Chapter Text
The sun caught in the water, scattering light across Lily’s hair. She looked like she belonged to the day itself bright, impatient, full of things she hadn’t said yet.
Severus lay with his head in her lap, one hand over his eyes. “You’re humming again,” he muttered.
“I like humming,” she said. “You sound like my mum when you complain.”
He cracked one eye open, smirking. “Do I?”
“Yes. All sighs and dramatics.”
“That’s rich coming from you,” he said, voice lazy with contentment. “I’ve seen you cry over burnt toast.”
“I was seven!” she protested, laughing.
“You’re still dramatic.”
Lily scooped up a handful of grass and dropped it on his face. He didn’t move just blew at it until it fluttered away. That made her laugh harder, so he grinned too, unable to help it.
“You’re supposed to defend your dignity, Sev.”
“Don’t have much of it left,” he said, closing his eyes again. “You keep stealing it.”
“I don’t steal things.”
“You just borrow them forever, then.”
Her laughter softened. She brushed a stray strand of hair off his forehead. “You’re smiling.”
He didn’t open his eyes. “Am I?”
“Yes,” she whispered, as if it were a secret.
For a while, there was only the wind in the branches and the low rush of the river. The kind of silence that felt like sunlight thin, warm, and fragile.
Lily finally broke it. “You think I’ll be any good at magic?”
“You’ll be brilliant,” he said without hesitation.
“How do you know?”
“Because you already make things happen just by existing.”
She blinked at him, caught off guard, then threw another fistful of grass at his face. “You’re awful.”
He spat out a blade, smirking. “You asked.”
She giggled, and he thought, fleetingly, that if happiness had a sound, it would be that.
“Promise me,” she said suddenly. “When we go to Hogwarts you won’t act all strange and serious. I’ll hex you if you do.”
He tilted his head toward her voice, eyes still closed, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “You’ll have to catch me first.”
“Oh, I will,” she said confidently. “I’m faster than you.”
“Never.”
She poked his shoulder. “Always.”
He finally opened his eyes, squinting against the light. Her grin was all freckles and sunshine. For a moment, everything ugly and loud in the world went quiet.
He didn’t know why it mattered so much that she was laughing but he thought maybe it was because, when she did, he could almost believe there was nothing wrong with him at all.
---
By the time he reached the end of Spinner’s End, the light had changed. The world outside was still the color of evening; inside, it shrank to a dull hum of dust and shadow. He crossed the threshold and felt his shoulders pull inward, the river wind sliding off him like it had never touched him at all.
His mother was at the table. The lamp flickered; her shadow moved across the wall like it was trying to leave. A pot simmered on the stove, thin broth stretching to fill the house with something that almost smelled like food.
She didn’t turn.
“Home already.”
He set down his bag, moved beside her, picked up a shirt from the pile waiting for repair. Torn cuffs, missing buttons. The thread was already threaded; he took it without a word.
They worked side by side. The sound of it filled the room the soft hiss of soup, the dry whisper of needle through fabric.
Her hands shook once. She pressed them flat to the table until they stilled. Then back to the mending.
Keep busy, Eileen. Keep busy.
The thought passed through her like breath.
Busy means quiet. Quiet means safe.
She missed a stitch. Pulled it too fast. The thread snapped.
Stupid hands. Clumsy. Useless.
Hush now. He’s watching.
She tried again, slower. The thread caught, pricked her finger. A bright drop welled, small and red.
He slid her a piece of cloth before she could move. Their eyes met for a moment.
She dabbed the blood away. “It’s nothing.”
He nodded, folding the finished shirt, stacking it neatly on the edge of the table.
The sound upstairs a creak, the heavy drag of footsteps made her shoulders lift. She watched the ceiling as if waiting for it to split open. When nothing followed, she exhaled, half-relief, half-disappointment.
The pot hissed softly. She stirred it again, though it didn’t need it.
“You should eat,” she said.
He filled a bowl. The spoon clinked against the rim, steady, rhythmic. She watched his hand move, thin wrist, careful fingers.
Too pale.
Too quiet.
You should have left. You should have gone.
Where?
Back. Home. To your people.
They’d take him.
They’d love him.
They’d take him.
Her gaze drifted to the clock. Behind it, the tip of a wand caught the light. Dust clung to the handle. She looked away.
“Does it still work?” he asked.
Her voice came out too soft. “It’s safer where it is.”
He didn’t answer. The soup cooled between them.
She reached for the next piece of fabric, needle poised. Her fingers trembled again, just once, then steadied.
The room settled into its usual quiet. The tick of the clock, the faint breath of steam from the pot, the scrape of chairs on the worn floor.
The broth caught at the bottom of the pot. She scraped it free, thin bubbles rising and bursting.
Severus set his empty bowl in the sink and ran water over it, the stream uneven and weak. The tap rattled each time he turned it.
“You should have more,” she said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You never are.”
He didn’t answer. She turned back to her sewing. The candle on the table flickered from the draught through the broken windowpane, casting thin shadows across the walls.
Upstairs came the heavy thud of boots. Tobias’s voice followed, rough and blurred by drink.
Eileen’s hands stilled above the fabric. Her eyes flickered, somewhere between fear and something duller, the edges of both worn smooth.
“Go on,” she said quietly. “To your room. Before he comes down.”
Severus didn’t move. The soup on the stove began to scorch again. He lowered the flame and waited for her to notice. She didn’t.
Her gaze had gone distant, needle still moving, driven more by habit than thought. Her lips parted once, as if she were speaking to someone who wasn’t there.
It was an old conversation, one she’d been having for years. The words slipped out in pieces.
“He’ll sleep soon,” she murmured. “He always sleeps after shouting.”
Her voice shook, then steadied. “It’s fine. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t mean any of it.”
Her fingers faltered; the thread looped and caught. She pulled it too fast and hissed when the needle pricked her skin.
“Mum.”
She looked up at him as though startled to see him still there. “What?”
“You’re bleeding again.”
She glanced down, rubbed her thumb across the small cut, and wiped it on her apron. “It’s nothing.”
He stayed a moment longer. Tobias muttered above them, the sound of a door banging against its frame. Eileen forced a small smile.
“I’ll finish this one and go to bed,” she said.
He nodded and turned toward the stairs. Each step creaked, soft but loud enough to make him wince.
His room was cold. The wallpaper peeled at the corners. He lay down on the thin mattress and listened through the walls. The clock ticked below, and somewhere his mother’s voice drifted up, too low to understand.
He closed his eyes and tried to imagine the sound of the river instead, Lily’s laughter somewhere far away, sunlight on the water.
It didn’t last long. The voices in the house were louder.
A door slammed.
Then nothing.
He pulled the blanket over his head and stayed very still.
---
The clock struck once and fell quiet again.
Eileen sat where she was, the needle still between her fingers, the fabric damp where her blood had smeared.
The candle had burned low. Its light wavered and bent against the walls. The air smelled of broth gone sour, but she barely noticed. Her eyes stayed fixed on the stitches she’d been making, though the thread had already run out.
She didn’t move to cut it. Just watched the empty needle pierce the fabric again and again.
It was easier to keep her hands busy. Easier than listening.
When the house was quiet too long, it filled itself. The pipes breathed, the floorboards whispered, the walls began to talk.
You could end this, one of them said. Soft, almost kind.
Another voice answered, tired and sharp. And then what. What would you do with the boy.
She pressed her fingers to her temples. They felt too hot. Her pulse beat under her skin like something trapped.
He’d be fine. He’d be better without you.
He’s only a child.
He’s not a child anymore. He’s strange. There’s something wrong with him.
Her breath hitched. The needle clattered onto the table.
The voices didn’t belong to anyone but her, yet they felt like company. They kept her from remembering things she couldn’t stand to remember.
She reached for the pot on the stove, poured what was left of the soup into the sink. It steamed faintly, then vanished down the drain.
The wand behind the clock caught her eye. Dust along the handle, the faint gleam of old wood.
She stared at it for a long time.
It would be so easy. One flick, and the noise upstairs would stop. The shouting, the breaking, the waiting. The boy could sleep without flinching.
Her hand hovered halfway to the clock.
Then another thought came, cold and small. They’d take him away. They’d see what he is. He’d never need you again.
Her fingers fell to her lap. She rubbed at a spot on her wrist until the skin reddened.
The room was quiet again. The kind of quiet that hummed in her ears.
She looked at the knife beside the breadboard. Turned it once, the metal catching the weak light.
It didn’t look sharp enough.
She let it go.
The chair creaked when she leaned back. Her head tipped toward the ceiling, eyes half-closed. A sound escaped her not quite a sigh, not quite a sob.
The clock ticked. The candle guttered.
Eileen closed her eyes and let her hands fall open on the table, palms up, as if waiting for someone to take them.
No one did.
The silence stretched until it felt like a second heartbeat.
When she opened her eyes again, the candle had nearly burned out. Her gaze drifted to the cupboard across the kitchen, where rows of jars waited, coated in a thin film of dust.
Potion bottles.
She rose slowly, the chair scraping against the floor. The cupboard door groaned as she opened it. Inside, the faint scent of dried herbs and something metallic stirred the air. Her hands shook as she reached for the ingredients.
The movements came back like muscle memory. Crush the root. Measure the powder. Stir until it clouds.
She hadn’t brewed anything in months, not since Tobias began counting the bottles. But this one mattered. This one was for him.
When the mixture began to thicken, she wiped her palms on her apron and went upstairs.
“Severus.”
He blinked awake, confused by the light. “What time is it?”
“Get up. You need to learn.”
He pushed himself up, hair falling over his eyes. “Now?”
“Now.”
She led him downstairs. The kitchen smelled of herbs and something metallic. The air was thick with it.
“Watch,” she said. “You’ll have to make this at school. You can’t let anyone see. You understand that, don’t you?”
He nodded, rubbing his eyes.
She placed a small knife in his hand, guided his fingers over the ingredients. “Thin slices, not crushed. Powder last, stir counter-clockwise.”
He worked slowly, sleepy but careful. She watched the lines of his face tighten in concentration, his hands steady in the flickering light. He had her hands narrow, precise. It made something ache inside her.
The potion darkened, a low simmer. She leaned closer. “Good. You’ll take it every week. Don’t wait until you feel wrong. You remember how it feels when you forget.”
He nodded again, quieter.
The mixture hissed once, releasing a brief spark of silver before it settled into stillness.
He glanced up. “It’s done.”
She poured it into a vial and held it to the candlelight. The surface shimmered faintly, the colour of fog.
He reached for it, but she didn’t let go right away. Her thumb brushed the glass, eyes fixed on the thin reflection of them both in its curve.
“You’ll be fine there,” she said softly. “Better than here.”
He frowned. “You could come.”
Her hand tightened on the vial. “No.”
“You’d like it—”
“I said no.” The words came too fast, then faltered. “I have work. The house. Your father.”
He looked down at the table, shoulders drawn in.
Eileen swallowed. The thought flickered again, sharp as the smell of aconite. She could take him tomorrow. Apparate to her parents’ doorstep. They would open the door. They would see the truth in him, the rare gift she’d hidden, the life he could have. They would take him in. They would keep him.
She saw herself left standing outside that door, her name never spoken again.
Her chest tightened.
She pressed the vial into his hand. “Keep it safe.”
He nodded, still not meeting her eyes.
She turned back to the stove, the candlelight catching the hollows of her face. “Go to bed, Sev.”
He hesitated, then went.
When he was gone, she poured the last of the mixture into a jar and set it beside the others. The colour gleamed softly in the dark. She touched the glass with her fingertip, the warmth fading fast.
Her hands smelled faintly of herbs and ash. It was the only part of her that still felt like hers.