspect that intrigue them the most. One would think after jokingly begging him earlier this afternoon not to assign more essays, he would at least listen for once, but no… of course not. Well, nonetheless, she already has her mind set about a specific nation, however, of course, she needs literatures to back up her thoughts and here she now stood in front of the aisle in the Hogwarts Library.

 

She squinted her eyes on the very top books—seeking and seeking and seeking—then she tiptoed once again, pick up a book, shook her head after skimming through its content and placed it back. Then she repeats the process again and again until—

 

“Boo!”

 

Darlina shrieked—actually shrieked—dropping the book and whipping around so fast. “Mike!” Her heart was a stampede. He grinned, looking unapologetic as ever. Of course it was him. Bane of her cardiovascular system.

 

But then—FLASH.

 

Light exploded overhead. Both of them looked up just as sparks fizzled from the enchanted lamps, raining faint smoke. Michael yanked her out of the way with a reflex that was, annoyingly, kind of heroic. The aisle dimmed into shadow as the magic sputtered and died, leaving Darlina staring at the smoldering fixtures, chest heaving.

 

“Sorry, Lina,” Michael muttered, raking a hand through his artfully messy hair. “I—hell—I didn’t think you’d…” he stopped, not knowing how to explain it.

 

Darlina pressed a hand to her chest, trying to calm her rabbiting heartbeat. “You nearly gave me a heart attack,” she muttered, turning on her heel and marching away. Michael trailed after her, hands shoved into his pockets. He caught up easily, of course. He always did. She started shoving books and parchment into her bag at the desk she’d claimed earlier, not sparing him a glance. Outside the library, she thought she’d escaped—but then his hand closed gently around her wrist.

 

“Hey,” he said, softer now, the bravado dialed back. “Lina… I’m sorry.”

 

She finally looked at him. His eyes were all concern now, none of the teasing spark that usually danced there. That, somehow, made it worse.

 

“It’s fine,” she murmured, though her voice wobbled. She pressed a palm to her chest again. “I just—I feel weird. My heart’s still… racing. I usually don’t get that startled.”

 

Michael frowned, brows knitting. Then, without ceremony, he slung an arm around her shoulders and pulled her in, solid and grounding. “C’mon,” he said lightly. “Early snack? Kitchens?”

 

Her lips twitched despite herself. “Sure.”

 

The walk to the kitchens was quiet on her end, which said a lot, because Darlina could usually talk the ears off a gargoyle. Michael filled the silence with easy chatter, and she tried to respond, tossing in soft hums and the occasional word. Gradually—thank Merlin—her heartbeat slowed, the weird panic simmering into calm. By the time they reached the kitchens, Michael was also back to full charm, smirking at the house-elves and declaring, “Two ice creams. Make ’em pretty.”

 

Minutes later, he led her out onto the wooden bridge, the one that overlooked a sweep of snow-dusted hills and glassy lakes. Winter stretched wide around Hogwarts, crisp and breathtaking, and for the first time since the scare, Darlina managed a real smile.

 

“How’s your day, Lina? You seemed so… bright today. Before the Library incident, that is.”

 

Darlina couldn’t stop replaying the afternoon in her head—the umbrella, the flowers, her professor who, against all odds, actually let her teach him how to use a camera. And then… the photograph. The one she’d practically shoved into his hand, insisting he keep it. She’d walked away grinning so hard her cheeks ached. Professor Snape probably went back to brooding in his dungeon like nothing happened, but still… there’d been something different today. A subtle shift, like some of the steel in his shoulders had melted. And during Advanced Potions later that afternoon, he wasn’t as sharp-edged as usual. Still snarky, sure—he wouldn’t be Snape otherwise—but the tension in him had… thinned.

 

Not that she was assuming anything. Absolutely not. Either way, the thought made her smile all over again. “It’s just a good day overall,” she murmured under her breath.

 

“Or,” Michael’s warm voice cut in, “is someone behind that smile?”

 

She nearly choked as Michael cackled beside her, grinning like the menace he was. “Any… crush?” He bumped his shoulder into hers for good measure, all casual charm and devil-may-care swagger.

 

Darlina’s brain betrayed her immediately by flashing Snape’s face. She flushed scarlet, whipping her head forward so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. “Stop, Mike,” she hissed, trying to sound calm. “I don’t have that. Can’t.”

 

“You totally can,” he said, smug as ever, jabbing a finger into her waist. Darlina squeaked, instinctively leaping sideways with a laugh. “Michael!” she gasped, swatting at him. He only smirked.

 

“No—really,” she said firmly, trying to steer her dignity back onto the tracks. “How about you, then? Any love interest I should know about?”

 

Michael shrugged, eyes glinting. “We could just talk about Quidditch.”

 

Darlina narrowed her eyes. “Nice deflection. But, um… I don’t know much about Quidditch.”

 

“That’s because you’re boring.”

 

“You’re changing the topic!”

 

“You’re doing it too,” he shot back with a raised brow.

 

She made a sound of pure frustration. “Hmp.”

 

He grinned. “Speaking of Quidditch—you really don’t want to try flying? At all?”

 

She pulled a face, pretending to think about it, then shook her head with finality. “Nope. Never.” But then she remembered—he’d tried everything for her before. Worn dresses, smeared rouge across his cheeks, and paraded around like a fool just because she once asked what it would be like to have an older sister. He’d never said no to her. “Or… maybe?” she offered softly, shrugging. “I don’t know.”

 

Michael’s grin widened, shark-like. “I’ll take that ‘maybe.’ Before this year ends, the three of us are getting on brooms. Or better yet—one of our manors. Not yours, though.” He wrinkled his nose dramatically. “If your father—”

 

“I know.” Darlina sighed, shoulders dipping. “He’s one of the reasons I don’t try a lot of things, you know that. He makes these rules and… flying’s definitely on the no-list.”

 

“Then break one rule,” Michael said, bumping her shoulder again. “Just once. What could go wrong?”

 

Darlina laughed softly, her mind flashing to her secret endeavors with Irmak. “Right.”

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

“You didn’t attend our session yesterday,” Irmak said the second Darlina slipped into the Room of Requirement. His arms were crossed, his expression severe—well, as severe as Irmak ever got, which was not much. Darlina grinned, peeling off her outer robes. “Do you miss me already?” she teased.

 

“I waited for half an hour,” he huffed dramatically. “Sorry,” Darlina said with a sheepish shrug, “something came up and I wasn’t able to tell you soon…”

 

Something came up = she’d spent the entire afternoon frolicking in the Forbidden Forest with Hogwarts’ most notoriously snarky professor. And not frolicking like that, Merlin forbid—just, you know… flowers, umbrellas, moving photographs, casual near-heart-attacks. Thankfully, Irmak didn’t interrogate her further. He just gave a lazy shrug, clearly not invested in the mystery. “Whatever. Let’s start? Try to hex me first.”

 

Darlina stared at him in horror. “I don’t—”

 

“You have to,” he interrupted, grabbing his wand and striking an unnecessarily heroic pose. “Or your bruises will just pile up. And I don’t even know how to heal one, so…”

 

“You don’t know?”

 

“One of my weaknesses, I know,” he said breezily. “Strike me first, then.”

 

Darlina almost stomped her foot. Instead, she let out an exasperated groan. “Fine.”

 

She tried. Honestly, she tried. Sweat on her temples, concentration etched on her face—and Irmak still stood there, unscathed.  “You’re not trying,” he called out, utterly unbothered.

 

“Do you see my sweat?” she shot back, wand trembling slightly. “I’m trying.”

 

“Try harder.”

 

Eventually—after what felt like thirteen hours and four lifetimes of his relentless taunting—she finally landed a hex. It was… weak. Pathetic, really. Didn’t even throw him into a wall. It just kind of… bounced. But that didn’t stop them from celebrating like lunatics. Absolutely not. They clapped, they whooped, they did a little victory dance before collapsing on the floor in a heap of laughter.

 

“This is fun…” Darlina panted, cheeks flushed.

 

Well, it was jinxed.

 

Because on their second session that same day, Darlina walked into the Room of Requirement only to find… Irmak being physically restrained by a very determined Genevieve.

 

“Surprise!” Eve chirped, her grin wicked.

 

Darlina froze, wide-eyed. “…What.”

 

“She somehow found out,” Irmak said flatly from where Eve had him in an impressive chokehold. Then he wriggled free and dramatically flopped into the hammock.

 

“I can totally help you too, Lina!” Eve declared.

 

Darlina blinked. Lina? Nobody called her Lina except Michael. She gulped, glancing between Eve, who was practically vibrating with excitement, and Irmak, who looked like he was contemplating throwing himself out the nearest window. That kicked off the longest, loudest conversation in the history of Room of Requirement sessions—because apparently, Eve didn’t know what pause meant. The Gryffindors bickered like siblings, and honestly, if Darlina hadn’t been physically present, she was ninety percent sure they would’ve started hexing each other out of sheer spite.

 

“So…” Eve clasped her hands together, leaning. “What do you say? I can be part of this little secret club of yours. I’ll zip my mouth. Swear.” Her wide grin made it very clear she had never zipped her mouth about anything in her entire life.

 

Darlina sighed, sinking into the beanbag. A soft smile tugged at her lips, though guilt sat heavy in her chest. Eve, meanwhile, was lounging across from her, legs crossed, looking as effortlessly comfortable as if she owned the entire Room of Requirement. Acting normal—because that’s what Eve did best. So normal. So unapologetic. And Darlina… well, she couldn’t even pretend to be that right now. “I have to say something first,” Darlina murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she twisted her fingers nervously in her lap.

 

Eve hummed, distractedly examining her nails. “Hmm?”

 

“I was… avoiding you these past few weeks because… well—” she exhaled slowly, the confession dragging itself out. “It was my father. He—banned me from seeing Gryffindors because of what happened at the Black Lake.”

 

The second the words left her lips, Eve gaped so wide. “Oh!” she exclaimed, smacking her knee. “That’s why you always bolted from art class?!”

 

Darlina winced, cheeks warming. “…Yes.”

 

“Girly, it’s fine. Totally fine. And screw your dad.”

 

Darlina’s eyes widened so fast they practically squeaked, and somewhere across the room Irmak choked on his own oxygen. “Eve!” he gasped, scandalized.

 

“What?” Eve rolled her eyes. “Sorry, not sorry. But really—that’s so unfair for you. And for your other Gryffindor friends—if you have any, besides me. Which, let’s be honest, you don’t, because who needs more than me?”

 

“Maybe just… don’t curse him again?” Darlina said meekly, lips tugging into the tiniest pout. “I feel kind of weird about it.”

 

“Fine,” Eve sighed, waving a dismissive hand. “Sorry. But still. Ugh. Anyway—let’s have some fun, yeah? I’ll help you guys whenever I’m free. Which, spoiler alert, is rare because—hello, Quidditch practices. The world needs me.”

 

Darlina’s eyes darted toward Irmak, who was already shrugging, and then back to Eve. “…You’re already here, so…”

 

“Perfect!” Eve chirped, clapping her hands together. “Let’s crash Irmak!”

 

Darlina blinked. “…What?”

 

Before she could process, Eve launched herself—straight into Irmak. The poor boy let out a noise that could only be described as undignified before smacking against the enchanted mirror with a thud that reverberated through the entire room.

 

“Merlin!” Darlina squeaked, hands flying to her mouth. “Eve—he’s going to die!”

 

“He’ll live, Lina,” Eve said breezily, dusting her hands off. Irmak groaned from the floor, muttering something about Gryffindor betrayal while Eve toed him lightly with her boot.

 

Darlina stared at her, scandalized. “You’re… terrifying.”

 

“And fabulous. Now—your turn. Focus on thinking he wants to harm you. Hate fuels strength, babe.”

 

Merlin’s beard, Darlina tried. Thirteen attempts in, and Darlina was sweaty, frustrated, and very seriously considering hexing herself just to feel something. “Bless your soul,” Eve said dramatically, pinching Darlina’s cheeks. “You’re always buzzing, Lina. Like there’s a spell inside you just waiting to break free.” Her smile softened, though her tone stayed sharp as a pin. “You’ll get it. Soon enough, you’ll hex this hooligan into the next century.”

 

“I heard that,” Irmak groaned from the floor where he was nursing what was left of his dignity after getting wrecked by Eve. “Also, I am now one-hundred percent certain you and Darlina are two completely different species.”

 

Darlina winced as she hurried over, slipping an arm under his shoulder and helping him wobble upright. He collapsed onto the nearest beanbag. “I have no idea how you ever thought I was her,” Eve sniffed, plopping down cross-legged and giving Irmak a once-over. “The four of you are absolute idiots.”

 

Darlina blinked. Eve then launched into her next sentence. “You know,” she said casually, “we first met at a party.”

 

Darlina’s head snapped up. “What?”

 

“Yeah,” Eve said, smirking. “You were wearing that bunny onesie. I changed it, by the way. Halloween.”

 

“Oh!” Darlina gasped, her jaw dropping. “That’s why! I knew something was off—I forgot to ask Clem and Mike why my clothes were different. I liked the new outfit, though!”

 

“I should hope so.” Eve swatted her arm, feigning offense. “Honestly, I thought you’d remember me.”

 

“Err…” Darlina winced, rubbing the back of her neck. “Can’t remember my memory when drunk.” She didn’t know how many times she’d had to repeat that sentence this week, but she was exhausted. If she had to hear one more revelation about her alleged drunken antics, she’s going to throw herself over the black lake. “That’s weird…” Eve tilted her head, then shrugged like it was nothing. “But whatever, it’s normal. Happens to the best of us. Anyway, I love fashion stuff, so…”

 

She trailed off dreamily, already lost in her own little universe of fabrics and aesthetics, leaving Darlina staring at her and thinking—Merlin’s sake, she’s almost the girl version of Michael.

🦢

Notes:

The beginning of this chapter? Ugh, pure sweetness. I felt so giddy while writing that Darlina and Severus moment. I totally DID NOT freak out to my best friend about it.

Like, hello? The gloves, the umbrella, and the way he just can't resist her... I can't wait for him to finally fully get out of his shell. I’m so excited for what’s coming next! <3

Chapter 27: The Birthday of Darlina

        GIGGLES FILLED THE CRISP winter air as Darlina stumbled forward, blindfolded, clinging to Clementine’s arm for dear life while Michael hovered behind her. His hand brushed her back every so often. “Where are you taking me?!” she half-laughed, half-wheezed as her boots slipped over another incline. The ground beneath her felt suspiciously like a hill. If Clementine hadn’t been holding her, she would’ve rolled down this hill by now.

 

Michael, however, was having the time of his life. His chuckles followed every one of the instances in which she almost trip. To make matters worse, her entire body still ached from those secret little escapades with Irmak and Eve. Bruises. Everywhere. Darlina didn’t even want to describe what her legs looked like under all these layers. But even with the soreness and the snow and the smug boy chuckles behind her, Darlina couldn’t stop grinning. Her cheeks hurt from smiling so hard.

 

Finally—finally—they stopped. Clementine pressed gently on her shoulder, anchoring her in place while Michael reached up and tugged the blindfold away.

 

“Surprise!”

 

Her jaw almost hit the snow.

 

“Holy—” Darlina clapped a hand over her mouth. “You guys—!”

 

Okay, it wasn’t extravagant, but for students working with limited and questionable free time? It was perfect. A snowy hilltop picnic, gleaming under the soft winter sun. And Eve was there too, bundled in a massive scarf, waving at her. “Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” Darlina squealed, throwing herself at Clementine first, then Michael, hugging them with extensive strength. She bounced on her toes, then spun toward Eve—only to promptly trip over her own feet.

 

She face-planted into the snow with an undignified squeal.

 

Cold. So cold.

 

Laughter erupted behind her. Clementine, predictably, swore under his breath and yanked her upright, dusting snow from her coat. “I’m fine!” she announced, grinning through chattering teeth as she wiped flakes from her cheeks. Eve sauntered over, arms open wide. Darlina melted into her hug.

 

The setup was adorable. A picnic blanket big enough for six people spread across the snow, charmed warm and cozy. Everything was pink—like, violently pink. Pink blanket, pink petals scattered, even a humongous bouquet of pink roses in the center. A pink heart-shaped cake with “19” scrawled on it in questionable icing stood proudly among the other foods. But the best part was the blank canvases, one for each of them, sitting next to neat little sets of paints.

 

“You guys outdid yourselves,” Darlina whispered, grinning so hard her face might split.

 

Clementine guided Darlina to the very center of the blanket where a ridiculously plush pink pillow awaited, clearly her throne for the morning. She used his arm as leverage to kick off her boots before sinking onto the blanket, landing right in front of the cake. Eve flicked her wand lazily, and the candles flared to life in a warm glow. Darlina’s face softened, lips curling into a smile as the little flames danced.

 

Michael plopped down beside her without hesitation, of course beating Eve to the spot. Clementine nudged Eve toward Darlina’s other side. And then came the clapping. The singing. A very merry, very off-key birthday song that made Darlina blush to the roots of her hair. She swayed along, clapping shyly every few beats like the awkward darling she was.

 

“Make a wish,” Clementine said with a grin that was just a little too knowing.

 

Darlina leaned forward, eyes fluttering closed as she thought, I hope everyone finds their happiness…

 

“What did you wish for?” Michael ruffled her hair.

 

“Hey!” She frowned, smoothing her curls back into place, but before she could speak, Eve rolled her eyes. “Idiot,” she drawled, “she can’t tell you that.”

 

Michael shot her a glare. “Who are you calling idiot?”

 

“Who else?” Then she pivoted back to Darlina, “Happy birthday, Lina.”

 

“That’s my nickname for her,” Michael snapped, even more annoyed now.

 

“Well, it’s also mine, so suck it up.”

 

“You—”

 

“The both of you are acting like children,” Clementine cut in smoothly. “Do try not to bicker. As you may have noticed, it’s her birthday.” To drive the point home, he pushed a plate forward. A strawberry cheesecake, pink and glossy. For the first time since Darlina met her, Eve actually flushed. “Sorry, Lina. Err…”

 

“It’s fine,” Darlina said with an easy grin, her heart too full to care about their antics.

 

“Lina,” Michael drawled, catching her attention again.

 

“Yes?” she hummed, turning toward him. She was just soaking it all in: the food, the snow, the people who made life brighter. “So…” He leaned back on one elbow. “Since we know you don’t like talking while eating, Eve suggested we paint. While eating. Here’s the deal: we each start a canvas, then switch every ten minutes. Everyone continues someone else’s masterpiece until breakfast hour ends. Unless,” his smirk tilted higher, “you’re up for skipping class just this once?”

 

Darlina’s head whipped side to side so fast she nearly gave herself whiplash. “No! No. I don’t want you guys to miss class because of me. And sure, let’s do that!”

 

Plates piled with pure sugar: cake slices, chocolate-dipped strawberries, waffles, cookies, and a warm mug of cinnamon milk. The randomness of it all, the sweetness—not just in the food but in her friends—made her chest feel a little too small for her heart. She took a bite of waffle, humming happily, while Eve handed her a canvas. Art materials floated into place. Darlina dipped her brush, tongue poking out as she concentrated on painting… a duck. A cute one. Obviously.

 

Ten minutes later, they swapped. And swapped again. Five times in total, until their masterpieces were gloriously nonsensical. When Darlina finally got her original canvas back, she dissolved into giggles. Her innocent little duck was now floating in space with a fishbowl-style helmet strapped to its head. She clutched the painting to her chest, cheeks aching from smiling.

 

By the time the last bite of cake disappeared, the blanket was filled of crumbs and paint-streaked napkins. Slowly, they began piling plates back into the picnic basket—which, thanks to a handy extension charm, now had the capacity of a small storage unit.

 

“We helped prepare all of these foods,” Michael stretched, popped his back, and grinned smugly “Except for Itari, who only showed up halfway through.”

 

“Hey,” Eve shot back, tossing a napkin into the basket, “I still arrived. That counts as something.”

 

“Right,” Clementine cut in before the argument could evolve into another verbal brawl.

 

“You prepared all this?” Darlina asked, genuinely touched, her smile blooming as though sunlight, no wonder Eve couldn’t help herself. “Yep!” Eve chirped, pinching Darlina’s cheeks. “The elves helped us, though. And Barlowe nearly destroyed your cake, so you can thank me later for hexing him out of the kitchen.”

 

Darlina laughed, shaking her head. “It’s fine. I’m just amazed the three of you came up with this.”

 

“Correction: Clementine’s idea,” Michael announced, jabbing a thumb in Clem’s direction.

 

“Of course,” Darlina mused, because obviously.

 

“I was surprised I got dragged into this,” Eve admitted, brushing snow off her robes. “But… it was fun. And it made you smile, so—” She tilted her head, smirk curling. “You happy?”

 

“Why is that even a question? Of course!”

 

“Then worth tolerating this dude,” Eve muttered, tossing a glare toward Michael. “Oh, and—gift time!”

 

Before Darlina could react, Eve fished out a long, flat, gift-wrapped box and plopped it into her lap. It wasn’t heavy, but the shape made the contents obvious, and sure enough, when Darlina peeled the wrapping, her breath hitched. “Oh my Merlin—” She held up the painting. A half-body portrait of herself, school robes perfectly detailed, Hufflepuff scarf draped around her shoulders. “You painted this?”

 

“Duh.” Eve rolled her eyes playfully, feigning nonchalance. “Do you like it?”

 

Michael, not to be outdone, cleared his throat obnoxiously. “Well I have a gift too,” he said, grinning as he held out a box. “Bet it’s better than hers.”

 

“Better luck next time,” Eve sing-songed.

 

Darlina unwrapped it carefully—and then gasped, a grin blooming wide across her face. “Thank you!”

 

Inside lay a sleek camera.

 

“It won’t replace your old one,” Michael said, watching her reaction with a smirk, “but at least you’ve got a new toy now.”

 

Right. Her stomach fluttered. She still hadn’t told them that Professor Snape had given her a camera just a week ago. And she probably never would. Not because it was a secret… well, okay, maybe because it was kind of a secret.

 

“Thank you, Mike. Really. I love it.” She traced her fingers over the lens, eyes sparkling as an idea struck. “And we have to use it right now. Picture time!”

 

Michael’s grin widened, and he nodded eagerly. But Clementine, of course, raised a hand. “Photos later,” he said smoothly. “First—my gift.”

 

Right. Clementine was still here. His gift was small compared to the others, but the second she peeled back the wrapping, her grin bloomed. “Oh,” she breathed.

 

Nestled inside the box was a bracelet. Tiny pearlescent beads shimmered faintly, cradled in a braid of gold-threaded wire. Between them, little floral motifs unfurled, each petal crafted from pale seed beads kissed with a whisper of lilac. And weaving through it all—slender arcs of translucent lavender crystal, catching stray bits of light.

 

“I love it! Thank you!” Her voice cracked on the last word because Merlin, she had the best friends in existence. He leaned forward without a word, fingers deft and careful as he fastened the clasp around her wrist. Darlina squealed softly and launched into hugs, doling them out: Clementine first, Michael next—complete with cheek kisses—then Eve, who got squeezed so hard.

 

By the time Clementine took her photo—Darlina clutching that humongous bouquet of roses—her cheeks hurt from smiling. “Err… guys?” Eve tilted her chin toward the horizon. The clouds were turning a moody shade of grey, creeping in like trouble. “Pretty sure it’s about to rain.”

 

“Damn right it is,” Michael muttered, already whipping his wand around to pack up the spread. They scrambled into motion, slipping on boots and shrinking enchanted blankets while the air grew damp with that sharp, earthy scent of oncoming rain. Within minutes, everything was stowed neatly away.

 

Michael hefted the picnic basket, while Darlina hugged her bouquet to her chest, heart glowing so warm she might combust. Eve launched into a rapid-fire recap of every boy who’d hit on her this week, only for Michael to interrupt with running commentary every other sentence. Their bickering was a soundtrack by now, punctuated with Clementine’s long-suffering sighs as he wrangled them.

 

Darlina, on the other hand, was still floating on cloud nine. Giddy. Soft. So full of gratitude she didn’t know where to put it.

 

“Itari thought we should surprise you in the Great Hall first,” Michael said casually, grinning at Eve.

 

Darlina froze for half a second. “That’s… honestly sweet,” she admitted, cheeks pink. “But… I don’t think that’s my cup of tea. I’d just feel… shy?” She pouted, lips curving as she blabbered on.

 

“I know, Lina.” Eve’s tone was drenched in exasperation as she shot Michael a death glare. “But it seemed like a good idea at first. Heavy emphasis on at first. Why’d you even bring that up, you hooligan?”

 

“What? It was an idiotic idea.” Michael smirked.

 

“Guys.” Clementine’s voice cracked as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

 

By the time they made it back to the castle, the rain had shown mercy, hovering in those moody clouds. Unfortunately, they didn’t have time to drop her gifts off in her dorm or return the plates to the kitchen. Her new camera hung around her neck, Eve’s painting was tucked safely into her bag as well as her duck painting, and Clementine’s bracelet glittered on her wrist. She was still cradling the bouquet in her arms. She inhaled its soft scent, the roses tickling her cheek as she hugged her friends one last time before splitting—well, most of them. Clementine stayed glued to her side, naturally.

 

By the time they stepped into the dungeons, most of the class was already seated. Clementine rested a steadying hand against the small of her back as they weaved to their usual seats at the front. Darlina smiled softly, her nerves settling until she glanced toward the desk.

 

Snape was there, of course.

 

And his eyes were on her. Or so she thought, because her breath caught… right up until she realized he wasn’t looking at her. Not exactly. His gaze was fixed a fraction lower, his face shadowed, his mouth set in something like… a scowl?

 

Huh. Weird.

 

Her stomach swooped. She lowered her gaze to see what had captured his attention—and, oh. The bouquet. Right. Before she could process that, Clementine pulled out her chair, hand slipping away from her back. And that’s when Snape seemed to shake himself from whatever silent death glare he’d been giving her flowers. His eyes flicked elsewhere, sharp and cold as ever.

 

Darlina sank into her seat, bouquet perched awkwardly on her lap. And thank every benevolent force in the universe—today wasn’t a brewing day. Just a lecture. Blessed be.

 

Or… so she thought.

 

The lecture was anything but simple. Snape was in a mood. He prowled the aisles and, oddly, reserved the worst of his venom for his own Slytherins—Clementine in particular.

Question after question, his tone sharp as a scalpel, slicing into Clem like he was the personal embodiment of Snape’s migraine. Fortunately, Clementine held his ground, answering with clipped precision each time. Which, of course, only deepened Snape’s scowl.

 

Darlina doesn’t like it. She doesn’t like this side of him—extensively snarky, sharp, and intimidating. It felt so different from the man who’d asked her to wear his glove. The same glove still sat in her drawer now, a piece of black leather. She’d tried to give it back, but when she’d held it out, he’d barely looked at her—just shook his head, muttered something about “keeping it” in that voice that made the back of her neck tingle.

 

So she kept it.

 

Not that she minded.

 

Not when her chest went warm every time she opened that drawer and saw it, proof that it wasn’t something she’d dreamed. Proof that something—whatever it was—had happened.

 

A sharp nudge to her elbow yanked Darlina out of her spiraling thoughts, and she blinked up—straight into a pair of black eyes locked on her.

 

Snape was staring.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he drawled, with just enough bite to make her pulse jump. One brow arched in quiet condemnation. “Too… stuck in the clouds to pay attention in my class?”

 

His tone wasn’t as venom-laced as when he addressed the others, but it still scraped down her spine in that way only he could manage. Darlina shot to her feet so fast her chair squeaked. She shoved the bouquet toward Clementine, cheeks going pink. “No—sir—it’s just…” Her voice wobbled, her fingers tangling nervously to the end strand of her hair. “I was… thinking of something.”

 

Snape tilted his head, the faintest flicker of curiosity ghosting his face. “What of?”

 

Of you. Of us. Of your glove sitting in my drawer.

 

Her throat bobbed. Words? Yeah, no, those had left the building.

 

“Sheeps.”

 

The word tumbled out, and instantly, a wave of muffled laughter rippled across the classroom. Her blush went nuclear.

 

“Silence,” Snape snapped, the temperature in the dungeon plummeting as his glare scythed through the offenders. He liked being the reason she flushed scarlet—but not through humiliation in front of others. “Sit down, Miss Lourdes.” His voice dropped, “You will not be answering me this time. Lost your chance.”

 

Her protest fizzled before it could even form. She sank back into her seat, heart jackhammering, while he pivoted to eviscerate another unfortunate soul with a question. Clementine slipped the bouquet back onto her lap, completely oblivious to the way Snape’s eyes flicked sharp as daggers in his direction.

 

What was his deal today?

 

By the time class was dismissed, Darlina’s notes were a mess of ink blots and roses had somehow taken up half her desk. She gathered everything with a sigh, stealing one last glance toward the desk.

 

Snape didn’t look up.

 

Another day, another fleeting interaction that barely counted as anything. Ever since the forest, their moments had been… scarce. Always swallowed by winter break looming near, her extra sessions with Irmak, and the stupid reality that she couldn’t linger after class anymore. Not when Clementine gave her that look. The one that said What exactly are you doing hanging back with Professor Doom-and-Gloom, hm?

 

They were just friends, though. Professional friends. But Clementine was Clementine, so she stopped staying.

 

Now, as the classroom emptied, Darlina and Clementine moved slowly toward the exit. Her heart dragged in her chest. She was halfway to the door when she risked one last look over her shoulder.

 

And there he was.

 

Watching her.

 

Her breath caught.

 

She smiled—soft, devastatingly sweet, enough to make teeth ache if sugar could kill. For a beat, the dungeon felt too quiet. Snape didn’t smile back but his head dipped in the barest of nods, dark hair curtaining half his face.

 

It was nothing. It was everything.

 

And just like that, Darlina walked out smiling, that single nod blooming in her chest.

 

Darlina barely noticed the stares that trailed after her as she floated from one class to the next, bouquet in arms. For a girl who generally avoided the spotlight, she could also be spectacularly oblivious to it—too busy grinning at nothing and pretending to absorb the finer points of her lectures.

 

Seriously, how was she supposed to take decent notes when happiness had set up camp in her chest?

 

By the time lunch rolled around, her day had officially become a juggling act: balancing roses, scribbling an overdue Charms essay, and ignoring the two ominous packages that had dive-bombed her plate courtesy of the Ministry owl. Whatever they were, they could wait.

 

“Oi—what’s the occasion?”

 

Darlina glanced up to find Irmak striding toward her from the opposite end of the corridor. Prefect badge gleaming, books tucked neatly under one arm, his eyes landed on the explosion of pink and petals in her arms. “I mean, you always randomly have flowers,” he added, falling into step beside her without waiting for an invitation. “But this one… is a little huge,”

 

Darlina bit back a laugh, ducking her head. “It’s my birthday,” she murmured, voice shy. Irmak froze mid-step, then made a noise. “Birthday!?” His voice bounced down the corridor loud enough to earn a shush from a passing Ravenclaw. “And you didn’t tell me?”

 

“It wasn’t important,” she said defensively, lips pursing into a pout.

 

“This—” he clutched his chest, staggering theatrically, “—is betrayal, Darls. Utter betrayal. And after all the notes I’ve lent you.”

 

Darlina giggled, cheeks pink.

 

“Wow,” he continued, shaking his head in mock despair. “Happy birthday, anyway. How old are you now?”

 

“Nineteen.”

 

“Atta girl.” His grin was quick and warm. “Well, I don’t have a gift on me… so…” He paused, then shrugged with a smile. “See you around?”

 

“See you,” she said softly, and when he walked off, bouquet still pressed to her chest, Darlina felt the giddy rush of happiness all over again.

 

Later, back in her dormitory, she dumped her gifts and bag onto her rug in an unceremonious heap and practically skipped toward the door again, restless with the need to move. The rain outside called to her, and Darlina never ignored a good downpour. Something about storms always felt cleansing. Unfortunately, before she could make it outside, fate decided to throw her yet another side quest.

 

Halfway down the corridor, she froze. Voices. No… it was cries. Muffled and choked. Her spine stiffened. Quickening her steps, she turned a corner and stopped dead. Lo and behold, two Gryffindors—barely out of diapers, by the look of them—were levitating a first-year Slytherin. Darlina’s mouth fell open. Then, before she could think better of it, she barked, “Hey!”

 

The Gryffindors jolted. Two freckled faces whipped toward her, eyes wide. “What,” Darlina said, her tone dropping low and sharp in a way that would have made even Clementine proud, “do you think you’re doing?”

 

The taller boy shifted guiltily, wand lowering an inch. “He was being annoying!” He jabbed a finger at the Slytherin, who was still dangling midair. Darlina’s heart clenched. Poor kid looked like he might cry. She squared her shoulders, stepping closer. “Put him down. Now.”

 

They hesitated. Huge mistake.

 

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “I said,” she repeated, “put. Him. Down.”

 

That did the trick. The Gryffindors muttered something incoherent and dropped the boy—not unkindly, but not gently either—before bolting down the corridor. Darlina gawked. “Excuse me?” she called after them, voice climbing two octaves higher than usual. “Oh, no, no, no—don’t you dare run away from me!”

 

They dared. She hissed out a breath, mind scrambling for something—anything—useful. Stunning them? No, she can’t even do that against Irmak, much less to children. Jelly-Legs Jinx? Tempting, but messy and too harsh.

 

Her eyes lit up. Tickling Charm. Perfect.

 

A flick of her wrist, a sharp thought, and suddenly the two Gryffindors were shrieking with laughter halfway down the hall, collapsing in a tangle of limbs. Darlina marched toward them with all the righteousness of a mother hen on a warpath, conjuring ropes with another lazy flick and hauling them back to her. They giggled helplessly all the way, cheeks flushed, hiccuping laughter spilling out. Darlina’s face, however, was the picture of sugar-sweet serenity when she knelt in front of them, ropes vanishing with a whisper of magic.

 

“There we go,” she cooed in the same tone one might use to comfort toddlers after a tantrum. Her smile was dazzling—pure sunshine, practically weaponized. “Now. What are your names?”

 

Both stared at her, pale and trembling, hiccups still bubbling between desperate gulps of air.

 

“Why… why?” one of the Gryffindors wheezed, still pink-cheeked from the Tickling Charm. Darlina smiled down at them, and oh, it was so unlike her usual sunshine. So forced, it almost hurt her jaw.

 

What a perfect way for a bright day to turn hideous.

 

Still, she waited. And stared. And smiled. And waited some more. Eventually, the awkward staring contest worked its magic, and the boys blurted their names in a rush.

 

“Good,” Darlina said. Then, because she was Darlina, she made them pinky swear they weren’t lying.

 

Yes, pinky swear. Top-tier binding contract. Beats Veritaserum any day.

 

Once her newly sworn-in delinquents were set free, they bolted. Darlina turned at last—and her heart cracked right down the middle. The poor Slytherin boy was still crouched in the corner, trembling so badly he could’ve rattled the stones loose. “Oh, sweetheart…” Darlina’s voice softened to velvet as she crouched slowly, mindful not to startle him further. “Want me to escort you back to your dormitory?”

 

The boy shook his head so fast it was practically a vibration.

 

“Okay, okay,” she soothed, hands raised. “Do you… maybe want to tell Professor Snape?”

 

That made him blanch. His eyes went huge—huge enough that Darlina swore she saw her own horrified reflection swimming in them—and he pressed himself tighter into the corner.

 

“Hey, hey, no one’s going to hurt you, I promise,” she said gently. Merlin, she was terrible at this comforting thing under pressure.

 

Silence. Just his wide eyes and shallow breaths.

 

Then, she gasped. “What about… a trip to the kitchens?”

 

That got him. A tiny, hesitant head tilt—curious despite his fear.

 

Darlina’s grin bloomed, bright and genuine this time. “It’s a secret. Between us, yeah?”

 

“...Sure,” the boy finally murmured.

 

And just like that, Darlina spent her dinner in the kitchens with her unexpected companion, feeding him sugar and comfort in equal measure. They ate ice cream straight from silver dishes while house-elves darted about, bowing and greeting them. Elven—the sprightly elf who adored her most—bustled up with a plate of treacle tart, and Darlina introduced Elven to the boy with a flourish.

 

“This,” she said solemnly, “is the most adorable elf in the castle. Treat him well.”

 

Prince—that was his name, soft and princely indeed—blinked up at her, then at Elven, and for the first time since she’d found him, a tiny smile cracked through his fear. He never agreed to report the bullies, no matter how gently she prodded, but that wouldn’t stop her. Not a chance.

 

Which was how she ended up, a quarter-hour after dinner, standing in front of Professor Snape’s desk, pacing a groove into the flagstones while the man in question stared her down. Darlina twirled a strand of hair so hard it nearly snapped. Her palms were sweaty. Her knees might have been weak, arms heavy.

 

Finally, in a voice so dry, he said: “Spit it out, Miss Lourdes.”

 

She sighed, finally turning to face him. It felt like all the happiness from earlier—the warm, fizzy glow from that perfect little moment—had been vacuumed right out of her chest, leaving her cold and restless. She wanted it back, that giddy high, but every time her mind flicked to Prince’s frightened face, the knot in her stomach cinched tighter.

 

What if it happened again? What if next time, she wasn’t there to stop it?

 

What if it happened to someone else?

 

“I saw someone getting bullied today,” she blurted, the words tumbling out before she lost her nerve. “Prince—Prince Albrecht, Slytherin, first year. Two Gryffindors had him cornered—Rutherfurd and Chanler, also first years. They were in the east wing and I was just walking by and then I saw—” Her breath hitched. “They were levitating him like… like… and he was so scared, and I—”

 

She cut herself off, staring at him, wide-eyed and trembling with frustration she didn’t quite know what to do with. “What do I do? How do we stop this? Will it stop?”

 

Her voice cracked at the end, and Merlin, that was humiliating, but this was the first time she’d actually seen bullying with her own eyes. She’d heard stories, sure—Pharell had mentioned it before—but knowing it still happened and is happening up to this day made her sick to her stomach. Snape said nothing. Just watched her, his gaze heavy enough to pin her straight through the heart. She couldn’t take it. She started pacing, words tripping over themselves in her head, until—

 

“Miss Lourdes.”

 

Her head jerked up. “Yes?”

 

“Do not worry,” he said smoothly. “I will take care of this.” A pause. “Definitely.”

 

“Will you, really?” The question burst out of her before she could stop it. She trusted him, of course she did, but—

 

One elegant brow arched. “I am Slytherin’s Head of House, am I not?”

 

“Right,” she breathed, relief loosening her spine. A small, sheepish smile ghosted over her lips as she sank into the chair opposite his desk, feeling wrung out and jittery all at once.

 

“Can you… not tell Prince I was the one who told you?” she added, twisting a strand of hair around her finger. “If you speak to him personally, I mean.”

 

Snape tilted his head, studying her. “What for?”

 

“He didn’t want to report it.” She sigh, pressing her fingertips into her temples. Her head felt as though it might combust from how much her heart ached.

 

“I didn’t expect you to be a tattletale,” he murmured, voice dipping with just the slightest curl of amusement. That earned him an eye-roll.

 

If he wanted to knock her back into her place, he could. He just… didn’t.

 

“It’s for his sake,” she shot back, chin lifting.

 

“Touche.” The smirk tugging at his lips was so fleeting she almost doubted it happened at all… but she saw it. “Sir—I’m not getting bullied, by the way,” she added hastily. “We’re not the same.”

 

“Aren’t we?” One brow rose.

 

Was he… teasing me?

 

“Do you ever sleep, sir?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself, steering the conversation to safe water. Honestly, with the way his desk looked—piles of parchment stacked, quills scattered in organized chaos—she wouldn’t be surprised if he lived in his office. Snape didn’t answer. He gave her a look and went back to shuffling through papers.

 

“What’s with you today, sir?” she tried again, softer this time, “You’re so not in the mood. Are you… okay?”

 

Nothing. Just the scratch of parchment.

 

Darlina leaned forward, folding her arms on his desk until her cheek rested on them, her face tilted toward him. She just watched him for a moment, letting the silence stretch. And then—his gaze flicked up. For half a heartbeat, it pinned her in place.

 

Oh.

 

She flushed instantly because that wasn’t his usual patented glare—there was something else there, something that looked suspiciously like surprise. Bewilderment, even.

 

Huh. Weird.

 

“What?” she blurted, brows knitting.

 

“Again with these questions, Miss Lourdes,” he drawled finally, voice dripping with disdain that somehow didn’t sting. “It’s none of your concern. Quit poking your nose into things that do not concern you.”

 

“Hey,” she said, indignant now, “you’re my friend! It’s my business.”

 

His eyebrow twitched.

 

“And really, sir,” she added, head tilting as exhaustion started to creep in, “why are you targeting your students? That’s literally so mean. Can you… not be mean anymore?” Her lips tugged into a pout before she could stop them.

 

He, predictably, said nothing. Just kept working, gathering quills and parchment like she was background noise. Annoyance pricked at her chest because his attention wasn’t on her. Tiny, but there. She shoved it away. Happy thoughts. Instead of sulking, she tried one last gambit.

 

“It’s my birthday today, you know.”

 

That did it. His gaze snapped to hers, and for a heartbeat she forgot how to breathe. She nodded earnestly, as if to confirm her own statement. “Won’t you greet me, dear professor?” Her pout deepened, lashes fluttering.

 

His expression didn’t change at first, but something in the room shifted. He stared at her in silence long enough for her to start counting the books on the shelves around him. Her stomach did a ridiculous little flip because—what was this? What was he thinking? Then, without a word, he pushed back his chair and strode into the adjoining laboratory, leaving her blinking after him. “…Did I say something wrong?” she muttered to the empty desk, pushing herself up on her elbows.

 

She was half a second from following when the door opened again. Snape swept back in, something clutched in his long fingers. Without ceremony, he placed it on the desk between them and sat down as if nothing unusual had happened. His dark eyes fixed on her, cataloging every twitch of her reaction.

 

Darlina froze. Then blinked. Then blinked again, because—what?

 

Her gaze darted between him and the object. Her mouth opened, closed, and then broke into a grin. “A gift? For me?” she asked, awe dripping from every syllable.

 

“Evidently.”

 

“How did you know it was my birthday?”

 

The words tumbled out, bright with excitement, as her fingers inched the small box closer, she feared it might vanish if she looked away for too long.

 

“I have my ways.”

 

He said it in that maddeningly calm tone, like this was the most obvious fact in the world, and she was a fool for even asking. Her brows knitted, skepticism warring with curiosity, but then her gaze snagged on the familiar pink bow. She blushed. She knew that bow, of course. Her wary dissolved in an instant because—hello, gift. From him.

 

Second time this month, in fact.

 

Darlina grinned so wide her cheeks hurt. She’d ask questions later—actually, no, she wouldn’t. She didn’t care how he knew her birthday in advance; what mattered was sitting right there on his desk, waiting to be unwrapped. “Thank you,” she said softly, smiling at him even before she’d unwrapped the paper.

 

He inclined his head, saying nothing, though his dark eyes never left her as she began to peel away the paper with an absurd level of care. Her fingers fumbled but somehow managed to peel the wrapper carefully, and when the last bit fell away, her breath left her in a rush.

 

Inside the box was a glass dome so clear it gleamed, and within it… oh, Merlin. Three perfect dandelions, their fluffy white heads preserved mid-bloom, standing proud as if time itself had bent to keep them whole. Around them, tiny yellow buds and soft pink blossoms curled among green leaves, creating the illusion of a wild little garden—except no wind would ever scatter these seeds. They were frozen in peace, rooted on a base of dark, polished wood. A small silver label at the bottom read:

 

The Property of Darlina Lourdes.

 

She stared, wide-eyed, her heart doing cartwheels and backflips. He remembered. She’d only mentioned dandelions in passing days ago, in one of those babbling rambles she assumed would eventually be forgotten. But apparently, he remembered.

 

Her brain short-circuited. Climb him like a tree, one half of her hissed. Don’t you dare, the other half shrieked. She fought the impulse with everything in her soul because—because why was he like this? Merlin, this man was so—

 

She didn’t get to finish that internal screaming because something odd caught her attention. His face.

 

He looked… nervous.

 

Actually nervous. His fingers twitched slightly against the parchment, his gaze darting across her face. “What’s wrong?” he asked suddenly, breaking the silence when she’d gone a little too still.

 

Her lips stretched into a grin so wide. “I just love it so much!” she whisper-yelled, clutching the dome. She traced its smooth curve with a reverent touch, practically glowing. Then a thought hit her, and she narrowed her eyes playfully. “Is this why you were glaring at my roses earlier?”

 

His brows snapped together. “I wasn’t glaring at your roses.”

 

She huffed, chin tilting in mock offense. “Hmp, if you say so…”

 

Then her grin softened, and the words came out like a fluttering heartbeat. “Thank you, really. This is so—” she stumbled on the word, because amazing didn’t feel big enough, but it was all she had. “—amazing.”

 

His expression didn’t change. “It is good,” he said finally, tone clipped, “that you find it satisfactory.”

 

“More than satisfying, sir.” Her voice wobbled, and then, she barreled right into a conversational landmine. “I’m so lucky to have such good friends!”

 

“Friends?” he repeated, his voice flat, unreadable.

 

“Duh,” she said, grinning. “Because that’s what we are, right? Friends.” She paused, then added: “Professional friends.”

 

Snape stared at her. Then—so softly she almost missed it—came the scoff. “Miss Lourdes,” he said, “the word friend is incompatible with the word professional. Much like your incessant prattling is incompatible with my patience.”

 

Ouch. Direct hit.

 

“Oh, so now you’re saying we’re not friends?” she teased, tilting her head. “That’s a little cold, sir. Even for you.”

 

The corner of his mouth twitched. “If that is what you wish to call it, so be it,” he said silkily, leaning back in his chair akin to a man resigned to suffering. “Though I would caution you, Miss Lourdes, against using such… labels. People have been known to misinterpret things.”

 

Her breath caught. Misinterpret things.

 

Before she could even untangle the implication, his quill scratched across parchment, dismissive, final. The message was clear: conversation over. Still, she couldn’t resist. “Noted,” she chirped, standing slowly, dome cradled in her arms. “But for the record, you make an excellent professional friend.”

 

“Out,” he said flatly, not looking up.

 

She laughed, soft and giddy, and floated out of his office with her heart doing somersaults.

 

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina fought the urge to squeak when Michael grabbed her in a bone-crushing hug and practically launched her off the floor in his enthusiasm. He was jumping. She was… vaguely bobbing. The Great Hall was buzzing. The Michaelmas term was finally over, and apparently, that was enough for half the school to start behaving frenzied. Michael, naturally, had extra fuel for his energy because tomorrow was the Quidditch match he’d been talking about for weeks. He was grinning like Christmas had come early—probably because, in his head, Quidditch was Christmas.

 

Also, Clementine and Michael had somehow migrated to the Hufflepuff table again, flanking Darlina. And where there was Darlina, there was Eve, and where there was Eve, there was—inevitably—bickering.

 

Still, Darlina had learned two things this week:

1. She’d grown to love Michael and Eve’s arguments. Sort of.
2. She never wanted to hear the words “sadist” or “masochist” again.

 

That disaster had started because Eve was apparently avenging her honor after Irmak accidentally left various marks on Darlina during practice. According to Eve, she was merely “taking revenge” on Irmak. According to Irmak, Eve was “a bloody sadist.” Cue definitions. Cue Darlina turning red enough to be considered a human strawberry.

 

And speaking of practice… yeah, she and Irmak were walking bruise collections at this point. Her arm and calf were still bandaged from the latest “oops.” But hey—good times. For now, though, she focused on the present. Michael finally released her from his rugby tackle of affection, and she sank back into her seat with a grin that was a mixture of genuine joy and relief at still having all her ribs intact.

 

After hours of celebrating, Darlina had been ready to scurry back to her dorm when she nearly collided with Professor Sprout near the entrance.

 

“Ah! Miss Lourdes,” Sprout beamed, her eyes twinkling. “Come sit with us in the professors’ stands, won’t you? Best view in the whole pitch!”

 

Darlina blinked. “Oh—um—”

 

“It’s a thank you,” Sprout added, “for being such a diligent little owl between me and Professor Snape this term.”

 

That last part was said with such innocent fondness that Darlina’s heart immediately executed a very dramatic nosedive into her stomach. Owl. Between her and Snape. Totally professional. Right? Right.

 

“I—I’d be honored,” she managed to squeak, and a day after found herself perched in the professors’ box, clutching her scarf.

 

Sandwiched between Professor Sprout and Professor Snape.

 

“Hello, Professors,” Darlina said softly, smiling at the faces that turned toward her in varying degrees of polite confusion. “I invited this dear girl,” Professor Sprout announced. The rest of the staff offered mild smiles or nods, and apparently, that was that.

 

Which was how Darlina found herself sliding into the one open spot in the professors’ stand—directly beside Severus Snape.

 

Of course. Of course.

 

She could feel him. Not see—but feel him. He sat so stiffly he might have been carved from obsidian. Her pulse, meanwhile, was performing gymnastics in her throat. Focus. Sit. Behave. Think about literally anything else. Like… gloves! Yes, gloves. Her hands folded primly in her lap, fingers brushing the sleek black leather covering them—the very same gloves he’d once insisted she wear. She risked a glance at his hands. Matching pair. Naturally. He probably had a closet full of identical gloves.

 

Her outfit suddenly felt flamboyant: cream sweater, pleated skirt, fluffy earmuffs, golden-yellow Hufflepuff scarf. And tights. Thank Merlin for tights. No one could see the bruises on her legs this way—the very thought of someone asking about them made her want to fling herself back into the Black Lake.

 

“Are you a fan of Quidditch, dear?” Sprout’s cheerful voice cut through her spiral.

 

Darlina startled, cheeks heating. “Erm… not really, Professor. I’m just here for Michael, the Slytherin captain—” Sprout’s interrupted her with a grin, “A lover?”

 

Darlina choked on air. Why? Why did people keep assuming that every male friend in her orbit came with romantic strings attached? Couldn’t a girl just… have friends?

 

Before she could answer, something shifted at her side. A hand—long fingers, pale, ink-stained—slid onto the bench between them. It wasn’t even touching her directly, not really, but it was close enough that her tights suddenly felt thin. She glanced down in reflex. Snape’s hand gripped the edge of the bench tightly.

 

Do not think about what that would feel like without tights, Darlina. Do not.

 

“No, ma’am,” she squeaked. “I honestly don’t know why people keep saying we’re together.” Her lips formed a tiny pout before she realized. “We’re just friends. Childhood friends.”

 

“They say it always starts in friendship,” Sprout teased, eyes glinting with mischievous warmth.

 

“It’s really not—”

 

“Your cheeks say otherwise.” Sprout wiggled her eyebrows.

 

Out of every conceivable moment in existence, her Herbology professor decided to publicly roast her in front of her colleagues—while she was sitting next to him. Darlina bit her lip, wishing for a Disillusionment Charm. “Sprout and I have an ongoing bet,” Flitwick piped up cheerfully, voice barely audible over the mounting roar of the stands. “She’s team Barlowe.”

 

Darlina blinked. “Team… what?”

 

“But I,” Flitwick continued, twinkle in his eye, “think you and Harrington would make quite the charming couple.”

 

“Professors—!” Darlina’s voice cracked, horror scrawled across her face.

 

“Pomona. Filius.” The words slithered from the shadow at her right. Darlina didn’t have to look—she felt him, “Quit pestering Miss Lourdes. The match is about to begin.”

 

Sprout rolled her eyes, “Way to kill a festive mood, Severus.”

 

“The girl is clearly uncomfortable,” he said with a scowl. Sprout’s teasing grin faltered. For the first time, her eyes softened when she saw Darlina’s stiff smile, the nervous twist of fingers in her lap. “Apologies, dear. Just a joke.”

 

Somewhere behind them, McGonagall cleared her throat, suspiciously amused. Great. Another member of the secret matchmaking club Darlina apparently starred in.

 

“It’s fine, Professor…” she mumbled, voice smaller than she intended. Her fingers abandoned her lap to twirl a strand of hair, winding and unwinding it until it nearly frayed. She risked the tiniest glance at him. Not a full turn, but a flick of her eyes. And then away, her heart fluttered when she remembered his dandelion gift.  

 

Focus, Darlina. Think about Quidditch. Quidditch is safe.

 

Except it wasn’t—not when her mind conjured the mental horror of people pairing her with Clementine and Michael again. A shiver ran up her spine so violently it chased away every trace of blush, replacing it with pure, unfiltered disgust. They were practically her brothers. Actual brothers!

 

The referee’s whistle blew, mercifully ending her existential spiral. Four balls shot into the air. Darlina dug through her bag and whipped out her Omnioculars. Michael was easy to find, he’s the Keeper, apparently defending the Slytherin hoops. Darlina grinned, warm pride spreading in her chest. Then she scanned for Eve, hovering near a glitter of gold. Right, the Seeker only had to catch the Snitch, the tiny winged ball of chaos.

 

Every time either team scored, Darlina clapped, enthusiasm unbothered by the concept of picking a side and, well, this baffled Sprout, because midway through the match she turned, laughing. “What house are you supporting, dear girl?”

 

“Both!” Darlina chirped, grin bright. “Is that okay? Clem said it’s fine…”

 

Sprout chuckled, shaking her head. “Definitely allowed. You’re not rooting for a specific winner, then?”

 

“Nope!” She popped the P with unholy cheer. “I’ll be happy if either Gryffindor or Slytherin wins.”

 

There was a pause. And then… a sound. It was barely udible over the wind and roaring crowd, but there was a throat clearing, edged with disdain and… something else. Darlina’s fingers froze mid-clap. Slowly—ever so slowly—she side-eyed the dark figure to her right. Snape’s expression was unreadable. A chorus of horrified screams tore through the stands, yanking Darlina out of her distraction. She jerked the Omnioculars to her eyes, and nearly dropped them when she saw a Gryffindor player plummeting toward the ground. “Oh my—” Her breath hitched. Merlin, that was not Eve. Thank goodness. Relief bubbled up her chest, swiftly followed by guilt because, wow, priorities? She didn’t even know who that poor boy was, but her heart still clenched as he hit the cushioning charm with a dull thud.

 

She swept her gaze in frantic zigzags until she found her friends—Michael, steady as a rock, and Eve, entirely unbothered. Darlina sagged in relief.

 

Then—

“Stay. Still.”

 

Her entire spine straightened before her brain even processed the words. She dragged the Omnioculars down slowly and turned, wide-eyed. Snape. Of course. She realized, belatedly, that she’d been half-rising from her seat, jittery with nerves. “Sorry,” she squeaked, instantly folding herself back down.

 

He didn’t reply. Didn’t have to. The weight of his gaze said plenty. She met it for half a second—two, maybe—and then chickened out, ducking her head so fast she nearly smacked the Omnioculars into her nose. Long gone was her courage days ago, in his office, teasing him with a grin. It must have gone with the wind.

 

And then cheering erupted around them, sharp and deafening, the crowd practically vibrating with excitement. Darlina jerked her head up, searching for the scoreboard. Still the same. Her brows knitted. “What—”

 

“They’ve spotted the Snitch,” Snape murmured.

 

That explained the screaming. “Thank you,” she whispered, voice barely audible, and gave him a small smile before she could stop herself.

 

Focus, Darlina. You came here to watch Quidditch, not… whatever this is.

 

She wrenched the Omnioculars back up and resumed scanning—only for her pulse to spike violently when she saw Eve lurch sideways on her broom. Darlina’s entire body catapulted upright, heart in her throat, fists clenched so tight her knuckles ached.

 

“Come on, come on, hold on—” she muttered as Eve scrambled, fingers white-knuckled on the broomstick. And then, mercifully, the girl swung back into balance. Darlina sagged forward in relief—then dropped back down onto the bench without thinking.

 

Right onto something solid.

 

Something warm.

 

Her entire soul fled her body when she realized what.

 

Oh no. No no no.

 

She had just sat on his hand.

 

A squeak clawed its way out of her throat—thank Merlin for the stadium roar that swallowed it whole. She practically launched herself sideways, cheeks burning, clutching her Omnioculars like a shield.

 

She risked a glance.

 

He hadn’t moved his hand. Still there. As if nothing happened. Except…

 

The tips of his ears were red.

 

Scarlet.

 

Merlin’s saggy socks. Could the earth please, please open up and swallow her alive?

 

She snapped her head forward so fast she heard her neck crack, pretending to be very enthusiastic about Quidditch while her heart tried to escape via her throat. The Omnioculars shook in her grip, blurring Eve into a streak of bronze and black. Darlina inhaled. Exhaled. Inhaled again.

 

Quidditch was insane. Absolutely mental. Why anyone voluntarily subjected themselves to this stress circus, she’d never know. One second you’re cheering, the next you’re having an aneurysm because your friend nearly fell to her death. And now, apparently, you’re also dying because you accidentally sat on your professor’s hand and his ears are red and oh Merlin—

 

Nope. She was not thinking about that. Not now. Not ever.

 

By the time Darlina’s heart stopped doing backflips, the rest of the match was filled by a cocktail of roaring crowds, zooming broomsticks, her Omnioculars jerking wildly between Michael and Eve.

 

And then it happened.

 

The snitch glittered in Eve’s fist, her arm punching skyward in triumph. The stands erupted. Darlina squealed. Her hands clapped so fast they were practically a blur, Omnioculars bouncing on top of her lap. And then she squealed again, louder this time, because Slytherin was celebrating too! Both teams were whooping, and for good reason: Slytherin had racked up nearly three hundred points before the Snitch was caught. Three. Hundred. Points. Michael’s going to combust from sheer ego, she thought with equal parts pride and dread.

 

Her grin felt permanent. Her cheeks ached. She glanced sideways…  Snape wasn’t grinning but the rigid line of his mouth had softened into something almost—almost—smirk-adjacent. A whisper of smugness curling at the corner of his lips.

 

Darlina promptly forgot how lungs worked.

 

Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Breathe, you idiot!

 

She tore her eyes away so fast and focused on literally anything else, offering Professor McGonagall a sweet smile as the poor woman looked like someone had just burned her tartan. McGonagall sighed in defeat, muttered something under her breath, and swept off with a dramatic swirl of robes, followed by the other professors congratulating a much-less-scowly Snape on the win. She sent Sprout a small wave goodbye.

 

The stands emptied quickly.

 

She blinked. Looked left. Looked right. It was just her and Snape now. Alone. Surrounded by wind and the faint scent of whatever cologne he wore that smelled fantastic. Everyone else had melted away, leaving behind nothing but the awkward realization that she now had two options: follow the herd down those monstrous, soul-crushing staircases or… linger. Which was dangerous, because when it came to this man, lingering felt like stepping into quicksand willingly.

 

But she did want to celebrate with her friends. Right. Yes. Friends. That was the priority. Not the way her pulse was thrumming in her throat.

 

With newfound determination, Darlina stood, brushing imaginary dust off her skirt. And then—

 

Wait.

 

She couldn’t just… leave. That would be weird, wouldn’t it? Or worse—rude. She was raised better than that. So, before her brain could veto the idea, her mouth blurted, bright and breathless: “Congratulations, sir.”

 

And then—he smirked.

 

Not a blink-and-miss-it twitch this time. A real, bone-deep, darkly amused smirk that curved his mouth. Darlina lifted her hands and wiggled her fingers with a grin far too cheeky. “I wore your gloves today,” she announced.

 

He raised an eyebrow.

 

“I noticed,” he drawled.

 

She blushed so hard her ears burned. “Can you take a picture of me? I want to capture this!” She didn’t even wait for his answer before shoving the camera into Snape’s hands. Literally shoved. He made a low sound that was half-grumble, half-curse-under-his-breath, but took it anyway. He waited, silent and towering, as she scampered back to the seat she’d vacated earlier and started fixing her hair. He bent just slightly to get the shot. That… that was almost gentlemanly. Darlina’s stomach somersaulted.

 

“Do I look okay?”

 

A noncommittal hum was all she got. And then, without her having to instruct him—miracles happen, apparently—he murmured, “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes!”

 

“Three… two… one… cheese…”

 

And oh, she smiled. Threw in a wacky pose for good measure. The camera clicked. Magic shimmered. And just like that, the moment was trapped forever in glossy, moving color. She practically skipped toward him, heart bursting with delight, and accepted the camera he returned with a gentle thrust. The strap went back around her neck. Her grin widened as she peeked at the little moving photo in her hands, watching herself beam on loop. “Want a photo?” she teased, tilting the camera his way.

 

The look he shot her was not kind. And then he rolled his eyes before turning on his heel and heading for the exit in a swirl of black robes. “I was only teasing!” she giggled, hurrying after him, similar to some deranged golden retriever in earmuffs.

 

And then came the stairs.

 

Darlina stared down the steep, winding nightmare and immediately questioned every life decision that had brought her here. Her palms went clammy. Snape descended without hesitation, but slower... Almost like he was… waiting? Her throat tightened.

 

“I’m kind of scared of these staircases,” she admitted as she clung to the railing.

 

“It’s steep, so be careful.”

 

She gasped in mock revelation. “Thank you. I didn’t notice that, sir.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. He turned just enough to scowl over his shoulder. She grinned sheepishly in return, trying to soften the blow. “So,” she chirped, desperate for distraction, “is Quidditch your favorite sport?”

 

“No.”

 

A pause.

 

“…What is?”

 

“Dueling.”

 

She huffed, stomping a little, as much as one could stomp on a staircase of doom. “Do you have word limitations, or is this just a personal challenge? Because honestly, I feel like a detective trying to pry informations out of you.” She blew out a sigh. “Anyway, aren’t you going to ask—Merlin!”

 

Her foot betrayed her. One wrong step and the world tilted. Her stomach plummeted. Her soul left her body. She flailed like a banshee… and somehow… somehow she didn’t die. Balance returned at the last possible second, though her heart was pounding. “Miss Lourdes!” Snape’s voice cracked through the cold air, and when she dared to look, his arm was outstretched, hand hovering. His expression was fury.

 

She swallowed. “What? It’s not my fault these stairs are so… steep!”

 

His scowl darkened into something lethal, shadows pooling under his eyes. She only realized how sharp her tone had been when it echoed back at her—but some reckless part of her refused to apologize. Fortunately—for her blood pressure—he didn’t snap back. Just stared for a heartbeat too long, his arm slowly lowering to his side, tension thrumming in the silence.

 

For now, he let it go.

 

“Hold onto my arm.”

 

Darlina froze mid-step. Her head whipped toward him, eyes wide. “What?”

 

His dark gaze slid to hers, “You heard me, Miss Lourdes.”

 

Her brain went feral while her body just… stalled. “Erm—”

 

One look. Just one withering, soul-pinning look and she scrambled into motion, practically tripping over her own feet as she came to his side. He’d stopped a few steps down, waiting, and when she reached him, her trembling little hand hovered awkwardly over his sleeve. Which—holy Merlin—was warm. And solid. And why did his arm feel like it could casually crush a broomstick in half?

 

She tried to hold on, but couldn’t even encircle her fingers properly around it. Rolling his eyes heavenward, he reached down—long fingers brushing her wrist in a flash of forbidden heat—and adjusted her grip, tugging her hand all the way until her arm locked neatly through his. Darlina promptly forgot every coherent thought she’d ever had. Intimacy? No, no, this is… platonic! Totally normal. I do this with Clementine and Michael all the time!

 

This is fine.

 

She nearly let the silence swallow them whole, because words felt dangerous right now. Words might ignite something. But then her mouth, traitorous thing that it was, decided it had rights. “So…” she chirped, forcing her voice into something resembling normality, “your favorite sport is dueling? Huh. I never knew that was considered a sport.”

 

“It is,” he intoned without missing a step. “Though Wizard’s Chess can be… amusing as well.”

 

Her brows shot up. “Oh! Right, but—the participants can get killed, can’t they?”

 

“Almost every sport can kill someone.” said Snape. “It’s just how it is.”

 

She pouted, lips curving. “That’s scary…”

 

A second later, Darlina’s eyes lit up with an idea and she launched straight into a story, words tumbling as they descended the seemingly endless staircase. Snape didn’t stop her. Didn’t snap. Didn’t even sigh. He just walked, letting her voice fill the space.

 

And then—there is was. Light. Cold, dazzling daylight welcomed them as they stepped off the final stair. Darlina bounced on her toes with barely contained joy, practically vibrating as she squeezed his arm and chirped, “Thank you, Professor!” Her cheeks bloomed pink as she released him, and then she spun away, scarf fluttering behind her as she dashed off in search of her friends. Snape watched her go, lips curling—just slightly. A flicker of something warm, something perilous.

 

Then it vanished. His expression darkened. Friends, he thought grimly.

 

Darlina scanned the sea of bobbing heads and swirling house colors, camera swinging uselessly from her neck. Where’s—ah! There. A familiar height. Without a second thought, she bolted. Bruises protested, tights pulled, but she didn’t care. She slammed into him at full force, arms circling his waist with an unrepentant giggle.

 

“Lils!” Clementine half-scolded, half-laughed, though he still hugged her. “I told you we should’ve sat together!”

 

“Sorry…” she mumbled, sticking her lower lip out in a pout. “Sitting with you didn’t enter my mind before Professor Sprout offered access into the best seat in the house.”

 

 “Yeah, sure. Next time, then?”

 

“That’s a promise.”

 

“Pinky swear?”

 

She grinned and held out her pinky. “Deal. Where’s Mike?”

 

“With his team,” Clementine said, jerking his head toward the knot of green-and-silver Slytherins currently vibrating with post-victory energy. Darlina followed his gesture and—oh. Michael was up there. Not just standing. He was perched on someone’s shoulders, bellowing victory chants.

 

“Of course he’s doing that,” she muttered under her breath, but before she could finish processing the absurdity, Michael spotted them. His grin split wide across his face, and then—without warning—he tapped the poor boy carrying him, launched himself into the air, and sprinted toward them. Darlina barely had time to brace before Michael crashed into them, laughter exploding from all sides, and then there were all three of them—jumping, spinning, hollering while the crowd roared nearby.     

🦢

Notes:

Guys, I swear I just want to jump on the good shit because this slow burn ahh is so SLOW but yeah, good things come to those who wait so we must be patient. And would you look at that, masochist and sadist mentioned, an aspect of bdsm. Hehe… Is Darlina sure she doesn’t want to hear it again? We would never know… or would we?

Just a little backtrack, I got this idea when I was an obsessed high school teenager who recently got to know bdsm AND yandere, and oh, y’all, the initial chapter outline was… erm. Idk how to put it into words but it was a little problematic. This was supposed to be a yandere fic with traces of bdsm and Severus was supposed to be dark-dark, like ACTUALLY. He was supposed to make Darlina captive and keep her all to himself (the very reason why the title is so hardcore—like, burning desire, really?)

But then again, time flew fast and when I opened the draft once again, I was petrified, so I began fixing it and viola, dark-dark Severus no more!

I really got attached to Darlina and just thinking about her stuck in a house with only Snape and her flowers, I felt so bad. Like, no Clementine or Michael? That sucks! Darlina won’t survive. And I want their relationship to last forever because it’s purely out of their will… so maybe, maybe we’d get a peek of this dark Snape but in the realm of bdsm, so that it’s a little plausible and acceptable.

Chapter 28: The Cruelty of Winter

Notes:

TRIGGER WARNING:

This chapter contains a scene where Darlina is pressured into a kiss under coercive circumstances. While she technically gives consent, it is not fully wanted. Note that the coerced kiss does not happen between Darlina and Snape. He is in the scene but not involved in the act. I’ve added three exclamation points (!!!) just before the scene begins for those who wish to skip it. I’ll also include a summary at the end of the chapter for context. Please proceed with care.

Also, a quick note on tags: I update them as I go! I wish I could be one of those authors who know all their tags from the start, but my brain keeps throwing new ideas at me every five seconds. So… bear with me, yeah? Hehe.

           DARLINA COULDN’T QUITE WRAP her head around why Clementine thought it was odd that she was on friendly terms with Professor Snape. Honestly, she was friendly with almost every member of the faculty. She had a knack for trailing after them for brief conversations, asking how their day was going, because Merlin knew teaching hundreds of teenagers had to be exhausting. Snape, naturally, wasn’t exempt from this informal faculty appreciation program.

 

What Darlina failed to realize—what she always failed to realize—was that her brand of sunshine could look… suspicious under the wrong lighting. And who could blame her? She had never exactly been subjected to the ruthless glare of social norms. Raised without the spotlight, accustomed to one-on-one conversations with mentors rather than navigating the politics of peer gossip, she simply didn’t see the whispers growing in the cracks.

 

The rumors had begun trickling through the castle sometime in November. Nothing loud. Just quiet murmurs passed between clasped hands and arched brows. After all, this wasn’t ordinary hallway chatter; it involved two people who couldn’t be more different—or more noticeable—when paired together: Severus Snape and Darlina Lourdes.  Even then, it wasn’t like the whispers were widespread. Clementine only caught wind of it recently, thanks to his well-placed connections. At first, he dismissed it outright. Darlina was… Darlina. She collected professors the way others collected chocolate frog cards—Professor Sprout adored her, Flitwick practically glowed in her presence. So why would Snape be any different?

 

Still… the seed had been planted. And as Clementine started noticing the subtleties—the way Snape’s voice lost its usual venom when directed at Darlina, the fraction of a second longer his gaze lingered on her compared to anyone else—well, it left Clementine… unsettled. Because this wasn’t just anyone. This was Professor Snape. His mentor for years. The idea that he could harbor anything softer than disdain was laughable.

 

And yet.

 

Clementine loathed himself for even entertaining the thought. It felt like betrayal—towards Darlina, who was pure-hearted to a fault, and towards Snape, who surely had better things to do than fool around with students. Absolutely absurd. He scolded himself into near-delusion, and thankfully, at last, Clementine’s lingering worries were put to rest on an ordinary winter afternoon.

 

It was the kind of day that begged for a walk now that classes were done. Clementine had taken the long route when he rounded a corner and froze mid-step.

 

There they were.

 

She was walking backward down the hall, balancing a wicker basket in her arms, cheeks flushed with the kind of joy that made even the draughty stone passages feel warmer. And beside her, strode Professor Snape—black robes billowing in his usual theatrical sweep, but with something rare curled at his mouth: the faintest trace of a smirk.

 

Clementine froze for a beat. It wasn’t… much. Just Darlina laughing, Snape muttering something under his breath, the pair moving in step. They didn’t notice him at first—Darlina spun forward again, her bright eyes still lifted to Snape as she chattered on about… was that Muggle snacks? Merlin help him, yes. Gummies, if his ears didn’t deceive him.

 

And there was nothing—absolutely nothing—malicious about it. Just Darlina being Darlina, grinning as always, filling the silence Snape never seemed to mind when it was her. They were just walking. Talking. Breathing the same air. Two perfectly ordinary human beings. Clementine felt his stomach knot—not with suspicion this time, but with shame. The realization hit him with quiet force: they were all so used to seeing Professor Snape as an island of solitude that the mere sight of him in conversation seemed scandalous. Merlin, the man was… human. Who would’ve thought?

 

If anything, it said more about Darlina than it did about Snape. She had always been warm like that—always the first to ask after someone’s day, to fill the cracks in people that others didn’t even notice. Maybe she was the only student who’d ever tried. Even Clementine—Slytherin prefect turned Head Boy—spoke to Snape strictly when protocol demanded it. Never casually. Never like this. And Darlina looked… happy… comfortable. The same way she looked with him and Michael, but gentler somehow, as if she’d been let into some guarded corner of Snape’s world. She tilted her head up at Snape, smiling.

 

Before he could drown in thoughts he had no business having, Snape’s eyes snapped to his. The professor’s expression shifted instantly, soft smirk sharpening into the trademark scowl Clementine had come to expect. It landed heavy, dark, and oddly… deliberate. Clementine had seen that look turned on unruly first-years. On Weasley twins mid-prank. But on him? Never like this.

 

Could it be—Merlin forbid—that Snape knew about the rumors too?

 

Darlina followed Snape’s gaze, her grin faltering. Clementine cursed inwardly. She shifted just slightly away from Snape, guilt tugging at her lips as she offered him a small, sheepish smile.

 

Had he done this? Made her nervous? Was this because of his constant questions about her and Snape lately? If so, the guilt was instant and biting. He hated himself for it.

 

He managed a tight smile in return, inclining his head toward Snape. “Good day, Professor,” he said smoothly, tone betraying nothing, and then he was walking past them. Darlina’s eyes followed him, teeth worrying her lower lip. Please don’t bring this up later, she thought desperately. And, mercifully, he didn’t.

 

Clementine never mentioned it again. Never probed, never pried. The topic sank into silence, leaving behind only unanswered questions—and an uneasy clarity. Because what Clementine saw in that corridor wasn’t sinister... It wasn’t improper... It was human. And he hated that he’d doubted that for even a second. He trusted Snape. He really did. The man was logic personified, razor-sharp and disciplined. And given his past… Clementine quietly wondered why he’d ever questioned his morality at all. Still, as he walked away that day, Clementine couldn’t shake the image of Darlina’s smile, bright against the black of Snape’s robes. A sunlight against storm clouds.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina waved goodbye to Prince as they parted ways, her arms still tingling from the warmth of the Hogwarts kitchens. Another hours spent in the company of clattering pots, the smell of bread, an increasingly less-awkward elf—ehem, Elven—and Prince. To her immense relief, Prince was finally thawing toward her. She had braced herself for simmering resentment after… reporting the incident. But if he knew, he gave no sign.

 

Honestly, Darlina suspected even he didn’t know what had happened.

 

Curiosity gnawed at her. She wanted to ask Snape how it had all been handled—if only she ever had the chance. If only this week weren’t a barren wasteland of endless free hours, leaving her stranded with the company of herself, punctuated only by the mandatory Library Hours. That’s where she was headed now. Unless… she could wander down to his office.

 

His den.

 

As usual, she was bundled in layers, a walking fabric avalanche in her latest—and equally futile—attempt to hide the bruises. The last duel had left her battered, unsurprisingly. To Darlina’s horror, Eve agreed with Irmak on something—namely, that Darlina fought like a particularly indecisive flobberworm. They had spent the past week drilling her in Defense. It went about as well as expected: Darlina failing again and again, slammed against walls, while Irmak barked insults and Eve hexed in the name of tough love. To her credit, Eve at least made a sport out of defending her—often leaping between Darlina and Irmak’s curses with a flair that deserved applause.

 

She shook off the thought as she pushed open the library doors.

 

And smiled.

 

Because there they were—a veritable flock of Slytherins, scattered across the room. The house-pairing system for Library Hours had changed recently, spiraling into something whimsy. No more predictable rotations. Instead, the houses were mixed at random, twice a month. Did she care? Absolutely not. It meant more chances to be with her friends. Unless, of course, the fates cruelly paired Hufflepuffs with Ravenclaws. Her eyes swept the hall. No sign of Michael. No Clementine either.

 

But then—

 

Oh.

 

She held a gaze just as important.

 

Familiar enough to still make her stomach do that ridiculous swooping thing she swore she was too sensible for.

 

His eyes.

 

If her cheeks hadn’t been flaming before, they certainly were now. Heat pooled across her skin. Her smile widened anyway, a reflex she couldn’t fight, and she gave a quick wave in his direction.

 

“Hello, sir,” she murmured, voice a soft lilt as she slipped into the seat nearest where he stood. Snape’s head tilted in acknowledgment. His lips almost twitched, but it didn’t quite make the full journey into an actual smile. Instead, she got a curt nod.

 

The book she’d abandoned weeks ago reappeared with a flick of her wand, hovering obediently to her waiting hands. She thumbed through to the last page she’d read and—lo and behold—she was still knee-deep in the swamp of curses. Her shoulders slouched. Merlin’s beard, nothing made her soul wilt faster than a wall of text, especially when the subject was something that didn’t remotely intrigue her. Why couldn’t Defense books be more… fun? Where were the illustrations? The jokes?

 

She skimmed another paragraph, her eyes tripping over a particularly grim incantation. Exanimus Lux. Her brows knitted. She read the description, blinked—and gasped, horrified. “Oh, this is horrible,” she whispered. The words had barely left her lips when a familiar hand ruffled her hair with all the tenderness of a kneazle attacking a ball of yarn. She didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

 

Michael.

 

Sure enough, there he was—grinning, settling into the seat beside her as if he owned the entire bloody table. “What is?” he asked.

 

Darlina jabbed her finger at the offending page. “This curse—look—it snuffs out a person’s happiest memories. Like, gone. Completely erased. Leaves only darkness and rage.” Her nose scrunched in disgust before she leaned closer, whispering in conspiratorial horror: “I don’t understand why we have to learn this. Like, actual curses. Would this even be in the exam questions?”

 

Michael made a face. “Right?” he drawled, cracking his book. “I’m still on potions. I’m way behind you, Lina.” He chuckled, letting the book float lazily in front of him as he reclined in his chair, arms folded across his chest. Eventually, Clementine appeared, sliding into the other seat. Without preamble, he opened his book, quill at the ready, parchment unfurling. Of course. Clementine didn’t just read; he compiled comprehensive study guides for fun.

 

Darlina eyed him with resigned fondness. She could never. Her strategy was far more chaotic: skim the chapters, absorb what she could, and then trust her stock knowledge and the whims of fate. Thank you, universe. Please don’t let me fail. Still, she tried—really tried—plowing through the next set of pages. Curses piled upon curses, each one more twisted than the last.

 

Then she saw it.

 

Luctus Vinculum.

 

She read the description once, twice—her stomach knotting tighter with every syllable. A curse that shortened a victim’s life by a day for every tear they shed in sorrow. “Oh,” she breathed, lips parting in quiet horror.

 

Nope. Absolutely not.

 

She slammed the book shut with a decisive thud and lowered her head onto it in defeat, forehead pressing to the hardcover. Her expression was probably a full display of dread, revulsion, and existential crisis. She wasn’t even trying to hide it anymore.

 

“Miss Lourdes?”

 

The deep, unmistakable voice sliced through her misery. Darlina, still collapsed over the fortress of cover that had crushed her will to live, raised a feeble hand in his general direction and gave a vague little wave. “I’m fine, sir,” she mumbled into the spine of the book. “Just… recovering.” Her voice came out muffled.

 

Silence followed. Blessed silence. Good, she thought. Maybe that would be enough to send him stalking off in another direction.

 

It wasn’t.

 

Bootsteps approached, deliberate and slow, and then his voice was nearer—dangerously near. “Recovering,” he drawled, “from what, exactly?”

 

Of course. Snape wouldn’t let it go. Not until he wrung an answer from her. Darlina sighed, peeling her face off the book. “From reading all these curses, sir,” she whisper-yelled, gesturing dramatically to the tome in front of her. “It’s horrendous!”

 

For emphasis, she flipped the book open and attempted to hoist it up for him to see—a Herculean task considering it was roughly the size and weight of a baby troll. Muttering a nonverbal Featherlight Charm, she finally managed to raise the monstrous thing high enough for him to glimpse. Snape leaned down, eyes narrowing as he scanned the header on the page. She caught the briefest flicker—an almost widening of his gaze—before his expression shifted: surprise, then irritation, and finally his usual mask of icy blankness.

 

“It appears,” he murmured, voice pitched so low she almost didn’t catch it, “that dark curses have somehow accidentally made their way into the coverage.”

 

Her brows shot up. “Eh? Who approved this book? I assumed the faculty checked it…”

 

“Albus,” he clipped.

 

“Headmaster Dumbledore?”

 

He gave a single, terse nod.

 

“I’ll see to it that he—” He broke off, jaw tightening.

 

Darlina, sensing the impending verbal laceration aimed at the Headmaster, waved her hand dismissively, grinning. “Nonetheless! I think I’m almost done. I’m about to move on to the M’s anyway, so… yeah. Quick read. Totally fine.”

 

“Skip it, Miss Lourdes. I am quite certain the examination will not include questions about such… material. It is the faculty’s oversight for failing to evaluate this reviewer further.”

 

“You call this a reviewer?” she said, choking on a laugh. “This book has thousands of pages.”

 

His mouth twitched—ever so slightly—as if he was fighting a smirk. “Each professor contributed to its creation,” he replied crisply. “I am simply… uncertain as to who thought it prudent to include the section on Unforgivable-level curses.”

 

Darlina gasped. “You wrote the Potions part!” The words nearly escaped in a squeal before she clamped down on the impulse, cheeks flushing as she tried—and failed—to contain her grin. “I knew it was you! It was so good, sir. Like, so good. I was reading it thinking, ‘Wow, this sounds like it was written by someone brilliant.’ And—surprise!—I wasn’t wrong.”

 

Snape rolled his eyes heavenward. He cleared his throat sharply, clearly uncomfortable with both praise and enthusiasm in any dosage higher than microscopic.

 

“Skip the dark curses, Miss Lourdes,” he repeated. Darlina nodded obediently, flipping the book, planning to skim past every horrifying curse listed in the next fifteen pages. She was halfway through an impressive act of avoidance when a name caught her eye.

 

Maledictum Nuptiae.

 

Oh.

 

Wait… that sounds familiar. She blinked at the page, the words shimmering with the faint echo of recognition before it slammed into her.

 

Oh.

 

She’d seen it before.

 

The Oracle in the Heart.

 

The memory crept in slowly at first—dusty parchment, the coppery tang of unease in the back of her throat, candlelight flickering across dark ink—and then hit her full force. That book. That cursed, unnerving, absolutely-not-meant-for-young-eyes book. It dawned on her then: this behemoth in her lap was practically the condensed edition of The Oracle in the Heart. The one she’d abandoned years ago. Well—abandoned was generous. She didn’t so much give up as get forcibly ripped away by Pharell, who had stormed in the moment he caught her reading it. And to be fair, he was probably right. That book was dark. Not just a little unsettling.

 

The thing was a grimoire masquerading as literature—brimming with spells that danced gleefully on the edge of damnation. Even now, the memory of its pages made her skin crawl. She could still recall the cocktail of emotions it brewed in her young mind: fear, confusion, and that peculiar sort of existential dread that only comes when you realize people—actual human beings—once thought it was a good idea to invent curses that could unravel a soul. Looking back, she didn’t even fight Pharell when he confiscated it. Honestly, she’d been relieved. Terrified, but relieved. Especially when he tore through the library that same day, banishing everything “unsuitable” from her reach.

 

And yet, here she was. Years later. Reading its sanitized cousin and realizing—oh joy—some of these curses were familiar not because her mind was playing tricks on her, but because she’d seen them before.

 

Well. That explains a lot.

 

Her gaze flicked back to the cursed words. Maledictum Nuptiae. Even the name felt heavy. She traced the letters absently, a shiver crawling up her spine. And then another memory lit up.

 

Wasn’t Professor Snape reading this same book on the train months ago?

 

Her lips curved before she could stop them. Of course he was. If there was any man on Earth whose ‘light reading’ included a compendium of hexes, it was Severus Snape. She wouldn’t put it past him to read it by candlelight. Her head tilted slightly, eyes seeking him across the room. And there he was—prowling between, his presence swallowing light whole. The scowl was in place, as always, that perpetual try me expression carved into sharp angles and shadow. The man was—quite literally—an enigma in human form.

 

And yet, inexplicably, something about him pulled at her like a magnetic force. Even now, with a textbook of horrors in her grasp, her frown melted into the softest smile just from watching him move. Her mind drifted to the their memory in the train. Merlin, what a spectacle that was. Darlina’s cheeks warmed at the memory, heat in full flourish.

 

Because, oh yes. She had fallen on his lap.

 

Not figuratively. Literally. Right on top of him.

 

In her defense, the train had stopped suddenly. Physics was a cruel mistress, and so was gravity. She’d pitched forward, arms flailing, only to crash-land on the lap of the most intimidating wizard she’d ever seen in her life.

 

Seconds. That was all it lasted. Seconds.

 

But the image—the sensation—was branded into her brain: the tension in his frame, the sheer, icy expression in his dark eyes as if she’d personally committed treason against the concept of personal space. Darlina buried her face in her hands at the memory, groaning softly. All done. All in the past.

 

…Right?

 

She couldn’t help but wonder, though. Quietly, carefully.  So many things had changed since that catastrophic meeting on the train. Or… was it her that had changed the most?

 

No, she decided. It wasn’t just her. Their bond—if you could even call it that—had shifted. Tilted into something unrecognizable.

 

Progress. That was the word for it.

 

Once upon a time, she’d barely dared to breathe in his vicinity, terrified that existing too loudly might result in a ten-point deduction. Now she could talk to him. Freely. Without being shut down by a curt sneer or a look that could curdle milk. More than that, she’d learned things. Actual things about Snape that weren’t common knowledge. Tiny shards of his personality. Details tucked into the shadows. Things you’d only know if you cared enough to ask… or if the other person cared enough to answer.

 

And somehow—strangely, impossibly—they both had.

 

To be fair, it was mostly her talking (it was always mostly her talking), but these days, she’d gleaned pieces of him. Slivers. Who he was underneath all those barricades of black wool and biting sarcasm. What he liked. What he loathed. And it thrilled her—absolutely thrilled her—to think she might learn more about him.

 

Or any other professor, she added briskly in her head, scrambling to defend herself to herself. It’s not just him. Obviously. Definitely not just him. Darlina wrenched her gaze away from where he prowled at the far end of the room, absurdly relieved he hadn’t caught her staring. She refocused on her book, mouth set in the firm line.

 

She was just about to dive into the next paragraph when the bell rang.

 

She snapped the book shut with more enthusiasm than the situation warranted. Beside her, Clementine bent over his scroll, scribbling furiously as if the ink itself might sprout wings and escape. Adorable, honestly. He was ambition personified, and she was… well. She was very much not. Bag slung over her shoulder, Darlina practically skipped toward Snape, a grin blooming across her face. Her fingers curled around the strap, excitement buzzing in her chest. Just a few steps away when—

 

“Ouch!”

 

The exclamation tore from her lips as pain lanced through her arm. She winced, clutching it instinctively, breath hissing between her teeth. A girl—one she didn’t even recognize—had barreled into her, shoulder colliding with brutal precision against the spot still wrapped in bandages. The healing was maddeningly slow, each day dragging its feet like a petulant child, and now this—

 

The girl didn’t so much as glance back. Just drifted on with her friend.

 

Darlina stood there for a beat, pouting at the injustice of it all, before letting out a soft sigh and continuing her beeline toward Snape. Unbeknownst to her, his head had already snapped up the second her voice hit the air. His eyes locked on her in an instant. “What happened?” The question came quick as soon as she stopped in front of him. Darlina blinked up at him, clutching her bag strap with both hands, and gave a shrug.

 

“Just the usual accidental bump. Nothing new.” She paused, teeth worrying her bottom lip before blurting, “Erm… How was the Prince situation?”

 

For a split second, she could’ve sworn his mouth twitched. “Well taken care of,” he said, tone smooth and final as a slammed door. Then his brow arched ever so slightly. “Are you doubting my intimidation skills, Miss Lourdes?”

 

Darlina scrunched her nose, unconvinced. “Is that even a skill?”

 

“Yes,” he replied without missing a beat. “It works in my favor.”

 

She bit back a grin, eyes dancing. “Of course, it does.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them: “I was with Prince earlier—yes, I know, again? Yes, again. And he still wasn’t mad at me. How did you even use this ‘intimidation’ skill of yours? Turns out, it works in my favor as well.”

 

“You don’t need to learn the details, Miss Lourdes,” he drawled, voice lowering to that silken tone that sent shivers skittering down spines. “Just know that Prince will no longer be bothered. And he will not know you were the one who… informed me of his predicament. It’s a win-win.” Darlina beamed, clapping her hands together—only to earn a death-glare from Madam Pince across the hall. Not that Darlina noticed. Nor did she catch the matching glare Snape shot her way. She just felt… giddy. All over again.

 

“Well, thanks to that skill of yours, Professor,” she chirped. “I am very happy.”

 

Snape’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, toward the boys hovering at the far end. “That you shall be,” he murmured. Darlina blinked, head tilting. “Huh? That was a little too quiet—I didn’t catch it.”

 

“Nothing, Miss Lourdes.” His tone was cool again, distant as the swoop of his robes when he turned. “Off you go. Your friends are waiting.” His sneered slightly around that last word—friends—and she stifled a giggle. Oh, he hated when she teased him about friendships and all. “See you, sir,” she said brightly, spinning on her heel with a grin.

 

Behind her, his gaze lingered a beat longer than necessary before sliding away.

 

After yet another pleasant exchange with Snape, Darlina all but floated out of the library, Clementine and Michael trailing behind her. Their goal was Hogsmeade. Firewhisky. The promise of a warm buzz to melt away the frost still clinging to their robes. Her goal, however, was the owlery. Obviously. Because Darlina was nothing if not devoted to her feathered army, and it was her weekly feeding duties, and, conveniently, also the perfect excuse to send Pharell another round of her letters. “Five minutes,” Michael groaned, stomping snow off his boots as they climbed the spiral stairs.

 

“Ten,” she corrected sweetly, tucking a handful of owl treats into the pockets of her cloak. “Some of them get grumpy if I rush.”

 

Apparently, “grumpy” was an understatement. Her session ended abruptly when an enormous ink-black owl—one she vaguely recognized from the dungeons—swooped down and latched onto Michael’s arm. “GET IT OFF!” Michael yelped, flailing as the bird pecked with righteous fury.

 

“Stop moving!” Darlina scolded, diving forward. “You’re scaring him!”

 

“I’M scaring him?!”

 

Two frantic minutes, three bribes, and one near-decapitation later, the owl finally released its death grip—though not before delivering a parting nip that sent Michael into a dramatic monologue about lasting scars. “Merlin’s pants,” Clementine muttered, clutching his scrolls. “Every week with you is a near-death experience.”

 

They left the owlery with Michael nursing his injury and Darlina murmuring soothing apologies to the bird, which absolutely did not deserve her forgiveness. Unfortunately for her friends, the detour didn’t end there.

 

Because cats!

 

So many cats. Lounging on windowsills, weaving between students’ boots, blinking up at her with those wide, pleading eyes. And what was Darlina supposed to do? Not stop? Not kneel in the snow and coo?

 

By the time they finally reached Hogsmeade, Michael looked ready to hex the next whiskered creature that crossed their path. Darlina, of course, remained unbothered. Positively glowing, actually. The Three Broomsticks was packed, all golden light and raucous laughter spilling into the crisp winter air. They nearly turned back—until Clementine spotted an empty table.

 

“Well. Empty-ish,” Michael muttered.

 

The table in question sat dangerously close to the professors’ section, where half the staff seemed gathered in varying states of off-duty ease. Michael groaned. Darlina grinned. She didn’t even know the professors would be here. They looked… odd, out of context like this. Familiar faces framed in candlelight, surrounded by brimming tankards instead of textbooks. Her gaze swept the table automatically—searching before she could stop herself. But he wasn’t there.

 

Of course he wasn’t there.

 

…So why did that sting?

 

The disappointment hit sharp and sudden, lodging itself under her ribs like an inconvenient truth.

 

Oh.

 

This felt familiar. Too familiar.

 

Three Broomsticks. Michael and Clementine flanking her. The clink of glasses, the burn of alcohol, and her eyes—always—searching for a man who was long gone. Only today, he’d never even been here to begin with. In fact, she hadn’t seen him here at all since that not-really-an-encounter last September.

 

Merlin. September. That was ages ago.

 

And yet… it felt like everything between then and now—every conversation, every almost-smile, every stolen sliver of softness—had been crammed into a space the size of a heartbeat.

 

It was thrilling. And terrifying.

 

And Darlina wasn’t sure which feeling scared her more.

 

“Good day, professors,” Clementine said smoothly, the very picture of decorum. Darlina, naturally, ruined it in the next second. “Hello! Happy drinking!” she chirped, waving. The faculty looked up, all offering polite nods and faint smiles in return. Darlina grinned even wider. And then, for no good reason whatsoever, her brain decided to conjure that one random memory—the absurd bet the professors made about her nonexistent love life. She shoved the thought aside before it could bloom into an existential crisis. Michael flopped down beside her, while Clementine took the seat across from them. The Three Broomsticks was alive with the kind of warm chaos that felt like a hug: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, winter wind rattling the windows. The three of them managed to become part of it.

 

They talked about everything and nothing. Exams. Holiday plans. Why Clementine needed to stop pretending he wasn’t secretly a romantic. Michael ranted about academics with his usual flair for drama. That comment earned a raised eyebrow from the professors’ table—and an unmistakable twitch of McGonagall’s lips. Michael, sensing victory, doubled down, and soon both tables were laughing. Darlina, caught in the middle of the absurdity, added her own sparkle to the conversation. Through it all, though, one thing stayed constant: her mug of hot chocolate.

 

Not firewhisky. Not butterbeer laced with something stronger. Just rich, steaming chocolate topped with a foamy swirl of cream. “No fun,” Michael muttered, eyeing her.

 

“I just don’t feel like it,” she said sweetly, lifting her mug for emphasis. Which wasn’t entirely a lie, so she could technically thank Michael for teaching her that trick. Use the truth—just… not all of it. His glare softened into a shrug as he threw back another gulp of his drink. Honestly, Michael didn’t really care. He had his firewhisky, his impending headache, and Clementine to drag him back to the castle when his legs inevitably betrayed him.

 

And Clementine, of course, as usual, was untouchable. Darlina had never seen him even slightly tipsy—not once. Probably why Michael dragged her along to these outings in the first place. Apparently, Darlina drunk was a golden spectacle. Gigglier. Chattier. Loose-lipped in a way that had Michael nearly weeping with laughter the one time it happened.

 

It still baffled her. There was a version of her that could talk more?  She blew on her cocoa, staring into the chocolate swirls.

 

After a few hours of sitting in the cozy chaos of the Three Broomsticks, Darlina decided to take a walk around the village. Her legs were stiff, her cheeks warm from laughter, and her soul—well, that was positively humming.

 

“I’ll come with you,” Clementine offered but Michael promptly hooked an arm through his and declared, “Oh, no you don’t. You’re not abandoning me, Clem. Not after everything we’ve been through tonight. One-on-one bonding time. Brotherhood. Friendship. The works!”

 

Clementine muttered something, “You’re drunk,” but Michael only gasped, clutching his chest. “Yes. And whose fault is that?”

 

Darlina giggled, biting back a retort as she slipped out the door, leaving Clementine to wrangle the tipsy Michael. The winter air nipped at her cheeks as she wandered aimlessly down the cobblestone streets, boots crunching softly on snow. The village glowed, golden lights twinkling from every window. Her breath puffed in little clouds as she turned a corner—and stopped. A shop she didn’t recognize sat tucked between Zonko’s and a tea shop, its sign swinging gently in the wind. Curiosities & Charms.

 

When she pushed open the door, a little bell chimed overhead, and Darlina was instantly swallowed by a wonderland of shelves stacked with—well—everything. Trinkets, baubles, enchanted odds and ends that probably had no real purpose but were delightful nonetheless.

 

She didn’t plan on buying anything. Absolutely not. Which, of course, meant that fifteen minutes later she was at the counter with her arms full. A coffee mug that proudly read Best Healer Ever! For Madam Pomfrey, obviously. A sleek, elegant quill for Clementine because Merlin knows he hoarded stationery. A candle for Michael, one with a warm, woodsy scent that reminded her of him in a way that was oddly comforting. A charming hand mirror for Eve—mostly because it screamed “Eve” the moment she saw it. And then… she spotted it. A small, plush bat. Midnight-black wings, button eyes, soft enough to make her want to squeal.

 

“Oh no,” Darlina whispered to herself, picking it up. “That’s… that’s too perfect.”

 

Because somehow, of course, her brain immediately supplied one name: Professor Snape.

She grinned helplessly, bouncing on her toes as the shopkeeper wrapped it up. How could she not? From all their odd, quiet conversations, she’d learned that bats were his favorite creatures. Which, frankly, shocked her at first—because she’d guessed snake. Slytherin, and all that. But apparently not.

 

Then again, bats suited him far better, didn’t they? Silent, nocturnal, cloaked in shadows. Darlina bit her lip to stop a laugh. He did sort of look like an overgrown bat, especially when he swept down corridors.

 

Huh.

 

Didn’t Eve call him the dungeon bat once? She had. And Darlina hadn’t known who she meant at the time. Oh, now it made perfect sense. His cloak alone could probably double as wings. She paid for her treasures and stepped back into the crisp evening air, feeling lighter somehow. Happier. Maybe it was the gifts in her bag. Maybe it was just… the season. Snowflakes drifted lazily from the sky, dusting her hair. She tilted her head back, watching them fall, and for a moment everything else melted away.

 

Just snow. Just stillness. Just… now.

 

Darlina smiled, closed her eyes, and breathed in the sharp scent of winter. Living was good—especially inside her little bubble of happiness.

 

Darlina stayed in that little pocket of peace for longer than she realized—eyes closed, face tilted to the sky, snowflakes melting against her lashes. It felt good. Simple. For once, she wasn’t thinking about anything at all.

 

Then… that prickling sensation.

 

The one that crawled up her spine and made her neck feel exposed. Someone was watching.

Her eyes flew open, darting around the street. Couples strolled by, arms linked. Shopkeepers locked up. No one looked remotely threatening. And yet—

 

Oh.

 

Someone was there.

 

Huddled in the corner of the alley, half-hidden by a snow-dusted crate, sat a woman. An old woman. Skin paper-thin, clothes threadbare, her body curled into itself. Darlina’s heart gave a painful thud. She hesitated for only a breath before crossing the street, boots crunching softly on the frost. “Miss?” Her voice was gentle, careful. She crouched down, ignoring the cold biting through her tights. The woman tilted her head up, and Merlin, she looked so tired. Eyes dulled with hunger, cheeks hollowed by winter.

 

Darlina’s throat tightened. This isn’t fair. This isn’t fair at all.

 

Without a second thought, she unwound the scarf from her neck. “Here—” she murmured, looping the knit gently around the woman’s shoulders. “You’ll be warmer this way.”

 

Next came her gloves. Tug, tug. She slipped them over the woman’s frail hands one by one, rubbing them for warmth. And then—oh, why stop there? Her coat followed. She shimmied out of it with a little shiver, draping it like a blanket across narrow shoulders. She still had her turtleneck on, thank goodness, which meant her bruises were safe from prying eyes. Because that would be bad. If anyone saw—if her father got wind of it? Sessions with Eve and Irmak would end. Her Gryffindor friends would be blamed. And Pharell… Pharell would show up, and she’d never be allowed near Hogsmeade again. Or Hogwarts, at this rate.

 

So no. Bruises stayed hidden. Always.

 

“Here,” she said softly, fastening the earmuffs snug over the woman’s gray curls. The woman—Merlin, she looked like someone’s grandmother—smiled, lips trembling. “Thank you, child.”

 

Child.

 

Darlina’s chest squeezed. The word was so gentle, so warm. But it also reminded her of her father. Would she even see him this Christmas? She shook the thought off, forcing brightness into her voice. “It’s no biggie. Have you eaten yet? Are you hungry?”

 

That question spiraled into an impromptu dinner at a small, smoky restaurant near the edge of the village. Darlina listened while the woman—Shelagh, as it turned out—spoke in a voice soft as worn velvet, telling stories about winters past and a time when the world was gentler. If Darlina hadn’t spent most of her money on gifts earlier, she would’ve booked Shelagh a room at the inn without blinking. But Shelagh waved her off with a papery hand. Said she had “accommodation” a short walk away. Darlina didn’t believe her. Not really. But Shelagh looked so certain, so calm, that she didn’t push. Instead, she hugged her tightly—tighter than strangers probably should—and wished her the happiest winter break in the history of winter breaks. Then she slipped the last of her galleons into the old woman’s pocket, ignoring her protests.

 

When she finally walked away, the snow still falling in soft, quiet sheets, Darlina felt like her pockets were empty but her heart…

 

Her heart was heavy.

 

By the time Darlina pushed open the door to the Three Broomsticks, the inn was quieter, the boisterous energy simmering down to low hums and clinking glasses. The professors were gone. Michael looked up from his seat and—oh, Merlin—he looked a little sober. Before she could even speak, he was on his feet, arms wrapping around her. “Lina,” he hissed into her ear, clutching her. “Do you have any idea how close I was to alerting the entire Auror department? You are the Minister’s daughter, you can’t just—vanish! For hours!”

 

Darlina blinked, opening her mouth, then—oh, Twilight. Literally. The purples and golds bleeding through the windows told her the sun had long abandoned its shift.

 

“Oops,” she whispered.

 

“Oops?” Michael hissed louder. “Clementine’s out there right now combing Hogsmeade for you!” She felt the creeping coil of guilt. She’d been so wrapped up in Shelagh, in her frail hands and warm stories, that she’d lost all sense of time. Her heart still felt soft and bruised from leaving the old woman behind in the cold, but now guilt stabbed through it. Before she could defend herself, Michael’s hands clamped on her shoulders. “Why—” his eyes narrowed suddenly, sweeping her from head to toe, “—are you missing half your wardrobe?”

 

Oh. Right. That.

 

“Uh—” she started, tugging self-consciously at her turtleneck. “Charity?”

 

Michael groaned, dragging his palms down his face. Still, he wordlessly shrugged off his own coat and scarf and bundled them around her. “Do you even have body heat anymore?” he muttered. “Merlin’s beard, Lina, you’re like hugging a snowdrift.”

 

“I’m fine,” she protested, muffled by all the wool.

 

“Sure,” he deadpanned. And then Clementine appeared, slightly out of breath, green scarf loose around his neck and irritation blazing in those eyes. He didn’t say a word—just walked straight up and hugged her. By the time they sat back down, she’d told them about Shelagh—well, as much as she could without dissolving into a puddle of emotions—and the boys exchanged a glance before volunteering to look for her. They scoured the streets together, but Shelagh was gone.

 

Eventually, with Michael tripping over his own boots every third step and Clementine muttering under his breath, they headed back toward the castle. Darlina walked between them, arms looped through theirs, giggling every time Michael stumbled and Clementine sighed.

 

At least she was smiling again. For them, that was enough.

 

When they finally crossed the castle threshold with all bones, there was barely time to drop her shopping bags in her dorm before bolting to the Great Hall. She didn’t even bother changing—still swaddled in Michae’s coat, which was so big it practically swallowed her whole, and his Slytherin scarf. One glance in her mirror she snorted out loud, amused at her own reflection, and then shrugged. She swept into the Great Hall. Her boots clicked softly against the stone as she made a beeline for the warmth and laughter of the Slytherin table.

 

But then—

 

“Darls,”

 

The voice stopped her mid-step. She turned instinctively, brows arching.

 

Of course, it was Irmak.

 

Maybe it was the cold still clinging to her bones. Or maybe it was the leftover warmth from laughing with Michael and Clementine. Or maybe it was the lingering guilt—the sharp ache of leaving Shelagh behind in the snow with nothing but Darlina’s scarf and coat to guard her against a cruel winter—that made her forget. Forget her delicate position with the Gryffindors. Forget that, technically, she wasn’t even allowed to be seen with Eve yet.

 

Technically.

 

But Professor Snape was smoothing that over—or trying to. Darlina trusted he’d handle her father and make things right eventually. She wasn’t sure what his methods entailed, but she trusted him anyway. Eve was out in the open now. Irmak, however… that was another story. Their friendship was a secret stitched together from chance meetings in isolated corridors and whispered plans for duels in the Room of Requirement. Their entire arrangement relied on not being seen.

 

Which is why the universe laughed in her face the moment she stepped into the Great Hall.

 

He grinned. She smiled back instinctively. Well. So much for subtlety. By the time her brain remembered every single reason this was a bad idea, he was already striding toward her with that easy confidence. And then—oh—he was thrusting a package into her hands.

 

Darlina blinked and pressed it to her ear. “What’s this?” she demanded.

 

“Careful!” Irmak’s grin twisted into a scandalized scowl. “What if that’s fragile?”

 

“Then that’s on you for randomly giving people mystery boxes,” she teased, shaking it again just because she could. “It’s your gift,” he said, his voice softening for a fraction of a second before sliding back into nonchalance. “I had to wait for the order to come in. Owl delivery during the holidays is chaos, so… yeah. Delayed.”

 

“Oh!” she beamed. “Thank you! Gift officially accepted. Should I open—”

 

“No,” he cut her off immediately, eyes flicking to the crowd. “We’re in the middle of the Great Hall, girl. Absolutely not.”

 

Right. That was fair.

 

She opened her mouth, ready to fire back with something clever—when she felt it.

 

A sudden, sharp tug.

 

Forward.

 

Toward him.

 

“What the—”

 

(!!!)

 

Her brain short-circuited because one moment, there was a perfectly respectable distance between them, and the next, her face was pressed against his chest. “What’s happening?” she squeaked, head twisting. Her hair tickled her cheek; she could barely breathe, let alone move. Irmak’s arms had locked around her. One of his hands fisted in the back of her borrowed coat and his voice was a low growl in her ear.

 

“Don’t move.”

 

Which was rich, because she couldn’t if she tried.

 

Her pulse jackhammered as she twisted her neck enough to glance over her shoulder. “Is this a prank again, Irmak?” Darlina’s voice was a fragile whisper, but the panic behind it was loud enough to drown out the Great Hall’s hum. Irmak shook his head slowly, jaw clenched as he tried to move his body—and failed. His lips barely moved when he muttered a curse under his breath.

 

And then his gaze flicked upward. Darlina followed his line of sight. A sprig of mistletoe hovered above their heads, innocent as snow… if you didn’t know better.

 

“Oh,” she breathed, stomach dropping.

 

Irmak’s voice was grim. “We’re under a mistletoe.”

 

“Obviously,” she murmured, words trembling with disbelief as she stared at the offending plant. Her eyes darted to him, then back up. Her mind supplied the only explanation that made sense—and her heart seized with it. “It’s enchanted.” The way Irmak’s eyes widened said he’d reached the same conclusion. And then his gaze slid past her, toward something over her shoulder. Whatever he saw flushed his face scarlet.

 

Darlina’s breath caught.

 

“We have to…?” she whispered, voice splintering in the middle of the question she couldn’t quite finish. Merlin help her, she was educated—painfully educated—about flora and their magical properties. Enchanted mistletoe wasn’t a joke; it came with rules. If you didn’t fulfill the enchantment, you stayed stuck. Until you did. Her palms started sweating. Her heart tried to beat its way out of her chest.

 

“Maybe—it could be removed, if only we could get Professor Flitwick or anyone…” Her head turned frantically toward the staff table, heart pounding in her throat. Her lips pressed together in determination. “Or… I can do it,” she murmured under her breath.

 

She sucked in a breath and muttered, “Finite Amoris.”

 

Nothing.

 

“Finite Amoris!” She tried again, more force behind the words this time, and still—nothing. It was the first time in a very long time that she’d failed a wandless spell. Still, the failure stung. Her stomach twisted as she tried charm after charm, every incantation she could recall bouncing uselessly off whatever magic held them hostage. Meanwhile, the world around them had started closing in. Irmak noticed first: heads turning, whispers multiplying, the entire student body leaning forward for a better look. Fantastic. Just fantastic.

 

And then the whistles. It spread—first a few Gryffindors snickering, then entire tables craning their necks for a better look, then catcalls ricocheting off the enchanted ceiling. Someone actually yelled, “Kiss her already!”

 

Darlina wanted the earth to split open and swallow her whole. Preferably now.

 

Her mortification deepened when Michael appeared, hurling himself against the invisible barrier. The shield repelled him so violently he staggered back, swearing. “What the fuck is this?” he roared, pounding his fists at empty air.

 

“Michael, stop—” Darlina squeaked, struggling uselessly against the magic pinning her to Irmak’s chest. “It’s a mistletoe—”

 

“Oh, I see that, thanks!” Michael barked, looking ready to duel the mistletoe to death. Clementine was nowhere near—last Darlina saw, he was making a beeline for the High Table—but before he could reach Flitwick, another figure cut through the crowd.

 

Professor Snape moved with a kind of deliberate, predatory calm that made the students closest to him shrink back in instinctive fear. His robes billowed as he closed the distance, a silent command for the others to stand down. Other professors began to trail in his wake. The students fell quiet—slowly, almost reluctantly—as the weight of his presence pressed down on them. The moment Snape reached her, Darlina’s gaze snapped to his. He looked as though he wanted to hex the entire castle into next week. There was no mistaking it: the professor was angry. It was not the usual simmering Snape-anger she’d seen a hundred times in class. This was sharp, controlled, but with edges jagged enough to cut.

 

Michael didn’t seem to notice—or didn’t care—because he was still attempting to body-slam the invisible barrier. That lasted all of three seconds before Snape seized a fistful of his robes and hauled him back with such casual strength it was almost insulting. Michael made a noise of protest that died a quick death when Clementine hooked an arm around his middle and dragged him away, muttering something Darlina couldn’t quite hear from the buzz of her ears. Darlina’s panic spiked when her gaze met Clementine’s from across the shimmering shield. He looked worried. She tried for a reassuring smile, but it felt like her face had been cursed into something resembling a grimace. Because, really—what sort of luck did she have? Stuck under a possessed mistletoe? In the Great Hall? At dinner? With everyone watching?

 

Flitwick bustled forward, bless his kind heart, his wand at the ready. “Finite Amoris,” he trilled, sending a neat flick upward. The mistletoe glittered sweetly back at him and did absolutely nothing else. “Finite Amoris!” he tried again.

 

Nope. Not even a tremor.

 

With each failed attempt, Darlina’s hope shriveled. Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears. She could practically feel the whispers buzzing behind her. And when Flitwick’s face pinched in consternation, her stomach plummeted into her boots.

 

“It’s tainted with Dark magic,” came Snape’s voice, low and precise. She flinched. Not because of the words, but because of how he said them. His wand was out now, angled at the offending plant. Flitwick gave a tiny hop of surprise. “As it would appear so,” he conceded gravely, then brightened. “Well! In that case, the easiest solution might be—”

 

“Don’t say it,” Darlina whispered, dread curling icy tendrils around her spine.

 

“—a kiss,” Flitwick finished cheerfully.

 

 “No!” The word burst out of her, ragged and desperate. She shook her head so fast her hair smacked her in the face. “Absolutely not! I don’t—I can’t—”

 

Before her panic could spiral into incoherent babbling, Sprout swept in. “She doesn’t want it, Filius,” she said briskly, planting herself at Darlina’s side. “Is there anything else? Try harder.”

 

Flitwick nodded, now looking apologetic. “Of course, of course! My apologies, Miss Lourdes.” Darlina tried to answer, but her throat was made of sand. She only managed a jerky nod.

 

“Perhaps,” Snape said, “a reversing charm.”

 

The silence that followed his suggestion was heavier than the enchanted mistletoe. And when he lifted his wand—slowly, deliberately—every hair on Darlina’s arms stood on end.

 

But the cursed mistletoe wouldn’t budge.

 

“Evanesco!” McGonagall’s voice rang sharp as steel. The incantation hit the mistletoe—then fizzled. Backfired. A ripple of magic arced outward, cracking through the invisible barrier, forcing half the professors to duck. Snape, naturally, didn’t flinch. With a sharp flick of his wand, he cut through the rebound, his expression taut with irritation. “Careful, Minerva,” he drawled.

 

Meanwhile, Darlina was staring up at him. Big, liquid eyes shining with distress, lashes trembling. And Snape looked away so fast when he caught her gaze, because what in Merlin’s name was he supposed to do with that? Those eyes made something ancient and dangerous in his chest curl its lip and snarl.

 

The professors were still murmuring behind them—counter-curses, untested theory, Latin charms—while the Great Hall began to roar to life. Whispers turned to chatter, chatter to laughter, and then came the chant.

 

“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!”

 

It started with Gryffindors, naturally. The Slytherins joined in because they were feral. Some Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws followed suit because chaos was a unifying language. Darlina whispered the words that turned Snape’s jaw to granite. “I don’t want to do it,” Her voice cracked, the question spilling from lips that looked far too soft for her own good. And then her wide eyes tilted toward Irmak.

 

Snape’s nostrils flared.

 

Irmak—utterly useless, wide-shouldered Gryffindor menace that he was—just swallowed hard and looked back at her with a face full of helplessness, and Severus nearly hexed him where he stood. If looks could kill, every student in the room would have been reduced to a pile of smoking ash. Snape’s glare then swept the tables, silencing half the room on contact. The other half took longer, because teenagers were idiots and did not, apparently, value their lives. Darlina’s head whipped around, eyes darting, until they landed on Eve—poor Eve, biting her lip. Michael and Clementine hovered nearby, Clementine looking grim and Michael… erm…  And then Darlina’s cheeks flushed a furious red. The heat climbed her neck as the pressure mounted, until the tears came. It slid down her cheeks without permission. She couldn’t even wipe them. Her arms were still locked uselessly against her sides.

 

Her throat made a tiny, broken sound. And when she tipped her chin away from everyone else, hiding her face against Irmak’s chest with a shuddering breath, something inside Severus Snape detonated. His wand hand flexed. His jaw ticked. Every instinct screamed for violent retribution—not at her, never at her—but at the enchantment, at the idiots laughing, at the entire bloody situation.

 

“I could brew a disenchantment draught,” Snape said subsequently. “Applied correctly, it would dissolve the curse’s hold.” His eyes flicked upward to the malignant sprig above them. Then, slowly, inexorably, back to her. Her face, to be precise. Flushed from cold and humiliation, nose pink at the tip, lashes damp where tears had gathered and stubbornly refused to fall. Her lips—pressed tight now, but trembling. He wanted to burn the world down for putting that look on her face. “…However,” he continued, each syllable clipped with controlled fury, “it would take hours.”

 

The word hung. And just as Darlina began to consider such solution, as fate would have it, myriad ivy suddenly began to curl around their waist, binding her and Irmak together. She whimpered when the vine brushed a fresh bruise. Irmak’s gift was still on her hand, and she subconsciously hoped it wouldn’t get crushed. Her legs began to numb, her feet icing, frostbite crawling up her bones. She couldn’t even catch her breath anymore. "It'll be okay, Lils," Clementine whispered suddenly, appearing beside her.

 

"My feet's cold," she said, teeth chattering. On the other side of the barrier, Michael once again slammed his palms against the invisible wall. Once. Twice. Again. The thud of flesh on magic was sickening. Clementine grabbed his arms and tried to pull him back, but Darlina caught a glimpse of his reddened skin before she turned away. It hurt to look.

 

The professors gathered nearby, talking in hush tones as they ever so often look at the direction of the Darlina and Irmak just awkwardly pressed against each other, now alarmed by the emergence of ivy and seemingly frigid atmosphere that begins to freeze their lower body. The crowd’s noise swelled again. Around them, whispers arose, scraping at Snape's nerves. The chant hadn’t resumed yet, but the tension was snapping, taut as a garrote. His jaw clenched. Something in him snapped. Snape turned slowly, and pointed his wand to his throat. When he spoke, the hall obeyed.

 

“Enough.”

 

The hush that followed was unnatural—eerie. Even the enchanted ceiling seemed to dim, storm clouds curling across it. He faced Darlina once again, seemingly the hundredth time that evening. That cursed mistletoe glowed faintly above them, mocking him, mocking her. There was nothing left. No charm, no counter-curse, no potion that could save her from what the enchantment demanded. They would have to seal the damnable spell the oldest way magic knew how.

 

A kiss.

 

“It’ll be fine, Darls. Just a peck. That’s it.” Irmak’s voice cut through the tension.

 

Snape’s head turned fractionally, and if glares could hex, the Gryffindor would have sprouted antlers on the spot. Darlina looked anxious—no, wrecked. Her hands were shaking against her sides, her chest rising and falling. And then—Merlin damn it all—she looked at him. Straight at him. Those eyes—huge, pleading, brimming with a helplessness that cracked something inside his ribs. For half a heartbeat, he nearly moved. Nearly shattered that infernal barrier with nothing but sheer, murderous will.

 

He didn’t. Couldn’t. The magic pulsed, thick and coiling, and his options remained the same.

 

None.

 

Michael slammed against the barrier again, fists bloody now, and for the first time, Snape approved of him. That boy was doing what he couldn’t—throwing himself at the problem with raw, reckless force. “Your hands, Mike…” Darlina’s voice was soft, cracked porcelain, and Snape’s jaw locked until it ached.

 

Irmak sighed. Resigned. “It’ll be quick,” he murmured, and Snape nearly snarled because—no. No, it bloody well wouldn’t.

 

The boy began to lean down.

 

And she—Merlin, she looked at him again. Straight through him, at his lips, as if searching for something—permission, rescue, salvation—before a tear broke free and slid down her cheek.

 

Her head tilted. Slowly. A lamb to slaughter.

 

And then their lips touched.

 

Not long. Not deep. Barely a brush of skin.

 

Severus felt it. A curse sliding cold and oily into his veins. His hand twitched violently on his wand, and for one, terrible second, every instinct screamed to rip Irmak away, to hex him into something small and silent and easily crushed beneath his boot. The Hall erupted but he didn’t hear them because Darlina’s face—when she wrenched away, head turning—was everything he’d feared. Ash-pale, shaking, eyes wet with humiliation she couldn’t even wipe away. And for the first time after a long time, Snape wanted to kill.

 

The kiss—if you could even call it that—did nothing. The cursed mistletoe still hung smugly overhead, glimmering. Darlina’s knees gave out a little. Not in that ridiculous fluttery way it feels when she’s with Snape. No, this was the kind of weakness born from pure mortification, exhaustion, and the creeping edge of panic.

 

“Oh, don’t tell me they have to make out!?” Michael’s voice cut through the tense quiet, sharp and angry.

 

No one answered him.

 

Not Flitwick, who was nervously muttering counter-charms under his breath. Not Sprout, who looked ready to throttle whoever had cursed this monstrosity. And certainly not Snape—whose silence weighed heavier than all the others combined. Darlina made the mistake of looking at him, she wished she hadn’t. His expression was neutral, but in the midst of her daze, she recognized the brimming anger clawing at the edges of his face. His jaw was set so tightly it could’ve cracked bone; his fists clenched at his sides, veins ridging pale skin.

 

For one insane, fleeting second, she wanted it to be him.

 

If it were him under this cursed mistletoe, she wouldn’t be crying. She wouldn’t feel like something sacred had just been stolen from her—the thing she had saved, her first real kiss. Because the CPR didn’t count, even if her heart still skipped every time she imagined flashes of that moment. But… but if this is her first actual kiss… then… then maybe… maybe she would rather consider that CPR incident as her first instead. Even if she hadn’t been awake enough to feel it.

 

If it were him… she would’ve leaned in without hesitation. Her gut knew it. His lips—pale, curved with disdainful smirks—would feel like victory, not this hollow ache blooming in her chest.

 

Irmak’s voice broke through her thoughts. “Let’s… try again?” His brow furrowed, cheeks flushed, and she hated herself for resenting him in this moment. Darlina flicked her gaze up at him, then closed her eyes tightly. “Okay…” Her voice barely made it past her throat. So quiet, so unlike her. They tried again. Longer this time. Ten agonizing seconds stretched thin as a bowstring, and still—the cursed mistletoe mocked them, still dangling overhead.

 

When they parted, her heart wasn’t racing from anything good. No, this was different. Wrong. Her pulse spiked with something ugly—dread, shame, nausea curling in her stomach. It was so not like the wild staccato her heart played whenever Snape let the barest edge of a smirk slip for her, or when his hand brushed hers reaching for the basket, or when he agreed to let her take his photograph.

 

This was suffocating.

 

A bead of sweat slid down her temple. She couldn’t even raise her hands to wipe it. Breathe, she told herself. Inhale. Exhale. You’re fine. It’s fine. It’s just a kiss. But something was wrong. The air felt thicker. Heavier. Her chest burned—not with embarrassment anymore, but with something hot and sharp blooming at the edges of her ribcage. It started as a flicker in the corner of her chest and then—

 

“She’s having a panic attack,” Clementine’s voice cracked through the buzzing in her ears, taut with nerves. He was pacing now, wand out, trying every calming charm he could think of—but nothing stuck. Irmak was crumbling. She felt it in the way his hands trembled against her back, in the unsteady breath hitting her forehead. And then—before her sluggish brain could string two coherent thoughts together—his mouth was on hers.

 

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t kind. It was desperate. And wrong.

 

Darlina froze. Her eyes flew wide, staring at the empty space beyond his shoulder, but her body wouldn’t move. She could feel the wet press of his mouth against hers. Every nerve screamed to push him away, yet she just… couldn’t. Her arms hung limp at her sides, but her spine had turned to stone.  Then, her gaze flicked instinctively toward Snape—and her lungs constricted. His expression was lethal.

 

She squeezed her eyes shut—because she couldn’t take it, couldn’t take that hollow, cutting look—and tried to pretend. Pretend it wasn’t Irmak. Pretend she didn’t hate this. Pretend she could survive the humiliation choking her alive. So she imagined someone else. Someone whose mouth was made of fire and control, whose voice was wrapped around her like silk and barbed wire, whose smirk made her knees soft for reasons she refused to name.

 

She imagined Snape.

 

But fantasy only went so far when reality was this sour. His lips moved awkwardly against hers, too much tongue, too much everything, and a sour taste crawled up her throat. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t bear that he was witnessing this. His lips didn’t taste right. He didn’t feel right. He wasn’t him.  This kiss was everything it shouldn’t be—and he wasn’t the man she wanted.

 

Who is?

 

Who else?

 

And then it was over—not because she pulled back, but because the world tilted on its axis. Her balance slipped, everything swayed—and then hands, firm and unyielding, locked around her.

 

Not Irmak’s.

 

Snape’s.

 

He dragged her to him with a force that ripped the breath from her throat, as if tearing her out of someone else’s arms had been his birthright. His grip burned through the layers of her clothes—well, Michael’s coat—a silent brand staking a claim no one had invited—but she clung to it anyway because she couldn’t stand. A white square appeared in her vision—a handkerchief, pressed into her palm. She didn’t think, didn’t breathe, just wiped at her mouth with jerky, frantic motions until her skin stung. Now she was sobbing. Quiet, ugly little sobs that shook her chest as she stared at the floor, the hall around her suffocating in its silence.

 

“They won’t hear you.” The words rumbled low, dark, from the man at her side. She looked up, startled, and Snape’s face was close—too close. Or is it? Is she just dizzy? Shadows carved his cheekbones, and his eyes… his eyes were nothing short of a threat. “They won’t even see you,” he added, a promise carved from a blade. She nodded because what else could she do? The meaning didn’t register—nothing was registering—but her body obeyed anyway, as if his voice alone had shackled her to compliance.

 

Clementine and Michael appeared, twin forces of frantic comfort, Michael’s hands bloodied, Clementine muttering steady “in, out” she could barely hear. She caught the blur of Eve across the hall, but none of it mattered.

 

None of it reached her.

 

Her breath stuttered. The burn in her chest flared white-hot. She tried to follow Clementine’s voice—in, out, in, out—but her lungs refused.

 

The hall spun. Her knees buckled.

 

And then… darkness swallowed her whole.’

 

 

 

SCENE SUMMARY FOR SKIPPERS:

• Darlina finds herself under a magically cursed mistletoe during dinner.
• Due to the nature of the curse, she is pressured into kissing her friend Irmak. It is a situation she does not want, but reluctantly agrees to because they have no other choice.
• The kiss is awkward, sloppy, and deeply upsetting for Darlina. She feels violated and distressed despite technically giving consent.
• While it’s happening, she locks eyes with Snape, who witnesses the kiss. His expression switches between furious, devastated, then empty. It’s evident that he was trying to look calmer than he really was—and ultimately failing in doing so.
• Overwhelmed, Darlina faints from the emotional and magical toll of the situation.

 

🦢

Notes:

Poor Darlina… :((( This was such a hard chapter to write. I didn’t feel any happiness while writing the ending because Darlina was devastated. And so am I! Her first kiss! Just stolen like that.

Also… my first semester is about to start soon… huhuhu /3

Chapter 29: The Sliver of Weakness

Notes:

First of all, it’ll all make sense soon. I promise.

             SHE NEVER HIT THE ground.

 

A pair of arms caught her mid-fall.

 

Before anyone else could move, Snape had reached her, lifting her effortlessly as though she weighed no more than parchment. The folds of coat much big for her dangled from his arms, her head nestled awkwardly against his chest, limp, unconscious. He held her not like a teacher would a student, but like he’d just recovered something unspeakably precious and he wasn’t letting go anytime soon. Clementine’s chest tightened at the sight. A chill ran down his spine, though he didn’t know why. He blinked, confused. Surely not. He’d buried those suspicions about Snape… hadn’t he? Beside him, Michael stiffened, equally dumbstruck. Around them, the world changed.

 

No one moved toward them.

 

No one even looked.

 

The Great Hall—moments ago a flurry of gasps, whispers, shrieking laughter—had fallen into a strange pantomime. The professors were gathered near the enchanted mistletoe in a grim knot. Irmak and Eve lingered at the edge of the room, whispering furiously. The students were quiet. Staring straight ahead. Their lips moved but not a single word reached the air. Sound had vanished selectively. Michael blinked again, dread settling low in his gut. “What… what did you do, professor?”

 

Snape’s expression remained a thunderous scowl. “Be precise, Barlowe,” he said coolly. “I’ve done many things today. You'll have to narrow it down.”

 

Clementine glanced between Snape and the room. “They’re not looking. No one’s reacting. It’s like…” he gestured around frantically, “…we’re invisible and silent.” Michael stepped closer, lowering his voice despite knowing it didn’t matter. “You enchanted something. Around her.”

 

Snape’s grip shifted slightly. It was not rough, but alas… the movement of him tightening his hold around her didn’t escaped Michael’s notice. He stepped forward again, eyes narrowing. “What spell did you cast? It’s not a disillusionment charm, I could feel.”

 

Snape's glare flicked briefly in his direction. “Careful,” he warned. His arms didn’t loosen. And Darlina—sweet, kind Darlina—lay cradled there. “It’s a localized veil,” Snape said coolly, as if that explained everything.

 

Which, to be fair, it did. To someone like Clementine. Michael blinked twice, clearly confused, but Clementine knew what that meant. His mind flicked back to fifth-year lecture of the theory of magical wards. Localized Veil. A rare, high-tier privacy enchantment. A spell used centuries ago during duels for discretion. To cloak injuries, mask shame, or, in especially tragic cases, grief. A skilled caster could manipulate the illusion at will. Let the audience see what they wanted, or nothing at all. Sound would muffle. Faces would blur. A haze of wrongness would press on anyone nearby, discouraging even the nosiest observer. Those within close range are still inside the ward’s radius, which is the only reason why Michael and Clementine could still see what’s truly happening with Darlina.

 

Technically, it was banned in Ministry settings.

 

So of course Snape had used it.

 

Clementine swallowed. “And you waited until now?”

 

The words shot out before he could stop them, laced with all the things he hadn’t said earlier, why didn’t you protect her sooner, when she was crying, when she was kissed without choice, when everyone was watching?

 

“Clem,” Michael hissed under his breath, tugging on his sleeve. “Don’t—”

 

Clementine couldn’t stop. Darlina lay cradled in Snape’s arms, her face pale, lashes dark against her tear-stained cheeks. Snape’s eyes snapped to him. “Are you truly that daft, Harrington,” he said, “or have your studies been so catastrophically neglected that you failed to notice the mistletoe’s enchantment was ward-blocking?”

 

Snape pressed on, merciless. “Any spell cast within its proximity would have reflected off the barrier. That includes veils. That includes even rudimentary shielding. Had I attempted it sooner, it would have endangered not only her, but everyone within reach. Including your foolhardy self.”

 

Silence.

 

Clementine opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

 

“I—”

 

The apology died before it could form, because just then, Headmaster Dumbledore emerged. The effect of his presence alone was immediate as the students sitting near the mistletoe stopped moving. Michael felt something in his lungs unlock. Dumbledore took in the scene with his eyes twinkling and Snape’s jaw locked so tightly when he noticed. If he had been anyone else, Snape might’ve hexed him on the spot for seemingly finding entertainment in all of this. But he wasn’t anyone else.

 

He was Dumbledore.

 

And the said old man was staring directly at Snape. There was no surprise in the headmaster’s face. No shock at the veil. If anything, he looked faintly pleased. Infuriating. It was the sort of look that might’ve pushed Snape, in a slightly less dire moment, into a full-blown crashout. Instead, he stood taller.

 

Snape locked his jaw. “She’s not well.”

 

Clementine saw something odd in Snape’s expression as he looked at Dumbledore and how Dumbledore caught it instantly. They exchanged a glance that felt like a conversation in itself. Dumbledore didn’t speak immediately. His eyes drifted to Darlina in Snape’s arms, and the twinkle dimmed by a fraction. His gaze softened as he gave a small nod of understanding.

 

“Bring her to the utmost care,” Dumbledore said, lightly, almost cheerfully. Clementine frowned. Something about the tone itched at the back of his mind. ‘Utmost care’ sounded suspiciously like a euphemism for something else. His brows furrowed.

 

“I will stop by your office to speak about the root of this. That mistletoe is tainted with dark magic.”

 

“I’ll be waiting. Now, off you go. Chop chop.”

 

Clementine blurted without thinking, “Wait!”

 

Snape halted mid-stride. “I… I can carry her to the infirmary,” Clementine stammered. “There’s no need for you to take the trouble. I mean… it’s stress you don’t need.”

 

Michael stepped in, quick to support him. “She’d be more comfortable with us. We’re her closestt friends.”

 

Snape stared at them. And then, without even glancing back, he resumed walking. “Let him take her,” Dumbledore murmured, almost offhandedly—but it was anything but. Clementine shifted on his feet, caught between refusal and deference. He was just about to follow when Dumbledore’s voice stopped him again.

 

“Sit, Mr. Harrington. You too, Mr. Barlowe. The feast will begin in a few minutes. Don’t fret, Miss Lourdes will be up and about in no time.”

 

Feast?

 

Feast?

 

They were supposed to eat? When their friend had just collapsed in the middle of the hall? Michael’s fists clenched. ‘Up and about’ his arse! He stormed back toward the Slytherin table with Clementine behind him, the fury simmering just beneath his skin. His eyes swept the room, the same students who’d whistled and gawked and laughed when Darlina was kissed against her will. He wanted to hex every single one of them. Maybe just punch a few.

 

None of the rest of the audiences saw what Snape actually did the moment the mistletoe loosen its grip. Only what he allowed them to see. They didn’t see how he cradled her against his chest, robes brushing the floor. They didn’t see how his fingers curled instinctively around her, protective and precise. No… and by the time Michael and Clementine blinked again, they too had fallen for the illusion he enchanted, too far to reach the truth: Darlina wasn’t being carried anymore. Not visibly, anyway. She was floating beside him, passive and light, similar to any other student escorted via spell. Certainly not being held like she was something fragile. Something… irreplaceable.

 

Snape was seething.

 

His jaw locked, his strides sharp with restraint, and yet his entire body trembled with the sheer force of his fury. And then… he noticed her. More precisely, he finally noticed the way he was holding her. Pressed tightly, too tightly, against his chest.

 

Too much like last time.

 

The memory hit him: her wide eyes, the mottled bruise blooming on her upper arm after that night weeks ago. He hadn’t even realized he’d held her that hard. Not until he saw the bruise. His grip softened immediately, almost guiltily. His hand adjusted beneath her legs, easing her weight, careful not to let her head tilt at an awkward angle. He exhaled sharply, as if he was trying to cast the guilt out of his lungs. He stared down at her, her head nestled limply against his robes, hair cascading over his arm.

 

Then, without hesitation, he turned the opposite corner.

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

The room was too dark.

 

That was her first thought as she stirred back into waking. A slow, disorienting climb through layers of cotton-thick dizziness. Her limbs felt heavy, her lungs didn’t want to move. Her heart was fluttering somewhere between her ribs and her throat. There was warmth nearby but her insides remained frozen.

 

She didn’t know where she was.

 

The ceiling arched high above her, but it felt like it was collapsing in, the shadows pressed too tightly against the walls. The windows—tall, gothic things with ironwork—showed not sky, but deep water. Something moved beyond the glass. Was it seaweed?

 

Or…?

 

Her thoughts were running out of order. The velvet of the couch beneath her felt wrong. Too soft, too rich. The green of it reminded her of crushed leaves and serpents. She curled into herself, her hands fisting in a coat much big for her, trying to press her heartbeat back into her chest.

 

In, out. In, out. You’re fine. You’re okay. You’re just… where?

 

Her gaze was still in front of the window that has no curtains at all when something shifted at the edge of her vision. Her heart spasmed. She snapped her head to the side so fast she swore she dislocated something.

 

Oh.

 

It was Professor Snape.

 

…

 

Huh?

 

She stared at him. Wide-eyed, unmoving, her breath caught in her chest.

 

Oh.

 

The memory came barreling into her: the echoing roar of the Great Hall, laughter, shrill whistles, the cheers that didn't sound celebratory at all, the mistletoe, Irmak, that kiss. That humiliating, horrifying, heart-wrenching kiss. Her throat clamped shut, but her mind refused mercy. It played the scene again anyway. Again. And again. And there—across from her—he sat.

 

His long legs stretched forward, elbows balanced on his knees, hands clasped tightly together. His head hung low, strands of inky black hair shadowing his face. She couldn't find her voice. Her lips still tingled in the worst way. Her tears sprang forth with no warning, as hot and traitorous as the moment they were born. She blinked once, twice, three times—no, not now, please not now—but it was too late. The flood was coming. Still, she tried to call to him. She needed to. She didn't know why, only that—

 

“Sir…?”

 

His head snapped up. The movement was whip-fast, and his gaze crashed into her. It was unreadable in the worst and most compelling way. So full yet so empty of emotions. She couldn't name what flickered behind those eyes. And in her haze—weak-limbed and spiraling—the very room itself seemed to lean toward him. Gravity bowed in his direction and so did she. She scrambled upright too quickly. Her vision spun, her throat burned, her cheeks flared. Her sleeve caught the tears before they could slide all the way down, but they kept coming anyway, thick and stupid and mortifying. She didn’t want to cry. Not in front of him. Not again. She’d cried in front of him before, yes, but that had been from happiness, hadn’t it?

 

This—this—was nothing like that.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he said, voice unexpectedly low.

 

Was that… relief?

 

Her brows furrowed. Her brain hiccuped. “Err—sir—uhm… the??”

 

Great, she was malfunctioning… All that high-level articulation was long gone, now replaced by an incoherent string of vowels and mild existential panic. Her cheeks flamed. She bit her lip hard enough to taste the tiniest flash of something metallic. The memory of the kiss made her feel ill.

 

And the worst part is that he saw it.

 

Snape saw it.

 

He saw her standing there, kissing Irmak. A ridiculous puppet under a cursed mistletoe. Her heart sank. She didn’t even want to think about how that must’ve looked from a distance.

 

Where were they even—?

 

“We’re in my chambers,”

 

Oh…?

 

She gulped, trying to anchor herself with a glance around the unfamiliar room, but it was all shadows and stone and too much silence. Her eyes welled up again before she could stop them. And everything felt too dark. Her heart clenched again. And again. Was it testing how many times it could do that before it simply gave out? Her hand flew to her chest, fingers clawing at the fabric as if she could physically pull the ache out. Her breath hitched in ragged staccato, throat dry, lungs suddenly forgetting how to work. She reached for Michael's green-and-silver scarf still looped around her neck and yanked it loose. Then her hand scrambled toward the outer coat she wore and tugged at it helplessly, thinking that unbuttoning it might unravel the pain.

 

But it didn’t.

 

The pain stayed. Lodged in her chest. Her vision blurred from the sheer overwhelm of it all. Her heart, her body, her mind… they were all screaming at the same time, on different frequencies.

 

She’d been kissed without wanting to be kissed.

In front of everyone.

And no one stopped it, no one could stop it. The whole thing was a real life nightmare that had crawled inside her skin and made a home there. And she hated that she still felt guilty. As if it was her fault.

 

Her thoughts tangled around each other.

 

Am I overreacting? Am I being dramatic? Maybe it’s not that deep?

 

But it is. Right? Isn’t it?

Would someone else have handled this better?

 

She squeezed her eyes shut.

 

She didn’t want that kiss. Not with Irmak. Not in the presence of a thousand gawking, laughing faces. Not ever. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t hers.

 

Her first kiss—her first kiss—had been taken by a charmed sprig of mistletoe and a boy she didn’t like romantically. Her hands balled into fists over her chest, massaging over her heart in futile attempt to calm it. She was intricately in depth in soothing the pain that she didn’t even notice when Snape moved. One moment, he was still seated across the room. The next… he was beside her. He was quiet as a breeze and just as impossible to hold onto. Then, as she let out a hiccuped gasp, a hand pressed lightly between her shoulder blades. It moved, back and forth, slow and deliberate. Her breath caught. Her whole body tensed, startled at the touch, at his touch. She flinched hard.

 

And then the hand was gone.

 

Just like that.

 

He withdrew the moment she startled. As if burned.

 

She should’ve expected that. She did expect that. But she… actually didn’t want him to leave. She shook her head—no, not at him, not really. More at the world. At the spiraling mess inside her. And it was only then, only in the sudden quiet that followed, that she realized she was alread fullblown crying. Her face was hot and soaked and swollen. Her breath came out in jagged bursts. She couldn’t even see properly. And it was awful. And maybe… maybe also a little bit freeing. She curled in on herself, her arms around her middle, and tried to gather the shreds of herself into something coherent. Somewhere beside her, he lingered, barely moving.

 

“A hug?”

 

His voice carried the traces of reluctance, deeply suspicious of the request even as it left his mouth. But Darlina’s hazy, heart-bruised brain didn’t need further convincing. She didn’t wait nor overthink before throwing herself at him, arms wrapping around his shoulder in one big motion. The ‘hug’ was sideways and awkward but she didn’t care. She buried her face into the rough fabric of his coat, flush against his right shoulder, willing herself to disappear there. Or at least pause reality long enough to stop the ache behind her ribs.

 

He stiffened but he didn’t push her away even though he reacted to comfort the way cats reacted to bathwater. In fact, after a breath, his hand found her back again. It was tentative and measured. He rubbed it slowly, tracing steady, grounding lines between her shoulder blades. “I didn’t want to do it,” she whispered into his robes, “I didn’t… he wasn’t… I’m—”

 

The words tangled in her throat. Nonsense syllables, incomplete thoughts. All the things she wanted to say but couldn’t wrangle into order.

 

Still, he didn’t interrupt.

 

“I want it…” she hiccuped. “I want it to be with someone I… I actually wanted. Is that so…” she choked on the sentence, “Is that too much to ask?” Her face crumpled again, the weight of it all dragging her down. “I didn’t… I…” The rest dissolved into sobs. He still didn’t speak. Just continued rubbing her back with the slow, patient touch of someone who didn’t quite know how to comfort but was doing it anyway.

 

“I don’t like him,” she mumbled eventually, the words muffled against his robes. “Not even a little. In a romantic way. I mean, he’s nice. But I don’t… I don’t.” Her hand curled into the fabric of his sleeve, clutching it the way one might a lifeline. “It’s just…” Her voice cracked again. “It’s unfair. So unfair. Why—why did it have to happen at all?” She didn’t expect an answer but the question came anyway, “In front of everyone, too… Merlin.” She sniffled again, biting down a sob. “Why me? Why did it have to be me?”

 

Darlina continued to rant and cry and rant all over again. And through it all, Snape stayed where he was. He just let her cry. “I don’t even…” she sniffed, voice muffled against his sleeve, “I’m not even asking for it to be magical, you know?” A hiccup caught in her throat. “Like, I wasn’t expecting rose petals or romantic music or…” her voice faltered, “…fireworks or whatever. Just… not that.” She paused, then winced, then whimpered softly into his shoulder.

 

Snape said nothing. He simply rubbed her back again. Up and down. Over and over. And her heart—still sore, still burning—squeezed once more before finally loosening its cruel grip. She sighed against him. “I just…” she murmured, chest still tight, “I wanted it to be with someone… someone who made me feel something. Someone I chose.”

 

Her voice cracked again. “I want… I want…”

 

She looked up and was startled to find his eyes already on her. There was something unreadable in them, as always. Something deep and dark and quietly watchful. She didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t even know what he was doing with it. She was curled up at his side, arms still loosely hanging around him, hands clutched against the fabric of his clothes. A mess. A damp, flushed, emotionally unstable mess.

 

And yet…

 

His gaze didn’t falter.

 

“Your first kiss,” he said at last, “is of your own volition, Miss Lourdes. You decide who it will be with.” A pause. His tone remained even, but his words carried weight. “This incident most certainly does not count.”

 

She stared at him, face crumpling again; grief for a moment that never really belonged to her. “But it feels like it,” she whispered. “And I feel… I feel sad. Everyone saw it. I just… I…” She stopped, overwhelmed by the tangle in her head, and pressed her forehead to his shoulder again. “I can’t think straight. It’s all… it’s all spiralling.”

 

Her heart burned again. It physically ached, deep and throbbing. And the pain was so loud and so all-consuming that she hardly noticed the pain of the bruises along her back where his hand lay, rubbing slow, steady lines between her shoulder blades. Unbothered by her shaking, unbothered by the sobs hiccuping out of her throat. Her tears kept falling, though she really couldn’t stop them if she tried. She wasn’t even trying anymore.

 

“I feel…” she started, voice catching. “I feel disgusted.”

 

She looked at him again—still so near, so still—and the shame rose. Her face twisted with pain so sharp that it made something shift in his. Snape moved without warning nor hesitation. One arm looped beneath her knees, the other around her back… and then, effortlessly, he lifted her. She gasped, startled but didn’t resist. If she were in any other state of mind, she might’ve shrieked or blushed. But now she was so wrung out, so frayed, so entirely done that her body just melted into the motion. He settled into the sofa again with her in his lap, sideways. She didn’t fight it. Her arms barely moved, except to clutch at the folds of his coat, grounding herself in whatever warmth she could find.

 

Her face was close to his now.

 

Too close…

 

And yet… not close enough.

 

Her eyes flicked up. And there they were again. His eyes. Sharp as obsidian, dark as ink in moonlight. Watching her. She got lost in them again. Of course she did. Something stirred low in her chest… unfamiliar and uninvited. Something warm and soft and deeply, deeply out of place. Maybe she was blushing now. Her body just hadn’t gotten around to telling her yet. Her gaze dropped—just for a second—to his lips. A sharp breath caught in her throat. They were… right there.

 

Close enough to count the creases.

 

But when she finally blinked, it wasn’t him anymore. It was Irmak. His face flickered into her mind, wrong and too near, and… she winced. Her body recoiled, eyes wide and wet all over again. She turned her face back into his shoulder, shaking. “I didn’t want it,” she whispered.

 

“I didn’t want it,” she said again, voice thick. “I didn’t want it,” she repeated over and over again. A combination of mantra, truth, and scream made soft all in one. “I didn’t… I didn’t want him… not like that… I didn’t ask for it, I didn’t… just…” Her voice dissolved into sobs, each one heavier than the last. “I wasn’t ready. I just… why does it hurt this much?”

 

After a few minuts of quiet sniffing, her fingers found the fabric near his shoulder and pinched, hard. Snape winced, the bite of her nail digging through cloth, fueled by a force she probably didn’t even realize she had. He took the opportunity to gently catch her wrist, tugging it down into her lap. His hand followed, deliberate, until it found hers. Her breath hitched the instant his palm closed over her skin, and her infuriatingly confusing heart reacted. It was the first time they’d touched skin-to-skin all day, and apparently that stupid detail meant something.

 

Snape lingered, his left hand pressing lightly against the small of her back, the other curled in a strange, protective clasp around hers. His hand settled over hers with ease, large and warm and steady. “It’s not unnatural,” he murmured, voice low, as though he was reciting from a page only she could hear. “To feel disheartened. After something like that.”

 

Violated.

 

He didn’t say the word, but it clung to the air between them. Already said, already felt. Darlina barely registered the words themselves, but the way he said them… the cadence of his voice, that rare gentleness it held… it made something unclench in her chest. Just a little, just enough.

 

He didn’t speak like that to anyone else.

 

She pressed her cheek deeper into his shoulder, sideways, so she could still see his face. Because why wouldn’t she stare, even now? She was a mess, but she had working eyes. And he was… well, he was Snape. And Snape had the kind of face that felt like it wasn’t designed to be seen this close. It was sharp and cruelly beautiful in that way that made you feel like you were doing something wrong just by looking. Through her blurry lashes, she caught him glancing down at her, his eyes flitting to her face. His hand never stopped. The circles on her back were firm, precise, just on the right side of clinical.

 

The other hand left hers only to reach for her face, thumb brushing at the wetness there. One tear, then another. And another. It was useless, really; the tears kept spilling, stubborn as ever. But still he tried, fingertips chasing after them. It wasn’t the effort that undid her, but the fact that he even bothered. And Merlin, she could barely think. All she could focus on was the way his skin felt against her face. The last remnants of composure she had left frayed apart, and then, strangely, she only realized then that her chest has long stopped aching. A crushing weight finally lifted off of it and her body began to remember just how it felt to simply breathe.

 

She exhaled, slow and trembling. “It stopped,” she whispered, the words brushing the air. “My chest—the burning. It’s gone…”

 

He stilled just for a moment, just long enough for the atmosphere to change. Then, silently, he cupped her face. Darlina blinked, startled by the shift. His palm was warmer than she thought it was. Gentle, almost reverent. She didn’t know what possessed her to lean into it, only that she did. Hiis thumb tipped her chin upward with the gentlest pressure. Her head tilted, too—helpess to resist the pull. And then he slipped two fingers beneath the collar of her turtleneck, tugging it down to check the pulse at her throat. For what reason, she couldn’t guess. Her breath hitched audibly. She froze, a whimper caught in her throat. Her head further lifted a fraction, just enough for their noses to brush. Accidentally… Or perhaps not. Perhaps she intended for it to happen. Nonetheless, neither of them moved away in attempt to create righteous distance. The air thickened with something unknown as time stretched and folded into itself. Every flicker of fire seemed to still, like the entire room was waiting on them to do something.

 

His eyes snapped to hers. Her lashes fluttered. Without thinking, she brushed her nose against his in a delicate manner. The contact sent a little cheerful jolt through her chest. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, just enough to offer the angle she decided was perfect.

 

“Darlina…” he said. It was a quiet warning, a frayed threat of restraint, a line in the sand he wasn’t sure she was aware of. She didn’t even flinch, didn’t make a big deal of him using her first name. She didn’t care yet. Her mind was too fogged with adrenaline and grief and him to do something.

 

She looked at his lips.

 

It looked soft… and slightly parted, and attached to a man who was never supposed to be this close, never supposed to feel this vital. And so she stared, biting her lip in the process. Somewhere in the middle of it all, one traitorous tear escaped the sweep of his fingers, tracing a hot, shameful path down her cheek. She drew a trembling breath, peeling one hand from her lap and placing it against the solid warmth of his chest. The other still clung to his shoulder with more force than she realized… Between the thousand thoughts curling through her mind, the tremors racking her limbs, and the way he was looking at her, her reality had turned to fog. Her hand against his chest made things worse, as it seemed. The steady rise and fall of him, the warmth beneath the thick fabric of his robes… it was all real, yet at the same time… it also felt something out of a dream.

 

The way her eyes kept darting from his lips, to his eyes, back again.

 

The sound of her breath hitching.

 

It was all too much.

 

Something cracked in Snape’s restraint, and he leaned forward, just a breath, just enough that their faces hovered in the same pocket of air, and for a moment, nothing existed outside of this suspended second.

Just this. Just her looking at him like that.

 

Like he was something she wanted. Something she needed. And he… he hated how much he didn’t hate it. He was going to regret this. Every last second of it. But at that moment, with her looking at him like that, regret could wait. Her thighs squeezed together under her skirt, an instinctive attempt to wrangle the bloom of sensation that surged through her belly. His hand slid back down to her knees, parting them just enough to undo her makeshift barrier. The loss of pressure made her want to whimper, the absence sharp and unbearable in its own right. At the same time, he drew her in, pressing her closer to his chest with a movement that carried a quiet, almost pitiful desperation. His fingers traced the curve of her knees through the cling of her tights, the fabric warm from her skin. His lips hovered achingly close, so close she could feel the heat radiating off them, could almost taste the breath he was still holding back.

 

She tried to press her thighs together, but his hands tightened, holding her in place. “Stop,” he ordered, his voice low and edged with something that made her pulse trip. Her blush deepened, and her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt as his darkened gaze pinned her where she sat. Darlina’s breath caught again. Her pupils were blown wide, glassy and wild. Her eyelids, heavy with something dreamlike. She looked so breakable. Like if he touched her wrong, she’d shatter into pieces he didn’t know how to hold. Or worse, if he kissed her, she’d come apart in his hands. And yet… she closed her eyes, pressing herself against him, closer this time. It was a moment of a moment. A sliver of borrowed time where logic lost its footing and restraint buckled at the knees.

 

He gave in.

 

Almost.

 

Snape leaned forward, damning himself entirely. His lips hovered so close, too close from hers, until, at the very last second, something snapped. A jolt of clarity struck his whole being and he quite literally recoiled, sharp and sudden, as if hexed to oblivion. Horror flickered across his face as he wrenched his head away. His throat bobbed as he cleared it and through it all, Darlina’s brain struggled to catch up that it took more than reasonable seconds until her eyes flutter open slowly, lashes trembling, confusion bleeding in.

 

His face was already turned away, lips no longer within reach. Her brows drew together, and heat surged traitorously up her neck, burning her cheeks as the truth settled in her stomach. The space between them widened. It was not far, but the distance was enough for her to understand…

 

Merlin. Had she just gotten rejected?

 

Heat swept up her body in a spectacular blush. She wanted the floor to swallow her whole. Or better yet, combust. That would be quicker. And what, in Merlin’s name, had she even been doing?! Leaning in for a kiss with her professor? While in his lap? Was she possessed? Had the mistletoe curse fried her frontal lobe?

 

Heart thrashing against her ribs, she made a mortified, squirmy attempt to get off him, obviously the appropriate response when you throw yourself at a man and he dodges—but—

 

His hand shifted.

 

The one still resting on her knees tightened. His fingers curled around her knees, holding her in place. Her breath stuttered. His grasp was not enough to bruise but just enough to bind her to this moment. Snape knew he shouldn't have touched her at all after almost losing control… and yet, he couldn’t bear to let her move.

 

“Stay,” he said, low and rough. The word slithered down her spine, curling in places it had absolutely no business curling. She shivered, her whole body reacting in little helpless jolts… and only then did she realize her feet weren’t touching the floor. Socks. Just socks. Her shoes were gone. When had she lost them? Her toes curled inside those ridiculous socks—white with little embroidered moons—as she shifted slightly in his lap. Her seat. He was her seat now.

 

Her brow furrowed as something unmistakably pressed against the underside of her. Something solid… but she was too fogged over to analyze it until a startled yelp slipped out of her when Snape jerked back with jagged restraint. His hands grabbed her waist and shifted her, not unkindly but not delicately either. Just enough to move her off the source of his current... predicament. He repositioned her just far enough to preserve what remained of his dignity, but close enough that she could still curl into him. She was traumatized enough for one day. She really, really didn’t need to feel his cock on top of everything else.

 

He exhaled slowly through his nose.

 

Darlina looked at him through her lashes—curious, pink-cheeked, dazed. And Merlin help him, it was the look that nearly undid him. Greedy in the way of someone new to want, and still unskilled at hiding it. He averted his gaze, jaw tightening, throat working. It was quiet now. Their breathing filled the room in uneven patterns, broken only by the occasional pop and crackle of the fire. Darlina blinked slowly, lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. He didn’t know if she did it on purpose or if it was simply how she blinked, but either way, it was a hazard to his sanity.

 

A lot had happened today.

 

She’d been up since morning, practically bouncing between conversations with Elven and Prince, losing track of time in the library, sending off a letter at the Owlery, chasing cats, then Hogsmeade… and Shelagh. And then there was the mistletoe incident not long ago…

 

And now… this.

 

She wasn’t sure which part of the day had been the most emotionally compromising, but her entire being was now heavy with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into bones and leaves no room for coherent thought. Darlina leaned her head back against his shoulder. Her breath was audible, slightly ragged… and yet, she almost sounded relieved. She melted further into him, cheeks still flushed with residual shame, small and soft and boneless now, her arms draped around his middle like some kind of clinging, innocent little vice. She didn’t even try to move away from him anymore, not like she could… And more importantly, she didn’t want to. Even with the sting of rejection still prickling up her spine, she stayed. It felt... safe. For now, she trusted that her body knew better than her mind. And more than that, whatever awful, invisible weight she’d been carrying had finally begun to lift. Her earlier tremors had stopped. That invisible fist around her heart seemed to have let go. He could feel the change in her body: no more clenching, no more frantic breathing against his chest. Just… stillness.

 

Her eyes drifted shut. She thought of Irmak, briefly. The mistletoe, the forced kiss shared underneath it, the sheer horror of it all.

 

But the thought quickly passed.

 

It was replaced by Snape. The way his hands had felt on her skin. How warm his robes had been, still is. The quiet panic behind his eyes even as he tried to hide it. She blushed, curling her fingers a little tighter in the fabric of his sleeve, the memory still hot and strange in her chest. She let out a slow breath as her lashes drooped. The edges of the room began to blur, and her body melted a little more against his. Her forehead hovered near the curve of his jaw, close enough that he could feel the whisper of her breath as her head gradually lolled.

 

Five minutes, she told herself. Just five minutes.

 

“Darlina?” His voice was unexpectedly softer. She felt the familiar motion of his hand rubbing her back in slow, grounding strokes. Up and down. Up and down.

 

“Mmm?” she mumbled.

 

“You should eat,” he said quietly, more suggestion than command. “You skipped dinner.” She didn’t respond. Or rather, she responded by doing absolutely nothing… except burrowing further into the warmth of his chest and clinging, mutely, to the folds of his robes.

 

Snape hesitated.

 

Her refusal to move… or speak… or do anything except press her small, tired body against him… disarmed him more than he was willing to admit. He exhaled through his nose. He looked down at the top of her head. Her breathing had evened out. She wasn’t asleep, but she was drifting there. He could feel it in the way her hold on him slackened just enough to be innocent. His jaw flexed as he looked away, hand still moving against her spine in a quiet rhythm.

 

He hadn't meant to be gentle. And yet here he was…

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

She had fallen asleep on his lap. He'd realized that at least half an hour ago, but he still hadn't moved. Just sat there on the edge of the overstuffed sofa, spine straight, eyes fixed on the crackling fire like it might offer him some sort of absolution.

 

It didn’t.

 

Instead, it cast flickering shadows across the curve of her cheek, and for a long moment, he let himself study her... The slack in her brow. The way her lips parted slightly when she exhaled. The absolute, maddening trust she gave him by simply existing in his arms, utterly unguarded.

 

Eventually, practicality returned.

 

She would wake up with a stiff back if he do not move her to a better position, and as much as he enjoyed the moment, he knew she couldn't stay crumpled on him forever. With a careful exhale, he stood, her weight shifting easily into his arms. She was light. Small enough that carrying her didn’t require much effort. Her head lolled slightly against his shoulder, her long hair cascading down his arm in an unruly waterfall. He didn’t stop until they reached his sleeping quarters. A space no student had ever crossed into, and certainly not like this.

 

Lowering her gently onto his bed, he reached for the comforter, covering her up to her shoulders with practiced, almost automatic care. Immediately, she curled toward the nearest pillow, her arms winding around it in a sleepy mimic of how she’d clung to him earlier.

 

A soft hum slipped from her lips. And then… a smile. A faint, dreamy thing. Snape stood motionless at the bedside, hands clenched tightly at his sides, his fingers digging half-moons into his palms. She looked peaceful. It was a maddening echo of the image burned into his mind from earlier: her asleep on his sofa, socked feet curled under her; she’d kicked off her shoes amidst sleep, her hair draped, a hand dangling loosely toward the floor, her cheek pressed into the cushion.

 

And he had almost kissed her. He had almost kissed a student.

 

Snape exhaled sharply through his nose and turned away, his robes flaring behind him. He stalked toward the far shelf where his wand lay beside a now-cold pot of forgotten tea. The moment his fingers closed around the polished wood, it was as if a chill swept through his bloodstream. Clarity blooming in the form of cold fury.

 

That mistletoe curse had not been born from clumsy mischief or idle whimsy. It had been laced with something far darker than innocent holiday prankery. Whoever had orchestrated this... this spectacle, had done so with a motive. The spellwork was too specific. Too timed. Too damned pointed. This wasn’t random. And for all his cynicism and world-weary bitterness, he would not let it rest. Dumbledore would most likely bestow him permission to track down whoever thought weaponizing an enchanted plant for public humiliation was a charming bit of holiday fun, but even if the old man would not grant him authority, Snape would have pursued it anyway. He didn’t need clearance to do what was necessary.

 

He’d built a career—and a life—on moving in shadows.

 

If Dumbledore attempted to stop him, which Snape doubted; the man was many things, but not blind, he’d work around it. The door shut behind him with a final, echoing click. The stone corridor was dim, the torchlight flickering against the damp walls.

 

Snape was going to rip the truth from the bones of whoever that did this.

 

 

 

✧･ﾟ: * ✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

 

 

Darlina woke slowly. At first, she thought she hadn’t opened her eyes at all. The room was so dim—so cloaked in velvet-black and deep indigo—it felt like dreaming with her eyes wide open. The heavy canopy above the bed loomed, its fabric thick and draped with old elegance. She lay still beneath it, curled beneath sheets that were absurdly soft, the scent of something familiar still lingering on the pillow. She blinked again, eyes adjusting. To her left, a pair of lamps glowed low on an ornate bedside table, their golden light pooling in soft, lazy rings. The wallpaper was damask, black-on-black, barely discernible unless the light hit it just right. Even the furnitures… rich wood, dark velvet, and silver accents that glinted like moonlight on water. Her gaze drifted toward the tall arched window, heartbeat thudding against her chest as she realized that it was the black lake.

 

Where she drowned and nearly died because of—

 

Oh.

 

Everything came crashing back with the subtlety of a brick to the head. Irmak… The mistletoe… The kiss… Snape… Her eyes widened. Her entire face went up in metaphorical flames. Because… well, she was in his chamber, wasn’t she?

 

He’d said so. She’d heard it, hadn’t she? Just before she—

 

Wait.

 

Did they…?

 

Did she hallucinate that they almost kissed, or…?

 

She covered her face with both hands, muffling a mortified little groan.

 

She almost kissed him!

 

Oh, she was going to die. She was going to perish, evaporate, turn into a pile of embarrassed ash and be swept under this incredibly soft bed! The blush on her cheeks bloomed. Carefully, she pushed herself upright, hands brushing the embroidered coverlet that looked too elegant for her to be allowed to touch. Everything in this room screamed you shouldn’t be here, and yet… here she was. Breathing in it. Wrapped in it. She touched her cheeks, dry but puffy. And then came another gasp.

 

Was she… laying in his bed? Did she slept in his bed!?

 

Her eyes shot wide open. She sat up with the reflexes of a startled cat, stared at the enormous canopy bed in horrified realization, and scrambled out from under the covers as if they had suddenly grown teeth.

 

This was his bed.

This was Snape’s actual bed!

 

What in the—how in the—why. Her heart launched into a sprint, thudding against her ribcage. The rug beneath her feet was thick and soft, patterned with curling shapes that might have been vines or spells or ancient runes. A dark vanity stood across from the bed, its mirror tilted just enough to catch the reflection of the bed where she lay minutes ago. She scanned the room in a panic, as if some reasonable explanation for this fever-dream of a morning might present itself on a velvet pillow. It didn’t. But her eyes landed on a pair of slippers beside the bed, it was soft, simple, and unmistakably not Snape’s because it’s pink. They were far too cozy-looking, and Darlina couldn’t imagine him owning anything that fluffy on purpose.

 

She slipped them on. They fit perfectly.

 

That was somehow more alarming.

 

She stood frozen for a moment, then slowly began to creep around the room. This was technically the first time she’d ever seen his personal-personal space and remained conscious for it. Every surface felt ancient and deliberate. The scent of something faintly smoky and familiar hung in the air.

 

The first door she opened sent her staggering back.

 

Bathroom. Was that a clawfoot tub? Still mildly panicking but determined to pretend she wasn’t, she stepped in and did the only thing she could think of: brushed her teeth with her finger. She found a toothpaste and made do with some water from the sink. Whatever. It burned enough to feel effective. She smiled a little at her reflection, cheeks flushed and hair askew, remembering the days she used to do this exact thing as a child. Simpler times.

 

Then came the second door.

 

Her hand paused on the doorknob, frozen mid-turn as if her fingers had suddenly forgotten how to function. Her heart betrayed her with a single, traitorous thud. Because what… what was she even going to say to him? Hi, sorry I fainted and cried into your shoulder, and also sorry I almost kissed you? Also, are we still friends or do you now deeply regret ever knowing I existed?

 

She swallowed thickly.

 

Was he angry? Bothered? Had her crying infuriated him? He was a private person. The most private. And she’d absolutely short-circuited all of that with her feelings and her drama and her…

 

Were they still friends?

 

Her fingers curled tighter around the doorknob, suddenly unsure if she should open it at all. Maybe she shouldn’t go face him at all. Maybe she should just cocoon herself in the safety of her dormitory, paint something, and pretend the last twenty-four hours never happened. She could wallow far, far away from him. Because facing him, alone, in his chambers, after nearly kissing him… seemed so difficult to do. Although—objectively speaking—the being alone with him part didn’t sound so terrible if she could surgically extract the memory of her lips almost brushing his from her brain and throw it out the window, that is.

 

Surely that moment didn’t mean anything, right?

 

Right?

 

She mentally knocked on her own skull. And then, as if summoned by the silence around her, a far more terrifying thought slithered in. For who knows how long, she’d danced around this… named it everything except what it was. But here, now, in front of his door with his scent still clinging to her clothes, Darlina finally asked herself the question.

 

Do I have a crush on him? On my professor? My professional friend? Am I… attracted to him?

 

It was a bizarre notion. Illogical and wildly inappropriate. And yet… her face was betraying her.

 

No. Nope. Absolutely not.

 

He was her professor. She was a student—one who may or may not have fallen asleep curled up against his chest, but still! That meant nothing. People slept in weirder places. She once napped in a broken suit of armor when she was twelve. It was the same thing. It was! She shook her head. She was not attracted to him. Nope. Absolutely not… But, if she were, hypothetically, that wouldn’t mean she liked him romantically, right?

 

Who was she kidding!

 

Her grip on the handle tightened as she nodded maybe too many times. Okay, the plan. She had a plan. Get out of this chamber before he sees her, then pretend none of this ever happened. Then, after Christmas break, she’d send him a very formal and totally non-blushy thank you gift and never speak of this again.

 

Right.

 

She let out a breath so deep it almost took her soul with it, steeled her spine, and opened the door. The narrow corridor beyond was dimly lit, her steps made little shuffling noises against the floor as she padded forward in her borrowed slippers. There was something reverent about the stillness, or maybe that was just her overactive imagination combined with the unmistakable scent of him in the air. She didn’t know where she was going, but she trusted some combination of gut instinct and possibly the irrational hope that her feet knew where to go even if her brain didn’t. She just needed to leave this corridor, this chamber, before he stepped into it and made things infinitely complicated by simply existing.

 

Thankfully, the path wasn’t as complicated as she’d feared. One turn, more hesitant steps, and there it was, the main threshold of his chambers, looming like salvation with a particularly gothic aesthetic. She did a small, silent happy dance in her head and tiptoed forward down the unnecessarily long corridor. Honestly, did it need to be this long? Was this a secret requirement of being a professor at Hogwarts? The torches lining the stone walls flickered as she passed, casting dancing shadows across her slippers. Her heart gave a startled little jump when her eyes caught a floor-to-ceiling mirror a few feet away from the enormous door, and directly across from it lay an open archway. Wide, exposed and unmistakably leading into his lounge.

 

Her stomach dropped, and yet she took a peek.

 

There he was.

 

He sat in an armchair by the hearth, back straight, posture precise, a book floating in front of him while he sipped from a mug. Black coffee, she assumed. Of course it was black. Of course. She winced. The idea of drinking black coffee made her soul physically recoil. Her eyes briefly wandered to the slight flex of his fingers around the mug, and to the slight, blessed fact that his back was to her.

 

Her heart fluttered.

 

Don’t you dare, stupid heart. This is not the time.

 

Clutching her skirt tighter around her, Darlina stepped lightly—barely breathing—as she moved past the archway. He didn’t turn nor didn’t speak. He didn’t even look up.

 

And miraculously, she made it!

 

She practically leapt the last few steps toward the main door like she was escaping Azkaban. Freedom! Fresh air! Non-threatening spaces where she wouldn’t have to confront her increasingly suspicious feelings! But just as her hand reached out, she froze.

 

Merlin’s wrinkled knickers.

 

Where was her wand?

 

Her eyes widened in alarm. She patted herself down. Pockets, nothing. Sleeves, useless. Chest… absolutely not there. Her borrowed slippers, predictably, yielded no answers.

 

No wand.

 

No bloody wand.

 

She let out a frustrated little sound in the back of her throat, glancing back over her shoulder in panic. Maybe she could summon it? Maybe it was in the bed? Or maybe it was in the room he was in. Which meant she’d have to go back… or not… Darlina remembered wandless magic seconds after nearly stomping her feet, a skill she often take advantage of. Merlin’s beard, had her brain taken a vacation to the nearest gutter? She sighed, raised her hand again, and opened her mouth to try—

 

“Looking for this?”

 

Darlina let out a squeak so high-pitched it might’ve summoned a few bats. Her head whipped around, and… there he was. Snape held something long and familiar between his fingers. “H-Hi!” she squeaked. Her heart thudded against her ribcage like it wanted no part in this conversation and would like to exit her body immediately, thank you very much. Her gaze lifted to his face, and immediately regretted it. His eyes were shadowed. Not quite tired, but something in the way the candlelight hit his face made her think he hadn’t really slept. Or if he had, it wasn’t the good kind. But even so, he looked…

 

Good. Infuriatingly so.

 

And then, because her eyes were traitors, her gaze dropped straight to his mouth. The very mouth she had nearly kissed. Almost kissed Her feet shuffled helplessly on the cold stone. “What a good day it has been, right?” she blurted out, her voice three notes too high and entirely too cheerful. “Err… I was just… admiring the doors. Very stately. Big hinges. Lots of character.”

 

Then her mind registered exactly what he was holding. Her wand, pinched delicately between his fingers. “Oh,” she said, her voice catching. “How’d you… get that?”

 

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped toward her.

 

She gulped. Her eyes darted to the door, then back to him, then his lips again. Stop doing that, she told herself. That mouth is not your business. She really hoped he wouldn’t bring it up. The thing that definitely did not happen, and certainly didn’t mean anything even if it had happened, which it didn’t. “You have a very nice mirror, sir,” she said randomly, her voice jumping an octave from sheer desperation. She pointed vaguely behind him.

 

He didn’t reply, only raised his hand with her wand, palm open. Darlina blinked. Then, in the clumsiest of blunders, she shuffled forward to take it and her fingers brushed his for half a second. Just the briefest moment of skin against skin, warm and jarring and entirely too much.

 

Her face exploded into color.

 

“Er—thanks, sir,” she mumbled quickly, stepping back. “Can I… leave now?”

 

Darlina didn’t wait for a response before she turned to the door, grasped the handle, and it didn’t budge. Because why would anything today go according to plan? Her brain took the opportunity to finally catch up… Why was I even in his chamber?

 

Before she could get too deep into that existential crisis, he spoke. “Follow me, Miss Lourdes.”

 

She blinked at him. “But—”

 

He turned and began walking inside his lounge. And Merlin help her, she followed him anyway. Darlina gave him distance, enough that her hands wouldn’t accidentally brush his again and send her into cardiac arrest. Her heartbeat quickened with every step. This was fine. Everything was fine. Just your average day. Waking up in your professor’s bed, trying not to admire the back of his head.

 

“Breakfast is on the table,” he said, voice casual. Too casual. Like she’d just popped in for a chat and hadn’t, you know, almost kissed him senseless the night before. Like she hadn’t been curled against him... Like his voice hadn’t slipped out her name last night in a tone that still echoed behind her ribs.

 

She hadn’t fully appreciated it in the moment… too dazed … But now she would’ve paid a fortune just to hear it one more time.

 

If only.

 

She blushed at the thought, which was deeply unfair because she’d been doing so well at pretending she was emotionally stable for the past few minutes.

 

“Sit down,” he barked. The spell of her thoughts shattered, and she moved before she could overthink it again. The sofa creaked slightly under her, the sound too loud in the room. With a tiny wave of her hand, the breakfast tray floated toward her, landing gently on her lap with a soft clink of porcelain and metal.

 

There was a pause.

 

And then, carefully, she glanced up. He stood near the hearth again, arms crossed, face unreadable.  “Aren’t you going to eat as well, sir?” she asked, a little too softly.

 

Sir.

 

The word came out brittle on her tongue, a formality she couldn’t quite shake.  “And again,” he said coolly, sitting in the lone wingback at last, “as I’ve said before… my eating habits are none of your business, Miss Lourdes.” His words struck. “But if you are so desperately in need of an answer… then here: I already ate. Is that enough?” It was the sharpness in his tone that startled her more than the actual words. It had been so long since he used that voice on her. Not since… Merlin, months ago. Her gaze dropped, lips pressing together in embarrassment. “Erm… okay.”

 

Silence draped over them. Darlina focused on her plate, quietly cutting through the eggs. She chewed slowly, trying not to fall apart because Merlin forbid she make anything else weird today. And yet her thoughts didn’t ask for permission before they barged in anyway.

 

Does he hate me now? That had to be hate. That was definitely a tone of hate. What even was that burning thing in my chest? Indigestion? Internalized shame? He must think I’m disgusting. No wonder he can’t even look at me now. I kissed Irmak in front of everyone. I cried. Then I tried to kiss him. I don’t like him, right? I… I don’t have a crush on him, definitely… This is not an attraction! Right. Right? Merlin, he wouldn’t bring that up, right? What would I say if he did…?

 

She swallowed hard, her appetite lost in the haze of her thoughts. Darlina was uncharacteristically quiet. Too quiet.

 

So quiet, in fact, that Snape glanced at her once.

 

Then again.

 

Then a third time, slower now. She looked small, somehow. Smaller than usual. Not physically, but… emotionally. Her brightness had dimmed just enough to feel wrong. Her posture was straight but her head hung slightly, shoulders stiff with tension. She took bites slowly, chewing without focus, eyes distant. Every now and then, she’d tuck a strand of hair behind her ear with precision. He stared for a beat too long. She shook her head suddenly, a tiny movement but one that made something twist in his chest. She looked tired.

 

She didn’t see him watching.

 

Just as she glanced up, he raised the book in one fluid motion, shielding himself behind it. Her lips parted slightly, contemplating if she should say something… but then she sighed and let the silence win.

 

It was fine. Probably for the best.

 

The awkwardness pressed in around her. The food was exquisite, honestly. She wanted to compliment it—ask why it didn’t taste like anything that came from the Hogwarts kitchens, if he was the one that made it—but she didn’t, or rather… she couldn’t. Darlina continued eating in silence for quite some time, her mind far too loud to enjoy the food properly. Once the plate was nearly clean, she rose to her feet with the tray in hand and cleared her throat gently.

 

“Where could I wash these, Professor?”

 

The book rustled down. Snape peered over it with a look that very clearly said absolutely not, and yet he still answered her as though she were the one being irrational. “Leave it.”

 

Normally, she would’ve teased him and say something cheeky about his lack of domestic grace. But the energy to be cheeky had long since been sapped out of her. So instead, she nodded meekly and placed the tray back on the low table. Her fingers hovered awkwardly in the air for a second before she started fidgeting with her hair again.

 

And then the real dilemma began… what now?

 

She was still standing, half-poised to ask when or if she was allowed to leave. But just as the words began forming on her tongue but before she could speak, Snape’s murmur cut through, touching on something she couldn’t yet name, and then a loud pop! disrupted the air.

 

“—Elven!” she gasped.

 

The tiny elf practically glowed at the sight of her. “Miss Darlina Lourdes, miss! Elven was most honoured to serve you! Elven is always happy to be summoned, ma’am—and also a very good day to Professor Snape, sir!” he added with an enthusiastic bow so deep he nearly headbutted the floor. A real smile tugged at Darlina’s lips. She nearly leaned forward to hug him but caught herself just in time.

 

“Indeed. Good day, Elven.” Snape’s voice cut in, “Might I ask your assistance in fetching some necessary items for Miss Lourdes?”

 

“Of course, sir! Elven is most helpful, sir! Happy to help Miss Darlina!”

 

“You may instruct him specifically,” Snape added, finally glancing her way. Elven’s eyes sparkled, and Darlina stared at him blankly for a moment before blinking herself back into motion. “Err… wait… Necessary items, sir?”

 

Snape didn’t look up from his book. “Do you not wish to care for yourself?”

 

She glanced down and… oh. Right. She was still wearing yesterday’s clothes. Still in the same turtleneck, hair limp from sleep.. But she smelled fine. Probably. Hopefully? Subtly—very subtly, she thought—she lifted her arm and gave a discreet sniff.

 

Snape exhaled sharply. “You smell divine, Miss Lourdes. Quit sniffing like a dog.”

 

Her whole face ignited. “Oh… uh… right. Okay. Thank you—I mean—not thank you, I’m just—okay.”

 

“And for the record,” he continued, flipping his page without sparing her another glance, “you will be staying in my chambers until I’ve determined who cast that ridiculous enchantment.”

 

It took a second to register. Staying in his chambers?

 

“Wait. Wait-wait. As in—sleeping here? Again?” She didn’t wait for his respond as she added more: “But… we’re supposed to leave Hogwarts tomorrow, right? For Christmas break?”

 

“Correct.”

 

Her brows knit further. “And... culprit? What culprit?”

 

“Albus and I are handling it,” he said, tone clipped. “Do not concern yourself with it further.”

 

“But—”

 

One sharp brow rose. She gulped. “Right. Not my concern. Got it.”

 

“Then it’s settled.” His tone was final. “You’ll be safe here.”

 

She swallowed hard and looked down at Elven, managing a soft, slightly nervous smile that barely held its shape. The silence that followed was promptly filled by a quiet pop as Elven, ever helpful and nearly vibrating with joy, reappeared beside her. “What is it you need, Miss Darlina Lourdes? I am happy to serve!”

 

“Er—yes.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her voice quiet. “Could I please have… a towel? A brush? Other toiletries like body wash and shampoo? My loofah? And some clothes?” she said hesitantly, eyes flicking toward the side, seeking silent confirmation from the very intimidating man she thought was still in the room. However, it seemed that he vanished along with the tray on the table. That man could really do anything, among those presumably is metlting into shadows and… evaporating into thin air. Her attention snapped back to Elven. “And… my painting materials, please?”

 

“Noted, Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss!” Elven squeaked with a gleeful bob of his oversized head. She let out a soft giggle. “I told you not to call me that anymore, didn’t I? Just ‘Darlina’ is fine.”

 

The elf’s smile faltered, lower lip wobbling. “Oh, alright,” she relented quickly, patting his tiny shoulder. “Call me whatever makes you happy.”

 

Elven lit up again, eyes round and wet with devotion. He was mid-turn, ready to apparate, when she blurted out, “Oh! Grab my long clothes, please! Thank you!”

 

With another pop, he vanished.

 

Snape emerged minutes after Elven vanished with a pop. His eyes landed on Darlina, who now stood quietly by the window. Her shoulders were stiff, fingers curled tight around the windowsill. His eyes flicked past her, toward the view.

 

Of course.

 

The bloody lake.

 

Fuck, he cursed himself under his breath. He’d forgotten about that. “Should I cover the window?” Snape asked.

 

“Oh—err—no?” she floundered, whipping around to find him by the shelves near the fireplace, framed by the tall window. Her voice wobbled. Her voice cracked slightly. “I mean… it’s fine. I’m no longer scared of it that much… so… yeah, err, hehe…”

 

His eyebrow twitched. “Is that a yes?”

 

“No! No—this is your private area, don’t change it because of me.” He tilted his head, studying her for a second longer than necessary, before giving a noncommittal nod. “Very well.”

 

He didn’t press the matter. “You’re free to roam wherever you see fit,” he added. “Use the lavatory. Rearrange the books. Entertain yourself while I am gone.”

 

Her head snapped up. “You’re leaving?”

 

Her hair was still mussed, the faintest cowlick betraying the hasty brush of fingers through it. Her eyes, a little puffy, were two full moons of overwhelming emotions. Cheeks pink. Lips—well. Snape’s gaze drifted too far down, and then immediately snapped back up.

 

He cursed himself again.

 

“Is that a problem?” he asked coolly, voice intact even if his brain wasn’t.

 

Darlina’s blush deepened into a rosy crimson. “No… uhm. It’s fine.” She nodded too quickly. A little too much. Like she was trying to convince him, and maybe herself most of all. And then they just... stood there.

 

For a moment too long.

 

A second stretched into three. Five. The silence became its own creature; thick, awkward, electric. Neither of them moved. He didn’t leave. She didn’t look away. Her lips parted, barely. She blinked. Her eyes dropped, flicking toward his lips just for a second. A mistake, perhaps. A memory flashed in her mind, and judging by the way she instantly turned red again, a very vivid one.

 

She opened her mouth further, as if to speak, but no words came.

 

Absolutely nothing. Her brows creased as she stared at him, then glanced away, then back. Her thoughts were running in chaotic loops and she couldn’t quite catch one to settle on and through it all, he just watched. Observed the way her eyes darted around his face. The way she puffed out her cheeks ever so briefly, softly, and absentmindedly. The way an uninvited thought seemed to arrive and her eyes widened. He tilted his head, something unreadable darkening in his expression.

 

What he wouldn’t give to know what she was thinking right now.

 

Though… if it was anything like what he was thinking…

 

Best not to go there.

 

The tension that had wound so tightly between them slightly diminished when Elven reappeared in the room, arms full and grinning as wide as his ears would allow. In his tiny hands was her bag, neatly packed and fluffed up, “Oh! Thank you,” Darlina said, her voice lighter than she felt. “See you around?”

 

“Yes, of course, will do, Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss!” Elven chirped.

 

“You’re dismissed, Elven,” came Snape’s smooth, deep baritone. He hadn’t stopped looking at her. Darlina flushed, clutching the strap of her bag. She gave the elf a little wave, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

 

Elven, dramatically saluting, gave his customary farewell, “Thank you, Professor Snape, sir. Happy to serve you, sir!” and with a snap, he vanished. As the room fell quiet again, Darlina found herself toying with the ends of her hair. A nervous habit that betrayed every errant thought flitting through her too-full mind.

 

“You seem to be familiar with the elf,” Snape said at last. Her grip on the strap of her bag tightened. “Oh… um. I usually head to the kitchen.”

 

“That I observed.” He was waiting, his gaze not demanding but expectant. She cleared her throat softly. “Elven is usually the one who meets me there. He sort of… accompanies me? I guess. Helps me cook. Bake. That sort of thing.” Snape inclined his head slightly, as though filing that away under something very particular. He didn’t comment, yet his eyes still hadn’t left hers. Even as hers darted to the shelves, the fireplace, the floor… the way one might search for an escape route when locked in a room with a predator who hasn’t yet decided if you’re prey.

 

“I’ll use your lavatory, sir…?” she said quickly once the silence got the best of her… the air between them had gone heavy again, weighted with something neither of them was willing to name. There was a question mark in her tone, though she hadn’t meant to add one. He gave a brief nod. Nothing more, nothing less. She moved—well, bolted—toward the archway. She didn’t dare look up, not that she need to, anyway… she could already feel him looking. By the time she glanced at the mirror across the archway, her cheeks were on fire. One look at her reflection made her bite down on her lower lip, harder than she meant to.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” came the deep voice from behind her just as she’d taken two shaky steps toward escape. She paused and pivoted slightly. “Yes…?” she asked softly, her voice careful and polite.

 

“How are you?”

 

Oh.

 

Oh.

 

She blinked. And then her brain did a dramatic death spiral. What did he mean? How am I in what context? Physically? Emotionally? Spiritually? Was this about our almost-kiss from last night? The mistletoe debacle? Was he concerned? Curious? Her mouth opened but nothing came out.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he repeated. She jolted slightly. “Right! Sorry, yes, sir… I’m fine! More than fine, actually! Brilliant. Fantastic. Couldn’t be better if I tried!” she said all at once, voice an octave too high. Snape tutted; an elegant, disappointed little sound.

 

“A futile lie, Miss Lourdes,” he said, “But I will allow it. For now.” He gave the faintest nod toward the direction of the archway.

 

The bathroom door clicked shut behind her with a dull thud, and Darlina immediately leaned her forehead against it, breathing hard. Her palms were clammy. Her ears were still hot. She was ninety-five percent sure she hadn’t said one coherent thing in the last three minutes. She inhaled deeply. Held it. Let it out slow.

 

Get it together, Darlina.

 

Only then did she peel herself off the wood and turn around to properly take in the space around her for the second time. And this time, she had the clarity of mind to actually look.

 

It hadn't fully registered until now, but Snape’s bathroom was beautiful. Stone columns framed the arched entrance. The chamber is lit sparsely by a wrought-iron chandelier that hangs above, its flickering candles reflecting in the polished ebony of dark wood beams. Ivy creeps from the corners, as though even the plants themselves understand this space is sacred. A clawfoot tub sat beneath towering windows, their glass fogged slightly from the warmth inside. But beyond them, the Black Lake pressed in. A heavy crimson rug warms the stone floor, and beside the tub, elegant iron fixtures glint faintly in the low light. And off to one side, tucked through a carved stone archway lies a smaller alcove with a basin of black marble and a tarnished silver mirror. Tucked discreetly along its wall, the toilet waited in quiet seclusion.

 

She stepped further in, barefoot against a thick, soft, crimson rug. The space smelled faintly of herbs, and every surface gleamed, from the polished basin to the silver taps that never dripped. It was oddly comforting. Her treacherous mind chose the exact moment she observed the lavatory to begin conjuring inappropriate images. Snape doing normal human things. In this very room.

 

Washing his hands. Drying his hair. Unbuttoning his—oh no.

 

Her face lit up as the mental image betrayed her completely, showing far more of him than any reasonable imagination should. It was absurd, really. She hadn’t even seen him without his overcoat, much less without—well, everything. And yet her mind had bravely decided to skip right past shirtless and into potentially sinful thoughts… Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, my god,” she whispered to no one.

 

What was wrong with me?

 

She was in his lavatory. Professor Snape’s private lavatory. About to bathe. In his bath. Naked with a brain full of extremely unprofessional visuals. Hogwarts would burst into flames if the portraits ever found out. After several minutes of pacing, gawking, and a near-mental breakdown beside a shelf of neatly arranged bath oils, Darlina finally stood in front of the tall, antique silver mirror.

 

Completely naked and flushed.

 

Her eyes fell to her pink overnight bag hanging open on the hook behind her. She’d charmed it so she could summon anything she needed from it, but the sight of grounded her a little. She turned her gaze back to her reflection. Her fingers toyed with a lock of hair. Her cheeks were still a little puffy, eyes rimmed red from tears last evening and whatever emotion she hadn’t named yet. But underneath it all, she still looked like… herself.

 

Darlina knew she was pretty. That wasn’t arrogance… it was just something she had long accepted about herself. Her beauty had always been part of her, from the slight curl at the ends of her lashes, or the gentle way her hips curved… She had grown up admiring her reflection, not out of vanity, but out of a kind of reassurance. Like… Yes, I exist. Yes, I am here. Yes, I’m okay. She hadn’t had a mother figure to tell her so but Pharell had taken up both mantles with flair anyway, becoming mother, father, critic, and therapist all in one. He reminded her, in words and in silence, that she mattered. That she was more than enough. That her softness wasn’t a flaw. That she could cry and still be strong. That in terms of looks, she is divine, but she is also more than just a pretty face…

 

So no, she didn’t doubt her beauty.

 

But… she did wonder.

 

Because when Snape had leaned in and then pulled away at the last moment … it did stung. Probably more than it should have. She hated how quickly the thought creeped in: If I’m pretty, why didn’t he want to kiss me?

 

It was utterly ridiculous. He was her professor. This was complicated. This was inappropriate. This was unwise on every level of morality. And still… the rejection lingered. It was vague, shapeless, but sharp in the way only insecurities could be. She had let herself believe, just for a moment, that he had wanted to kiss her. And then he hadn’t. She sighed, inspecting herself in the mirror again. Her body was still scattered with bruises. She bruised easily, always had. She deemed it normal since she was a kid. They just took longer to heal if she didn’t pay attention, and she was trying, thank you very much. She tilted her head and frowned.

 

What’s that?

 

She leaned closer to the mirror. There… just above her left breast, curling faintly along her upper chest—were delicate veins. Dark, thread-like. It was faintly discolored, trailing where no bruise should be… err, is that even a bruise? If it is, it’s not a normal one. She’d never had bruises there before. She’d remember. She stared at it for a few seconds, and then she poked it.

 

“Well, that’s weird.”

 

It didn’t hurt. But it didn’t look… right. Well, whatever it was, it’d probably fade before the end of Christmas break. She huffed, dismissing the anxiety. And then her eyes widened as another thought flitted in: Shelagh!

 

Where was that sweet woman now?

 

Darlina’s heart squeezed. She hoped the woman had found warmth in a shelter. A coat that didn’t itch. Maybe even a cinnamon bun. She deserved all of those things. And Darlina hoped she’d see her again. The thought made her ache. And because emotions tangled weirdly inside her sometimes, she absentmindedly fiddled with her chest. Her fingers pressed gently against her breast, experimentally. Her boob jiggled.

 

She stared at the mirror.

 

It jiggled again.

 

She giggled.

 

Finally, Darlina sank into the tub, the surface shimmering with rose petals she’d charmed there herself. The water was warm. The bathroom dim and quiet. She slid lower, until the tips of her ears were just above the surface, hair floating like seaweed around her.

 

She thought of him.

 

Professional friends, she thought grimly. Sure... That’s what this is, that’s what they are. A perfectly respectable academic alliance between a deeply intimidating professor and one of his soft-spoken students. Perfectly normal. Except… friends—professional or otherwise—didn’t usually want to kiss their friends.  Her heart thudded… not for herself, for him. Merlin, if someone found out, if anyone knew what had almost happened… Her chest tightened. The thought of Snape’s name being dragged through the mud—of people calling him things he wasn’t, accusing him of intentions he hadn’t had—made her stomach twist. Her fingers drifted to her lips. Just… because.

 

It felt warm.

 

“I should’ve known better,” she whispered to no one. But she had known better. That was the worst part. She hadn’t exactly blacked out or lost control. She had known exactly what she was doing. No, she’d felt it happening, she felt the pull, felt the breathless moment where time held its breath, and she hadn’t stopped it. She hadn’t wanted to. Her brows furrowed. It didn’t even happen, she told herself. Nothing happened. He didn’t kiss you. He leaned away. Darlina sank deeper into the bath, the water sloshing softly as her back met the porcelain. She tilted her head, let it rest against the smooth edge of the tub, and closed her eyes. The bath was warm but her thoughts were not.

 

She can’t grasp her head around the fact that she was sitting naked in his bathtub now, wondering whether she had accidentally liked someone who used to terrify her months ago.

 

No. Absolutely not.

 

She sat up straighter and scrubbed her arms with sudden, intense determination.

 

She did not have a crush on Snape.

 

The very idea was absurd. Blasphemous, even. He was her professor. A real adult man, with actual bills to pay and a collection of potions that could probably melt bone. He wasn’t some prince charming love interest from her romance novels! No. He was grumpy, sarcastic, and intimidating. And still… still, her traitorous, hormonal, ridiculous brain circled back to him. To the look in his eyes. To his good qualities. How incredibly intelligent, gentlemanly—oh, shush! She groaned and slapped both hands over her face, sinking deeper into the water until only her mouth and nose were above the surface. “This is bad,” she mumbled into her palms.

 

“Do I… have a crush on him?” The thought barely settled before she shrieked internally. She realized, on the back of her mind, she already knew the answer. But she refused to believe it. Never. The water in the tub sloshed loudly as she covered her face with both hands. “Brilliant,” she muttered, voice echoing in the steamy bathroom. “Absolutely bloody brilliant.”

 

Not only had she almost kissed her professor—which, on its own, was bad enough—but now she had to live with the mortifying knowledge that she still wanted to. That if given the chance, she'd probably try again. She groaned louder this time, sounding vaguely like a dying whale. Because she knew that he probably regretted even offering her his arms to cry in. That he’d only done it out of politeness, or some noble, emotionally stunted sense of obligation. And there she was, getting emotionally attached to the one man who probably already regretted breathing the same air as her.

 

He must be disgusted with me, she thought. Already brewing a mouth-cleansing draught from some ancient Slytherin recipe passed down for generations. A mouthwash strong enough to wipe away all traces of poor judgment and her. A girl with wild feelings and warm cheeks and a blasted crush—no, this is not a crush! Her mind yelped in futile defense. Honestly, it was a miracle he hadn’t said anything… she was actually thankful for that, grateful he hadn’t made it worse. And yet, even with that tiny mercy, her bottom lip jutted out into a pout she didn’t try to suppress.

 

He hates me now, she thought, glumly watching a lone bath bubble float to its death.

 

Her stomach dropped.

 

I guess he just didn’t want to kiss me as much as I wanted to kiss him. That thought came with a fresh wave of water, because she kicked the edge of the tub in frustration and sent petals floating into a sad little spiral.

 

Was I that bad?

 

“Merlin, I want to go back in time,” she said, tilting her head back dramatically, “to slap myself. Or at least… to not try and kiss him…”

 

Darlina, however, knew she was also lying to herself. The truth is that she want to go back in time and try to kiss him again, properly, with all the coordination she didn’t have the first time. Because it might as well just be her first and last opportunity with him, if she even have one to begin with. She wanted to bottle it and both cherish and erase it at the same time.

 

She sighed, fingers trailing through the water, lazily stirring the petals that bobbed. How was she supposed to act around him now? How was she meant to sit in Potions like she hadn’t very nearly melted into a puddle in his arms? As if her lips hadn’t actually nearly—

 

Nope. No. Not going to spiral about that again!

 

She pulled the plug, watching the water spiral down the drain, and decided she deserved a do-over. One bath simply wasn’t enough to cope with this particular emotional catastrophe. As the tub refilled, she stared blankly at the tiles and tried not to scream. And then she thought about Irmak. The stupid mistletoe and the crowd and her humiliation. If that moment—if that ‘almost’ with Snape—had happened before Irmak, maybe she wouldn’t have fallen apart so dramatically. Maybe she wouldn’t have felt so... robbed.

 

She shook her head.

 

“No,” she whispered, firm this time. “I am allowed to cry about that.”

 

Her first kiss had been stolen in front of almost everyone. It was not only forced, but it was also public and awful. A sigh broke out of her, deeper now. Her emotions were playing musical chairs, and every time she tried to sit with one, another popped up. Then came a new question, one that had been tugging at her the whole time in the back of her mind: Why wasn’t I sent to the infirmary?

 

That… was odd, wasn’t it?

 

Darlina felt even weirder in a way she couldn’t quite name. Her panic attack yesterday… it hadn’t been like the ones she used to have. It was worse and sharper. Her heart had clenched so tight it was almost as though some invisible hand had reached through her ribs and given it a squeeze just for the hell of it. What was that feeling?

 

“I’ll deal with it later,” she mumbled, brushing her damp hair back with her fingers. She blew a petal across the surface of the water and watched it drift. She was already drawing a mental image of what she would paint, something dramatic, with purples and reds… Warm water creeped up her bruised thighs, and Darlina took the time to stare blankly at the enchanted ceiling overhead.

 

She didn't know how to face him now. She bit her lip. Her guilt was confusing. It wasn't that she didn’t feel guilty for trying to kiss him… well, maybe she didn’t. Not as much as she should. She mostly felt guilty that he seemed… disappointed. Like she'd thrown a snowball at the wrong man. Or like she'd made him feel something he didn’t want to. However, if anyone asked her whether she’d do it again, she wouldn’t even pretend to hesitate. Yes. Absolutely, yes. And that was bad. Because clearly… the feeling was not mutual.

 

Silence settled around her.

 

The water was warm now, and her thoughts were floating. When she finally emerged from the bathroom wrapped in fresh clothes and lavender-scented body wash something felt… off. A shift she couldn’t quite name at first but then she saw it. The room had changed. Every window was now dressed in heavy curtains, drawn tightly shut, sealing out the black lake. Every lamp was lit, even the ones tucked behind the tall bookcases, and warm pools of light softened the corners of the room. The sconce by the hearth flickered gently, chasing away shadows with stubborn persistence. Her eyes swept over the space slowly, absorbing each quiet detail. The perfectly fluffed cushions. The slightly rearranged blanket. Snape wasn’t here physically but his presence curled around the room.  

 

She cannot have a crush on him.

 

And yet…

 

He makes it so hard.

 

With a sigh, Darlina plopped into the sofa. If she could, she’d fold herself into a drawer and hide until he came back and the whole situation sorted itself out. But she couldn’t. So instead, she would sit here and distract herself until the problem—in all his black-cloaked, sharp-tongued glory—returned to his den.

 

And then… well, she’d figure it out. Maybe.

🦢

Notes:

I LOVE whatever it is that’s wrong with Darlina. Girlypop is a mess and I could relate a hundred percent!

I hope you guys can picture the layout of Snape’s chambers. I actually sketched it out on paper, but it looks like a cursed floor plan from a parallel dimension and only makes sense to me. I’m trying to find an architectural app to replicate it, so bear with me… it might take a while! (or I might just give up and let y’all imagine it on your own hahahaha)

Side note: Every Snape fanfic I read always gives him these little chambers (which is okay, do whatever you want!) But like… he’s a literal wizard with access to magic, and he’s the only professor in dungeons (I believe…). Let him live lavishly! I'm so excited for all the funsies these two will eventually have in that space. Hehehe.

Anyway, I hope all of you are just as confused as Darlina. If so, perfect!!! That’s the vibe.

Chapter 30: The Sin of Darlina

           SHE WORE YET ANOTHER onesie.

 

Today’s choice is a bear. An unapologetically fluffy, ridiculously warm bear. The hood even had little round ears that wobbled when she moved. She made a mental note to thank Elven the next time she spotted him in the kitchen; he had an unnerving knack for picking exactly what she needed. Every inch of her was swaddled in soft fleece, an impenetrable barrier against the dungeon’s bone-deep chill. Winter had dropped the temperature to something that felt almost personal in its hostility, but the onesie fought back valiantly. And it hides her bruises perfectly, sparing her the worry of Snape noticing at all.

 

Darlina’s slippered feet padded soundlessly across the flagstone floor as she let herself wander. It still felt strange, being here—in his chambers, of all places—instead of the hospital wing. Stranger still that she wasn’t entirely sure why. It wasn’t as though she was going to complain about being in such private part of his life… but the unanswered ‘why’ sat somewhere in the back of her mind, humming.

 

Well... if she was here, it was because he’d chosen to let her be here. And for reasons she didn’t want to examine too closely, she trusted Snape. More than she probably should. So she shoved the questions into a mental drawer and locked it, deciding to enjoy her unexpected solitude.

 

The room was far larger than she’d expected for one man, and the longer she explored, the more it unfolded like a map of its owner’s mind. Here and there, his personality peeked through. Darlina let out a soft hum. Somewhere between the fireplace and the far wall lined with shelves, she caught herself smiling. She didn’t doubt for a second that he lived here.

 

Darlina took another slow lap around his chamber.

 

Eventually, even the novelty of poking through every shadowed corner of Snape’s chambers wore off. Darlina found herself plopped down on his carpet, chin propped on her knees, staring blankly at the withered plant perched on the table as if it might suddenly explain the meaning of life. It had been here all morning and she’d somehow failed to notice it until now. That alone said plenty about her current state of mind. Normally, she couldn’t so much as pass a potted flower without feeling an immediate and profound attachment. Now she was just… staring at this one absentmindedly. She sighed, reached over, and brushed her fingers across the petals scattered limply over the tabletop. Most of the poor thing was too wilted to identify, but after a squint and a mental rummage through her memory, she hazarded a guess: night-blooming cereus. A rare cactus that burst into flower only once, at night, for just a few hours before collapsing into oblivion.

 

“Oh,” she murmured to herself, the realization sinking in. “So that’s why you’re dead.”

 

Her stomach gave a low, traitorous growl, and she flopped backward onto the sofa behind her in defeat. That, right there, was the real reason she’d been pacing the place earlier: she’d set out to find Snape’s kitchen, full of noble intentions to cook herself lunch, and failed miserably. She burrowed deeper into the cushions with a dramatic huff. The sofa, she noted, was actually adorable, curved in a way that reminded her of a banana.

 

“I don’t really know what to feel,” she muttered at the dead plant. “Hunger is the best option, I guess.”

 

And no, she was not losing her mind. Talking to plants was scientifically proven to help them grow, something she did often enough herself. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she entertained the image of Snape doing the same. Standing here, speaking in that low, deliberate tone of his to this poor, doomed cactus. She could almost hear it: ‘You’re drooping pathetically. Try harder.’ She let out a sudden giggle at the thought.

 

This plant was clearly long gone, of course, but still—what if? It was magical, wasn’t it? Stranger things had happened in this castle. She leaned forward, folding her hands primly on the edge of the table. “Alright, soldier,” she whispered, “time for resuscitation.”

 

After a few valiant but ultimately disastrous minutes of attempting to resurrect the plant—now christened, without its consent, Russy—Darlina gave up on botany and moved on to monologue. Russy, being dead, was an excellent listener. With a flick of her wand, she summoned her painting supplies, arranging them neatly on the carpet like a tiny, makeshift studio. The canvas went on her lap, of course—no need to tempt fate by risking a splatter on Snape’s floor. Especially not with oil paints. She could only imagine his face if she left a smear on his rug, and it was terrifying…

 

Her brush moved in slow, meditative arcs, the bristles whispering over the canvas as golden pumpkins took shape in the bottom corner. Burnt sienna and deep forest green bloomed across her fingertips, smudges of proof that she’d managed to lose herself for a little while.

She had expected her mood—somewhere between restless and self-pitying—to drag her toward something bleak. A dead tree, or a stormy sky, or even Russy’s funeral portrait… but instead, tiny mushrooms shyly peeked through painted grass, their caps kissed with the faintest white she dabbed on with the tip of her brush.

 

She was perfectly content, brush gliding over the canvas as she murmured every thought to Russy—nonsense, really, but comforting all the same—when a sharp pop! split the air. She flinched, nearly smearing a bright orange pumpkin into a tragic, unidentifiable blob, but caught her wrist just in time. Heart still skipping, she looked up to see Elven standing by the table, a tray precariously balanced in his hands.

 

“Good afternoon, Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss—!”

 

Her grin bloomed instantly, wide enough to hurt her cheeks. She set the canvas gently aside, nudged her brushes out of harm’s way, and pushed herself up with the help of the banana-shaped sofa.

 

“Elven! Hi!”

 

In six quick steps, she was across the room, crouching so they were at eye level. The hug was instinctive and Elven received it, expecting nothing less. The tray was set safely on the table, but her attention was firmly on him, her smile unwavering. “Hello, Miss Darlina Lourdes!” Elven chirped, beaming up at her.

 

“Professor Snape has demanded that you eat immediately… if you find the food satisfactory, of course! Shall I bring more?” Darlina’s gaze drifted to the tray, and she felt heat crawl up her neck. So much for his stern insistence that his eating habits were none of her concern, when hers apparently kept making them his concern.

 

“Thank you, Elven. And… tell Professor Snape I said thank you as well, if you see him again.” She paused, then broke into a grin, doing a quick spin in her bear onesie. “Also—thanks for picking my onesies! I chose this bear. Is it cute?”

 

“There is no need to thank Elven, ma’am! And of course, of course, it is adorable! The only long ones I could find. Not much of a hassle, Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss!” She ruffled his head fondly. “Still, thank you…”

 

“Professor Snape has also asked me to show you his kitchen. Come, come!” He bounced on his toes, and she followed, laughing under her breath.

 

Apparently, his kitchen wasn’t some far-off, mysterious location hidden in the bowels of the dungeons because Elven led her all of ten steps away. They didn’t even leave the main room. It turned out the shelves beside the windows near the fireplace weren’t merely shelves at all. Which suddenly explained why Snape had vanished and reappeared earlier with such suspicious smoothness. Elven stopped, gesturing dramatically. “Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss—pull this. Professor Snape said to Elven that you must pull it.”

 

He pointed to a thick, dark volume wedged between others, its spine embossed with a skull. Of course it had a skull. Darlina arched a brow but complied, wrapping her fingers around the book’s spine. The shelves shuddered and slid aside with a low groan, revealing… “Oh,” she breathed, eyes widening in delight.

 

The passage beyond was narrow, its length bathed in the soft flicker of candlelight. Every surface looked as though it had been carved straight from the night—black cabinetry etched with intricate baroque swirls, crowned by crests that caught and glinted under the amber glow. An arched frame rose above the stove, beyond which copper pots hung in neat rows, each polished to a mirror’s gleam. The air was steeped in layered scents. Even the dark wooden planks beneath her feet were softened by a small, faded rug, worn but well-kept. It was, she decided, an oddly inviting kitchen for someone with a reputation built on intimidation.

 

The shelves slid closed with a deep, final thud as she and Elven stepped back into the lounge. She eyed the elf curiously. “You seem to be quite close with Professor Snape. I didn’t know that…”

 

“Oh! Well, I often help Professor Snape around, Miss Darlina Lourdes, Miss!” Elven puffed his little chest out, clearly pleased to be asked. “And he saved me from being mistreated before, Miss! I owe a debt to the professor that he did not want me to pay, but I will! By serving him with loyalty, Miss Lourdes, Miss!”

 

Darlina stilled. Saved him… from being mistreated? Her chest tightened at the thought, picturing a smaller, frightened version of Elven in some awful situation. She dropped into a crouch again, folding him into a warm hug. “Well, I’m sure Professor Snape appreciates your efforts thoroughly, Elven. You are a great elf.”

 

Elven’s ears turned pink as he returned the hug a bit awkwardly. She smiled wider, unable to help herself. “I’d love to talk more, but… you probably have a dozen things waiting on you. See you again next time?”

 

“That will do, Miss Darlina, Miss! Goodbye!”

 

A small hand waved. Then—pop!—he was gone, the chamber settling into its usual quiet. Darlina sat cross-legged on the carpet again, charming the tray toward herself. The plates skidded neatly into place, and she began eating in complete silence, well, silence except for the occasional hum she made after every other bite. She wasn’t even trying to be annoying; it just happened when food was good.

 

It still amazed her how house-elves could apparate inside Hogwarts without a fuss. The castle practically hissed at anyone else who tried. She’d always heard that no one could apparate within the grounds—not unless you were, say, Headmaster Dumbledore. But apparently the rules bent themselves in a polite curtsy for elves. Elves were great.

 

Clementine had mentioned they’d start learning apparition next month, and Darlina couldn’t wait. She’d only been shown the theory before—just enough to know it was possible, but not enough to actually do it. But this time she’d be properly taught. Of course, that would be next term, so she would just have to wait… like a well-behaved witch. Which she was. Mostly. When she pushed the tray back toward the table, it stubbornly refused to vanish. Darlina frowned at it for a solid three seconds before shrugging and carrying it into the kitchen. There, she washed the dishes by hand, because apparently her subconscious wanted to feel domestic in the Potions Master’s quarters, and, while doing so, took the entirely respectful liberty of casually exploring his cabinets.

 

Her grin widened with every shelf she opened. Oh, the potential in this place. Spices lined up like an army. Oils in dark glass bottles. Proper butter, not the sad waxy kind from the Great Hall. Even cream that had not yet been claimed! He really did have all the ingredients for something… indulgent. Which immediately led her to a mildly treacherous thought: maybe he had cooked her breakfast this morning because it hadn’t tasted like the Hogwarts kitchen’s usual fare…

 

She didn’t know how to act around him anymore, didn’t know if she was allowed to bother him, didn’t know if they were still friends or just stuck in that weird limbo where everything had to be filed under professionalism. But she did know one thing: she wanted to do something for him. And maybe, yes, a little bit for herself. So she decided that when the clock struck four, she would start cooking chicken alfredo. Just because. Well, fine… because she’d randomly craved it while painting earlier, and because he had all the perfect ingredients sitting here. That made perfect sense.

 

Beyond the grass, her brush swept broad strokes of ochre and russet, coaxing the autumn woods onto canvas. Trees set ablaze in their finest leaves, leaning toward the shadowy ranks of evergreen. Her wrist softened as she reached the sky, blending cool blues into thin washes of grey until the horizon surrendered to a faint, misty hint of mountains. Time slipped past unnoticed until her gaze flicked to the clock perched on the shelf above the kitchen’s discreet entrance. Four o’clock. Precisely the moment she’d promised herself she would stop painting and start cooking.

 

She left her materials strewn across the carpet—palette abandoned mid-smear—and skipped toward the kitchen with all the quiet determination of someone about to commit culinary trespass in a professor’s private quarters. Before she knew it, the chicken alfredo was done, rich and creamy in the pan. But she hadn’t stopped there. Cooking had its own strange gravity, pulling her deeper until there were also meatballs cooling on a plate and, because she couldn’t resist, a panna cotta chilling in the magical cooler. Good old Italian cuisine… it was the sort she’d learned from Aunt Nasya, Michael’s mother, who treated pasta sauce as blood oath. The panna cotta was left to ‘do its own thing’ while she plated the savoury dishes. She forked a bite from her own portion, moaning in delight around the taste because obviously, she was allowed to enjoy her own cooking. Grinning ear-to-ear, she carried herself out of the kitchen.

 

It was nearly seven.

 

She curled back into her chosen spot, the comfort she’d felt in the kitchen now chased away by nerves. Thrill prickled under her skin, but anxiety sat heavier. Facing him again… that was the hurdle. She hoped that he wouldn’t bring up last night. Their almost. Perhaps he’d already filed it away. He certainly didn’t look affected by it, not the way she was. Well. Either way, she’d just have to act normal. Like she used to. That shouldn’t be difficult, right? She’d already had her little wallow, she’d been given space to calm down, she’d done all the deep breaths and mental pep talks.

 

And she did not have a crush on him. That was the biggest factor. The most important fact. The bedrock of her composure. She was definitely not attracted to her professor.

 

Right.

 

She shoved the thoughts away with the force of someone swatting at an obnoxious mosquito. Out of sight, out of mind. She would panic when he was actually standing there in front of her. Not before. In the meantime, she hummed a little tune under her breath, pretending her pulse wasn’t doing its own dramatic overture.

 

That was how Darlina ended up sprawled on the thick carpet in his lounge, chest pillowed against a cushion she’d stolen from the sofa. Her feet kicked lazily in the air, her brush gliding over the canvas in slow, contented sweeps. Every so often she hummedwhile coaxing her imagined world into existence. The piece had started as something simple, but now she was trying to give it that hazy, dreamlike quality… like it could have hung in a Parisian gallery in the Impressionist era. She didn’t need to add half the details she was layering in, but experimenting was too much fun to stop. Her legs shifted back and forth in a slow rhythm as she tugged the bear hood over her head, the rounded ears flopping with each movement. Her hair disappeared beneath it, leaving only her face exposed—not that anyone else was here to see it.

 

Tongue poking out in concentration, she coaxed a little white cottage into the heart of her scene, its chimney curling a plume of smoke into the pale afternoon sky. Two patchwork quilts hung on a line to dry. In the foreground, a pair of geese waded through the grass, their heads tilted at conspiratorial angles.

 

Each brushstroke was a memory and a dream stitched together, the world before her becoming the one in her mind.

 

“You have the survival instinct of a moth at a bonfire, Miss Lourdes.”

 

The voice was a dark drawl at her shoulder.

 

Darlina yelped, the brush jerking in her hand. Her head whipped up, eyes going wide as they met black. “Sir—” she gasped, heart hammering. She hadn’t heard him come in—of course she hadn’t. Why was she even surprised? He never made noise when he walked.

 

He was looking down at her, and she had to crane her neck at an absurd angle just to meet his eyes. It felt ridiculous straining her neck and yet his gaze pinned her in place until the heat in her cheeks became unbearable. She looked away first. The hood of her bear onesie slipped loose from her head, falling back in a lazy flop, thanks to that earlier tilt of her neck. She set her brush aside because Merlin help her if she dripped anything on his carpet. Propping herself on her elbows, she pushed up into something resembling a sit.

 

He didn’t move.

 

Her fumbling felt louder in the stillness. She shifted onto her knees, hands moving busily to corral her scattered paints. A quick flick of her wand summoned a few tubes that had rolled halfway across the room, clinking softly as they landed near her. Tentatively, she glanced up—then immediately looked away again, clutching her canvas to her. “Err… sorry. I made such a mess.”

 

Something flickered in his expression. A subtle shift, there and gone too quickly for her to name.

 

His gaze lingered a moment too long on the curve of her flushed cheeks, the way her lips parted when she was nervous. Temptation, wrapped in fleece and paint stains. A sin in human form, if he were inclined to name it. “It’s not a problem,” he said, his voice neutral… no hint of what had just crossed his mind.

 

Still, his eyes wandered to the canvas she held against herself. If she’d meant to keep it from him, it was a hopeless attempt; the painting was facing him anyway. A smirk ghosted across his mouth at the sight of the two geese in the bottom right corner—ridiculous, serene... It was absurd. It was… her. Entirely her. His gaze climbed back to hers just as her hand tugged absently at the hood still hanging down her back. Fabric with little rounded ears. Hm. Interesting. Apparently, she did not simply like animals, she occasionally aspired to be one.

 

She’s hardly fearsome for a bear, he thought dryly. But she was—dangerously so—in other ways entirely.

 

She was still sat on her knees like the good girl she was. On her knees. For him. Snape’s mind recoiled from the thought as if it had teeth. Dangerous territory, completely inappropriate… and yet it flickered through anyway, unwanted but far too vivid. He schooled his expression, though his pulse betrayed him. Her doe-eyed stare followed him, wide and uncertain. There was something else there, too. Just the barest flicker of apprehension. Goodness bloody gracious. He nearly swore aloud. It hadn’t even been an hour in her presence and here he was, again, toeing the edge of losing his composure. He needed… a drink. Something stronger. Caffeine, whiskey—hell, both.

 

“Get up, Miss Lourdes,” he said abruptly. He turned away from her, retreating to the safety of motion, and retrieved a cigar from his pocket. The flick of his lighter was sharp, the flare of flame caught in the dim light. He drew in a slow inhale, letting the bitter smoke fill his lungs before releasing it into the air. The scent unfurled through the room. Behind him, Darlina’s nose wrinkled in obvious disgust. She coughed delicately as she gathered her materials and moved them onto the table, careful not to damage Russy further.

 

He stilled. The cough was small, but it might as well have been a shout in the silence. His jaw tightened, and he cursed himself in the privacy of his mind. Of course she wouldn’t like the smell. Of course he hadn’t thought—too wrapped up in tamping down other, far more dangerous impulses. Reckless. Idiotic. The cigar hit the floor with a dull thud. He crushed it under his boot, muttering a clipped “Evanesco” before turning fully back toward her. Now, he gave her his complete attention. Just the black, unblinking weight of his gaze.

 

She shifted under it, lowering her eyes. What if he really, really hates me now? The thought stung, but she shoved it down almost immediately. No sadness while he’s this close, she ordered herself sternly. I didn’t know he smoked… It was another strange, dangerous fact to add to her private catalogue of Snape. A shame he’d turned away so quickly. If he hadn’t… she might have seen it properly. She might have watched, it would have been… interesting. But the smell definitely is not.

 

She fiddled with a loose strand of hair, twisting it between her fingers. It was a small, nervous tic, one that made something dark and inconvenient coil low in his chest. Merlin’s beard, he wanted to still that hand. Why is she nervous? And more dangerously: what would it take to make her really nervous? He tamped down the thought. His brows drew together, and he opened his mouth to cut through the silence… but Darlina suddenly shot to her feet so quickly she nearly overbalanced. Snape moved without thinking. One long stride and he was there, his shadow falling over her as he steadied her arm. He didn’t recognize himself in the speed of it.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he said, his tone pure disapproval, though his hand lingered a beat longer than necessary before retreating.

 

“I’m fine! I just wanted to say—uh—thank you for the lunch,” she blurted, fluttering her hand in a vague little wave. She gave an awkward laugh, instantly regretting standing that fast. What was she thinking? Oh, right—he’d been about to speak. And if he was going to mention last night… well, best to head him off.

 

“Err—uhh… how was it, Professor?”

 

His brows drew in further. “Are you referring to the process of finding the culprit? If so, we have it under control.” It was the kind of answer that sounded like information but offered nothing at all.

 

“Oh.” That hadn’t been what she meant… she’d simply been asking about his day. But now she was curious. Her head tilted slightly, a glint of interest breaking through the shy softness in her eyes. “Did you find out… who it was?”

 

“You do not need to know who it was,” he grumbled.

 

Her brows shot up. For a moment she blinked, still caught in that timid haze… and then something warm and defiant uncoiled in her chest. Oh, absolutely not. “I beg your pardon?” The annoyance was small but sharp, prickling under her skin. She had the right to know who had put her in that position!

 

“I said,” his tone cooled further, “you do not need to know who it was.”

 

That should have been the end of it. Unfortunately for him, she’s not willing to surrender this time. “Isn’t that unfair?” she pressed, chin tipping upward. “I want to know. Was it just a prank again?”

 

“I am taking care of it, Miss Lourdes,” he replied, the words clipped with finality. “Do practice patience.”

 

Her brows drew together in a small frown, and before her mind could stop her mouth, she blurted, “I’ll know anyway. My friends will tell me.” The change was almost comical… moments ago, she’d been shy and pink-cheeked, too flustered to look at him for more than a second. Now, she was meeting his gaze head-on, chin tilted, that stubborn spark igniting in her eyes. His eyes narrowed. “Are you planning on befriending your tormentor once again?”

 

“Merlin, sir!” she whined, stomping her foot, the sound sharp against the floor. His brow furrowed deeper, eyes dragging down and up in a slow, assessing sweep. Something in his posture eased—just a fraction—as his gaze lingered. She looked for all the world like an indignant little bear, cheeks flushed, shoulders squared, trying to look dangerous and failing spectacularly. He turned away before she could see the corner of his mouth curve.

 

“You’re a brat,” he murmured, stepping toward the tall shelves. His long fingers closed around the spine of a book, and with a muted click, the entire unit shifted to reveal the entrance to his kitchen. She followed without thinking, her body moving before her mind caught up.  “I am not,” she said quickly, biting her lip.

 

Snape merely grumbled and looked back, “Have you eaten dinner?”

 

Oh.

 

Right.

 

“I was waiting for you, sir.” Her voice was quiet, but her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve. “I was hoping we could eat together because…” She gestured vaguely toward the kitchen. He stepped past the entrancce, and the moment he crossed the threshold, he saw plates of food arranged across the counter. She lingered at the doorway, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “Because of that. I… cooked it.”

 

His head turned slowly toward her. She looked up at him with eyes that were entirely too expectant for his peace of mind. He hadn’t planned to let her down. Not when he’d been intending to cook for them himself. She had, infuriatingly, beaten him to it. He gave a curt nod, flicking his wand so the plates floated after him. Darlina’s breath caught as he closed the distance between them, her brain stuttering under the collision of too many feelings at once. “Well,” he said, one brow lifting, “aren’t you going to sit? Or do you intend to dine while standing in the doorway?”

 

“Right!” Her blush flared hot across her cheeks. “Sorry, just… I was in cloud nine.” She pivoted sharply and nearly tripped over her own feet in her haste to claim the farthest corner of the banana-curved sofa. Not that “farthest” meant much. Every inch of that ridiculous sofa was still well within the gravitational pull of the lone wingback chair.

 

As predicted, he took his seat there.

 

Darlina shuffled her painting supplies to the carpet, making room on the low table. With a flick of her wand, her plate floated into her lap. But instead of eating, she simply… watched him.

 

Not subtly. Not even attempting subtly.

 

His dark eyes flicked up mid-bite, locking on hers as he chewed. Then… slowly and deliberately, his tongue swept across his lower lip to catch the taste. Her stomach flipped. It was absurd, but this simple, unguarded act of watching him eat in close distance felt intimate. She shook herself, trying to focus on the mission: his reaction. He nodded once in approval before spearing another bite. This time, one of her meatballs. Their gazes stayed locked, an unspoken exchange crackling in the small distance between them. She didn’t know why she’d expected him to shriek in delight at her food. Of course, he was maddeningly nonchalant.

 

“It is delicious, Miss Lourdes. Now eat yours. You’ve missed enough dinner yesterday already.” The lazy drawl wrapped itself around her. He gestured toward her untouched food with the smallest tilt of his head, as if the command were nothing more than a passing remark… but she knew better. They ate in a companionable-enough silence, though Darlina caught herself smiling at intervals for no particular reason. She dipped a meatball into its sauce, humming under her breath, and when her eyes wandered—without her permission—toward him, she found him watching her. Not unkindly, but with a look that made her cheeks warm as if she’d been caught doing something illicit. She dropped her gaze to her plate immediately. Merlin. At least he didn’t comment. Her father would have.

 

The quiet held until the final meatball became the unspoken point of contention. She reached for it at the exact moment he leaned forward. Their eyes flicked to the plate, then to each other. He inclined his head toward her. “Go on, it’s yours.”

 

“No. Take it.”

 

“Miss Lourdes—”

 

“Sir—” she echoed, matching his tone with mock gravity.

 

“Take it.”

 

“No, take it,” she insisted, pushing the plate ever so slightly in his direction.

 

“Miss…”

 

“Are you giving it to me because it’s awful?” she accused, narrowing her eyes.

 

His brow furrowed, a crease deepening between them. “Are you attempting to trick me into taking it? If so, it won’t work.”

 

She clicked her tongue. “You know what, I’ll just cut it in half.” Leaning forward, the hood of her ridiculous bear onesie slipped again, soft fabric brushing her cheek. Knife and fork in hand, she sliced the meatball with exaggerated precision, skewered one half, and held it out toward him. He arched a brow, lips parting—about to retort—but she snatched it back at the last moment, mortified at her own impulsiveness. She cleared her throat and pushed the plate toward him instead of trying to feed him. “There. Equal shares.”

 

He arched a brow. “Are you expecting me to—”

 

“Yes,” she said, and slid his half closer with the fork.

 

The corner of his mouth twitched. Rolling his eyes, he accepted the offering with a clipped motion. She shoved the entire embarrassing episode into the deepest recess of her mind and cleared her throat, pretending she hadn’t just tried to hand-feed her professor in a bear onesie. Now that she knew where his kitchen was, she fully intended to wash the dishes herself. It was, in her mind, the very least she could do. She waited patiently, watching him, anticipating the moment he’d set his plate down.

 

He did not.

 

Instead, Snape rose in one smooth motion and, without a word, collected all the plates. Including hers, which she’d just set idly on the table in preparation for—well, this. “I’ll wash that!” she protested, darting after him before the words had even finished leaving her lips.

 

“Says who?”

 

“Sir, you can be—” she caught up to him, breath slightly uneven, “—infuriating sometimes.” Her fingers curled around the edge of one plate, attempting to tug it from his grasp. He simply shifted his arm higher, out of reach. “I’ll do it,” he said flatly, as though that was the end of the conversation.

 

“Oh no, you won’t.” She sidestepped him, darting toward the shelves, and planted herself squarely in his path, blocking it. The smirk tugging at her lips was deliberate. “I’ll do it,” she repeated, and this time there was an unmistakable glint of challenge in her eyes.

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he said slowly, dark eyes narrowing, “don’t make a spectacle out of this.”

 

“But I want to do it,” she insisted.

 

He exhaled sharply, somewhere between a sigh and a suppressed chuckle, though she suspected he’d rather hex himself than admit to the latter. “Merlin… fine. Here are your chores, then. This girl…” His words dropped into a mutter. She seized the plates from his hands with triumphant glee, their fingers brushing. It was the sort of touch that lasted less than a second but somehow left a sentence hanging between them… one neither of them was brave enough to finish.

 

Both of them inhaled—too sharply, too obviously—and retreated in the same heartbeat.

 

Darlina pivoted toward the sink, keeping her face angled away, pretending to focus entirely on stacking plates. She had wanted to wash the dishes, but now, all she could think about was the press of almost-warm skin against hers, and how quickly it had vanished.

 

No.

Absolutely not.

Think about anything else, girl.

 

Right.

 

Darlina left the kitchen with the dignity of someone pretending she hadn’t just been internally spiraling. She slid back into her seat from earlier, cleared her throat in what she hoped was a casual manner, and opened her mouth to finally—finally—ask the question that had been nibbling at her patience since yesterday.

 

And then her eyes landed on Russy.

 

Her jaw dropped. “It’s alive again!” she shrieked.

 

Snape’s head tilted the barest fraction. “The plant?”

 

“Yes, yes—Russy!”

 

His brows drew together. “You named the plant?”

 

“Of course I did. Hello?” she shot back. The petals unfurled right before her eyes, and she could swear she heard a smug little ta-da in her head. She watched in rapture. Of course it would bloom in the evening!

 

“I neglected to reapply the enchantment last evening because…” His voice trailed into a discreet throat-clear. Her blush climbed fast and hot. She forced a grin to cover it and batted away the unhelpful images scrambling for space in her mind. “What enchantment? I literally tried to resurrect Russy earlier,” she said, pouting.

 

“You know what kind of plant it is, yes?” he said.

 

“Is that even a question, sir?”

 

One eyebrow arched in lazy, razor-sharp amusement. She huffed, leaned forward to run a finger along one silken petal, only to decide that wasn’t enough. Abandoning her sofa entirely, she sank to the carpet beside her abandoned painting supplies. “What enchantment was it?” she drawled. The bloom seemed pleased to have a closer audience, but she soon tired of just staring at it. Her chin found her palm, and her gaze, inevitably, found him. He met her eyes without flinching. “You wouldn’t like it.”

 

“I’ll decide that, professor.”

 

“It’s a dark spell.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He looked entirely too smug about her momentary pause, the corners of his mouth betraying the faintest twitch of an I told you so. She stuck her tongue out at him, then gave the cactus an exaggerated pat. “What’s the point of the enchantment?” she asked. “For it to be reborn like a phoenix?”

 

“Exactly. As you may know, this plant is not like any other. It blooms only at night and dies within hours. It is quite a rare ingredient, and so I keep one here where I can watch over it and cast the spell as needed to obtain new blooms.” She hummed in understanding, but the silence that followed wasn’t quite empty.

 

After a while of just petting Russy, she finally exhaled a sigh, tilting her head. “You really won’t tell me, sir?”

 

“You are referring,” he said dryly, “to the culprit this time, I suppose?”

 

She brightened. “Exactly.”

 

“Miss Lourdes,”

 

Her shoulders fell with a theatrical sigh, though a small part of her thrilled at the way his voice wrapped around her name like that. “Well, fine. Whatever.” The sharp flicker in his eyes had her instantly backpedaling. “I mean—err—it’s fine, sir.” Her voice pitched higher than intended. “Did my friends ask about me? Are they… worried?” It was a clumsy detour, but she grasped at it anyway, if only to escape the weight of that look. Then a thought struck her, widening her eyes. “Wait—must I leave via the train tomorrow?”

 

The very idea filled her with dread… but also an unhelpful pang of longing. She’d never gotten to take the train with Clementine, Michael, or Eve. The adventure of it was tempting. “You won’t be riding the train.”

 

Relief swept over her in warm, guilty waves. She wasn’t ready to face… well, anyone outside her very small, very carefully chosen circle. Still… it did sting a little to be robbed of that experience.

 

“But—”

 

“Do you wish to provide further entertainment for them, Miss Lourdes? Do you imagine they will be kind?” Her breath caught, and she felt her cheeks warm with the realisation that he’d read her far too accurately. Then, as if he noticed her expression, he cleared his throat and the edge in his voice dipped into something quieter.

 

“You will come with me,” he said. “I… will see to your comfort.”

 

“Come with you?” she echoed, uncertain whether she was scandalised or secretly thrilled.

 

“I will escort you back to your manor.”

 

“Oh.”

 

He made a low, satisfied sound in the back of his throat and reached for a book. The same one from that mortifying morning. She immediately banished the memory before it could fully form, her mind hurrying to safer ground. “Your friends were informed you were sent home and are currently resting,” he said after a pause.

 

Her head tilted. “They don’t know I’m still here?”

 

“Correct.”

 

“Why?”

 

“It was necessary.”

 

She didn’t understand. And, if she was honest, she didn’t have the energy to press him. Whatever… She sighed again, wishing he would take the hint and retire somewhere—anywhere—so she could finally sleep. But this was his chamber, his sanctuary. She’d already been the uninvited guest for far too long. Kicking him out of his own space because she wanted to sleep? That felt… wrong.

 

So she sat there instead, eyes drifting to the plant on the table by the fire, watching shadows lengthen along its leaves, letting the time trickle by. “You’ve never mentioned your talent with a brush,” Snape said out of nowhere.

 

She blinked up at him mid-yawn, a hand flying to cover her mouth. Merlin. When is he going to leave? Her body was already in the blissful descent toward sleep, yet here he was—in his own chamber, which made the absurdity of trying to politely usher him out… well, impossible. He was back to reading, dark eyes lowered over the page, posture intended to remain indefinitely. Which, knowing him, he probably did.

 

“Did I not?” she tilted her head, genuinely surprised before a soft gasp slipped out. “Right! That’s… weird. But it never really crossed my mind,” she said with a light shrug.

 

“Is that why you’re interested in Shiloh’s artworks?”

 

“Definitely…” She exhaled softly, fingertips brushing the corner of her half-finished piece on the carpet. The paint was still fresh enough that its scent lingered faintly in the air. She wasn’t anywhere near done but it was getting there. “And you remembered that?” she asked, glancing up at him. He was hidden behind his book yet again. He only hummed in reply, the sound almost imperceptible but rich enough to make her oddly aware of her pulse. Her eyelids grew heavier with each passing breath. When she cracked one eye open to peek again, he was still reading, posture unchanged. Clearly, the man could out-sit a mountain. Accepting her fate—because resisting it in any form was apparently a doomed effort—she pushed herself up from the carpet and wandered toward the sofa. Better here than… well, yesterday evening. That had involved falling asleep against him, which, while admittedly comfortable, was a dangerous precedent to set. She sank into the cushions, tugging the pillow against herself.

 

“How are—” Snape cut himself off mid-sentence, his words dying as his eyes caught the sight of Darlina, curled into the corner of his sofa, hugging yet another pillow, her back deliberately turned toward him. He cleared his throat, apparently deciding that his wellness check could wait. “What,” he said at last, voice cool and clipped, “are you doing, girl?”

 

She froze for a second before peeking over her shoulder, guilt faintly blooming on her face.
“I’m… about to sleep, sir. Goodnight…?”

 

“No.”

 

That single syllable had enough weight to make her blink in disbelief. She twisted to face him fully, fumbling to sit straighter, her neck aching from the awkward angle she’d been holding. “Get in my bed,” he said flatly, gesturing toward the open archway that led to his sleeping quarters. Her sleepy mind barely processed the words before the blush hit.

“No,” she managed, after recovering from the shock. “You sleep there. It’s your bed, as you said so yourself.”

 

“Miss Lourdes,” he drawled, an edge creeping into his tone, “for Merlin’s sake, just do as I say.”

 

“Sir—”

 

She never finished. The look he gave her was enough to close her throat. That stare—black, sharp, and threaded with something unreadable—pinned her in place. It wasn’t just authority; it was something heavier, something that curled low in her stomach and made her swallow hard. And yet… she moved. Fast enough for him, as it seemed. Her petty revenge was subtle as she dragged her feet across the floor just to test his patience. His eyes followed her all the way, heavy with things unsaid. Words buried deep in his chest that felt as if they might escape if he let himself slip, even for a moment.

 

Heat bloomed uncomfortably in her body. Not a crush. Definitely not. Absolutely not. She repeated the lie to herself as she passed him. “Prepare yourself tomorrow, Miss Lourdes,” he said. “We will be leaving after the rest does.”

 

“Mm…kay,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper, her breath hitching as she slipped through the archway then practically launched herself toward the sleeping quarter as though distance alone could steady her pulse.

 

Merlin help her.

 

She hesitated on the threshold, fingers curled around the cold handle tentatively. The room was dark but not so dark that she couldn’t see the shapes… his bed. Her eyes caught on the divan tucked neatly against the foot of it, and for a moment she considered curling up there, far enough away that she could pretend she wasn’t intruding. But the thought of trying to sleep while staring at the bed he slept in was somehow worse.

 

What did he do here, in this space so utterly his? She would never truly know. She only knew what his gaze did to her—how it made her feel marked and unsteady. Her feet carried her closer to the bed, the hush of her steps loud against the stillness. She reached out, fingertips brushing the coverlet before lowering herself onto the edge. She flinched, half-rising, then… after a private war between good sense and temptation, she let herself fall into the duvet, cocooned by its weight.

 

She shifted. Once. Twice. A dozen times, twisting into the fabric until it smelled faintly of something. His scent. She stilled, the sound of her breathing suddenly deafening. Something low in her belly coiled, warm and unfamiliar but not unwelcome. That ache again. She bit her lip, thinking of the little fragments of him she’d collected like dangerous treasures—his voice, low and deliberate. The clipped way he said her name.

 

Look at me when you talk.

Miss Lourdes.

Stop.

Stay.

 

She thought of the moment that almost was—the lips that nearly brushed hers, lips that couldn’t possibly be soft, and yet… She imagined him leaning forward instead of away, imagined those long fingers skimming higher, parting her thighs without asking, without hesitating.

 

Her breath caught.

 

The duvet was suddenly too warm. She shifted again under it, her thighs brushing, slow and deliberate, as though the motion might quiet the restless, traitorous thoughts clawing at her. It didn’t.

 

Oh, yes… Darlina was not nearly as innocent as people seemed to think… she’d never been the blushing ingénue they imagined. She had her experiences… if you could even call them that. Clumsy, secret, unsatisfying attempts born from instinct rather than knowledge.

 

Like the one she was doing right now.

 

She’d tried before, years ago, when she was fifteen and hopelessly enamoured with a fictional muggle character. It hadn’t been anything explicit she’d read but there’d been something about him that made her feel warm and restless in ways she didn’t understand. So, she’d followed that strange pull and… experimented. She’d followed the pull of that crush straight into fumbling attempts beneath her bedsheets, thinking pressure might bring relief. Three times. Or was it six? Well, nonetheless… every single time, she had ended up in the same state: flushed, restless, and profoundly unsatisfied. Eventually, she abandoned the habit. What was the point of chasing something that never came?

 

Until now.

 

It had been years since she’d wanted to try again, years since her body had burned enough to demand she do something about it. And now here she was… curled in his bed, the scent of him woven into the comforter, the sound of his low voice still echoing faintly in her ears, and she could feel the ache blooming low in her belly, molten and demanding.

 

She squeezed her thighs together in utter, maddening frustration. Oh, Merlin. The hitch in her breath was immediate, her pulse stuttering when the pressure sent a ripple of relief and something dangerously close to pleasure through her. Her lips parted, teeth catching the lower one to trap the soft, humiliating sound that wanted to slip out. The darkness swallowed the worst of her blush, but she could still feel the heat in her cheeks. Her fingers curled into the heavy fabric beneath her, the scent of it surrounding her, him surrounding her, and she squeezed again. She caught her breath, tried again, squeezing, shifting, rolling her hips ever so slightly.

 

A quiet, involuntary mewl broke from her throat before she could catch it.

 

Her breath quickened. She pressed her knees tighter, shifting her legs in slow, desperate movements to build that pressure in just the right place. Her legs moved of their own accord now, thighs pressing together, easing apart, pressing again, building pressure, building heat. Her pulse was quick and erratic, her mind treacherously full of images she shouldn’t be entertaining… Not here, not now, and certainly not when he was only a few feet away.

 

Frustrated—half from the lack of relief and half from the cruel injustice of being wrenched awake—Darlina shoved the duvet off her body. Her fingers, unbidden, crept toward the source of the ache, dragging over the soft fabric of her onesie. The friction only made it worse. The fact that the material barred her from what she wanted felt almost insulting. Her breath came uneven, shallow. She didn’t even decide to do it, her hand moved on its own. A faint, defiant tug at the zipper, and the teeth slid open, parting inch by inch until the metal pull clinked to a stop around her knees. She was left in nothing but her undergarments, sprawled on his bed, the crisp sheets smelling faintly of him. Chest rising and falling. Heart galloping.

 

It hit her, then… what she was doing. Where she was doing it.

 

The door wasn’t locked. This was his chamber. This was his bed.

 

Merlin, she was disgusting. Completely, unforgivably sick.

 

And yet… she didn’t stop.

 

The thought didn’t douse the fire; it fed it… reckless and hot. She slid her hand beneath the waistband, the air catching in her throat. She’d done this before, in those shadowed hours where shame was outweighed by curiosity. But it had never quite… worked. There was always something missing. She wasn’t skilled in these things—never had anyone to teach her—but she had imagination, and oh, what she could do with that.

 

Her fingertips drifted lower, brushing tentative paths over soft skin and heated cotton. She bit her lip hard, as if pressure there could smother the sound threatening to rise. It didn’t feel bad—not at all—there was even a spark, a heat blooming like something dangerous taking root. But it was still… incomplete.

 

She’d read about anatomy in the healer’s guides, Pharell had insisted it was necessary for ‘medical literacy’ and… she understood the diagrams. She knew technically what was what. But the emotional part… the aching part… the part that stirred to life only when his voice slipped into her thoughts… That was something no textbook had ever prepared her for.

 

She moved her fingers again, slower now, chasing something invisible. Her back arched against the sheets, a small, helpless gasp escaping before she bit down on it. One hand clutched the pillow, knuckles whitening, then she abandoned it to press against her mouth instead, a weak, instinctive attempt to muffle herself. Her gaze drifted to the door. It would be so easy to picture him there, dark and still, leaning against the frame with that infuriating, unreadable expression. Or worse… crossing the room without a word, dragging her back into the centre of the bed and replacing her hesitant touch with his own. The thought alone made her hips shift, her breath hitch. “Oh—” The sound slipped out anyway, high and trembling. She pressed harder, faster, her fingertips catching the edge of her clit again and again until she thought—

 

But no. It was nothing. The build dissolved, leaving her frustrated, her hand limp against her thigh.

 

She lay there, flushed and breathless, but unsatisfied.

 

Always unsatisfied.

 

And still… him.

Snape in her head, sharp-eyed and silent, standing far too close. Snape murmuring orders in that voice that seemed to find every nerve ending. Snape’s hand over hers, directing, controlling. Her cheeks burned, her stomach fluttering with something she refused to name. She curled in on herself, clutching the pillow, and exhaled slowly through her nose.

 

What is wrong with me?

🦢

Notes:

My classes have already started… ☹

So, this chapter is like a farewell…. I’m really sorry but juggling uni life and writing is not for the weak and—well—I am weak so… bear with me (I’ll be taking five majors and three minors + org responsibilities, all in all everything would most likely exhaust my whole being to the point that my brain won’t be able to come up with nice, fancy words /3)

BUT please know that I will keep on crawling back to this. I swear I won’t abandon it. Nothing hurts more than reading a fanfiction and finding out it would be left incomplete for the rest of your life. Like, what do you mean!? Naur!!!

Anyway, though I might not update for a while, I am always in tune with all your comments! I love all your comments and it motivates me for some reason so feel free to share your thoughts! It might even force my fried up brain to work and perhaps I could chime in and update on a random Tuesday… who knows!

See you again soon, my loves!!