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Chapter Text

The manor was older than it looked. The kind of estate that wore its elegance like a pressed suit. Immaculate, severe, and never quite comfortable. Thornhedge Hall stood on the edge of Wiltshire's greenest valley. Its long bones built from imported stone and the fortunes of five generations of Cromwells.

The spring air smelled like cut lilacs and rain, but the windows of the drawing room were latched shut.

Inside, the engagement party unfolded like a well-rehearsed ritual: polite laughter, the glimmer of goblets, and the orchestral buzz of old families pretending they still mattered.

Women in silk gowns moved like wraiths among candelabras and floating hors d'oeuvres, while their husbands muttered about Ministry reforms near the fireplace. Wizards of a certain age carried themselves with the haughty boredom of men who had survived the war but not the consequence that followed it.

At the center of it all stood Shalee Cromwell.

She was dressed in blue-grey, her gown tailored to fit like a promise—modest neckline, corseted waist, and sleeves of silver-threaded chiffon that whispered when she moved. Her dark hair was twisted up, pinned with her grandmother's opal combs, but the elegance only sharpened the dissonance in her face.

She looked like a portrait of herself. 

Her fiancé, Thaddeus Greymarch, was across the room arguing with his cousin over port. His laugh was like a brass bell: too loud, echoing off the vaulted ceiling with all the grace of a flying cauldron.

He was pleasant to look at in a catalogue sort of way. Tall, blond, broad-shouldered, with a jaw built to wear heirloom rings—but every word out of his mouth sounded like something he'd rehearsed in the mirror. Shalee had met flobberworms with a more interesting personality.

Shalee's mother, Isadora, was deep in conversation with the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Her father, Cedric Cromwell, had stepped aside near the east wall with a few other old Slytherins, a scotch in hand and a look of slight anticipation on his otherwise unreadable face.

He was waiting.

The invitation had been extended discreetly, at first as a courtesy. Severus Snape had saved his life during the final weeks of the war, though neither man ever spoke of the details. Cedric had repaid the debt in silence, supporting Snape's exoneration at the Wizengamot, even when it was not politically advantageous to do so.

In the years since, they'd seen one another only at funerals and behind closed doors of shared circles.

But today, Cedric had asked for his presence. Not just invited, but requested it.

"Old friend," he had said. "She was your student, after all. You were her head of house"

Shalee had not seen Professor Snape in nearly seven years.

The last memory she held of him was brief and strange. She had walked past his office the week of graduation, the door ajar, and glimpsed him standing before a stack of untouched exam parchments, looking out the window with a face like sour milk. He hadn't noticed her. Or perhaps he had and simply hadn't cared.

She had never expected to see him again.

He had vanished from public life after the war, and rumors around him were as tightly coiled as ever. That he taught abroad, that he brewed for the Department of Mysteries, that he lived alone in the north with no company but ghosts.

Shalee moved through the room like someone only half tethered to her own life.

Smiling when spoken to. Laughing, politely.

Her gloves itched at her wrists. Her glass remained full.

When Thaddeus rejoined her and placed a hand on the small of her back, she barely noticed.

"Sweetheart," her father's voice broke into her haze.

She turned.

"An old friend has arrived," Cedric said, smiling faintly. "Come. You ought to greet him. Be polite"

She blinked. "Who?"

But her father was already leading her away, walking toward the entrance hall.
The foyer was dimmer, cooler—its tall ceiling echoing with the sound of a single set of footsteps on the polished stone.

A servant collected cloaks from new arrivals near the stairs, and the door was still closing behind the latest guest.

He stood near the threshold, clad in black.

Severus Snape.

He had not changed as much as she expected—but then again, he had changed in ways she could not have predicted.

His hair, still long– fell in shadows around his face like silk poured over bone.

But his skin had lost the sickly pallor she remembered, now bearing a fairly, healthy looking alabaster hue.

The lines carved deeply around his mouth and brow gave his face a kind of sculptural gravity.

His frame, always tall, always narrow. It had settled into itself with quiet authority.

He turned his head, slowly.

And when his eyes found hers, Shalee felt the floor shift beneath her.

There was nothing soft in that gaze.

He inclined his head.

"Miss Cromwell," he said, voice low, unhurried. "It's been some time."

Shalee's breath caught—not visibly, not in any way someone else would notice, but she felt it.

Just beneath her ribs, in the narrow place where dread and wonder met.

Severus Snape was standing in her father's foyer.

And he was looking at her as though he had already seen everything worth seeing.

"Professor," she replied after a beat, the word awkward on her tongue.

She didn't know what else to call him.

That faint, sardonic mouth twisted.

"I don't teach anymore."

Cedric chuckled under his breath, patting Shalee's arm as if that settled it.

"Well, you two can catch up," he said absentmindedly, then looked to Snape.

"Drinks are in the main room, though I imagine you'll want a moment. She's changed quite a bit since Hogwarts."

Shalee resisted the urge to look at her father in disbelief.

He had said it like he was showing off a prized horse.

Snape made a low sound, neither agreement nor dismissal.

Cedric, ever the diplomat, offered a parting nod and vanished back into the sounds of clinking crystal and chamber music, leaving them alone in the dim hall.

Shalee turned her eyes back to the man in black before her.

He stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
The light from the chandelier struck faint glints in his hair, but his expression remained unreadable.

Cool.

Alert.

She cleared her throat softly. "I didn't know you were coming."

"Neither did most of your guests, I suspect."

The corner of her mouth twitched. "You're not what I expected."

His brow lifted, the faintest upward tilt. "No?"

"I thought you were... retired."

She paused.

"Dead, possibly."

His eyes didn't waver.

"You wouldn't be the first."

A long silence.

She looked away first.

The heels of her shoes clicked softly as she stepped further into the foyer, putting distance between herself and the heavy stillness he carried like a second cloak.

"Why did you come?" she asked, not turning around.

Snape didn't move, but she could feel his presence behind her, like pressure in the air before a storm.

"Your father and I had... unfinished business," he said.

The way he said it made her wonder.

She turned slowly.

Her gown shifted around her ankles like mist.

"And what about me?" she asked. "Do I factor into whatever this is?"

A beat.

He looked at her then—not the way a professor looks at a former student, not the way a guest looks at a hostess.

But the way a chess master watches the middle of a game unfold.

"You'll find out," he said.

Shalee's skin prickled.

He moved forward, not to invade her space, but to pass her.

His footsteps were nearly silent on the stone.

When he paused at her side, he spoke without facing her.

"I'd recommend you take a walk before returning to your guests. The gardens are nearly empty. The party will wait."

Her head tilted slightly.

"You're recommending it as... what? An old teacher? An acquaintance of my father?"

He turned just enough for her to see the sharp line of his jaw.

"As someone who knows what it looks like when a girl is dressed for a celebration she doesn't want."

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Moving down the corridor like a shadow.

Shalee stood very still.

For the first time that evening, her heart beat for something other than ceremony.

Not faster.

Just... heavier.

Like her ribs weren't sure how to hold it.

She didn't look for her fiancé.

She didn't tell anyone where she was going.

She simply turned and followed the corridor toward the west wing—toward the French doors that led out into the gardens.

Chapter Text

The corridor curved in that old English way. Unnecessarily, deliberately.

The kind of architecture built not for efficiency but for effect.

Severus walked with his hands still clasped behind his back, black robes trailing like spilled ink behind him.

He hated houses like this.

He hated the portraits that watched without blinking, the imported marble floors polished to the point of uselessness, the chandeliers that sparkled with the kind of ancestral money that could pardon nearly anything.

It reminded him too much of the Malfoys.

Too much of certain nights he could still remember in crisp, brutal clarity.

But he tolerated it.

Because Cedric Cromwell had asked.

And because the girl in the blue-grey dress had become the woman he had longed for.

He passed a massive oil painting. Shalee, barely twenty, posed in a silver gown against a backdrop of painted laurels.

Her eyes were softer in it. Less certain.

He did not look for long.

He found the side entrance easily.

Past the conservatory.

Through the tall iron doors half-hidden behind the solarium.

He hadn't needed directions—he remembered the layout from long ago.

This had been one of the first homes he visited after the war, when he was still rebuilding his name, quietly, methodically, with very few allies.

Cedric had not been kind. But he had been honest.

And Severus valued honesty like oxygen.

He stepped into the night.

The gardens stretched far and formal, sculpted into hedgerows and flowerbeds, white benches tucked beneath rose-covered trellises, faerie lights drifting low and flickering amber against the deepening blue.

The sun had slipped just beneath the hills, leaving behind a bruised-purple sky and the faintest thread of mist curling in from the south lawn.

The air was clean.

Cool.

He let out a slow breath and rolled his shoulders back.

Gods, he hadn't expected to feel that much when he saw her.

But it made sense.

She wasn't a girl anymore.

Not the child who'd sat beside his godson in Defense, whispering behind her hand when she thought he wasn't looking.

Not the fifth-year who had started to draw his attention more than was comfortable.

By seventh year, it had become a problem.

Not because she'd done anything. She hadn't.

But because he had.

He'd started dismissing her too quickly in class. Avoiding her gaze. Pretending he didn't notice how neat her handwriting was. How still she went when she was thinking.

How she always seemed to be on the edge of saying something she never quite allowed herself to say.

He remembered the way she lingered by the door after handing in her final exam.

She hadn't spoken. Neither had he.

But she'd looked at him.

And he had pretended not to notice.

Because he'd already noticed too much.

And now—

She was twenty-four. Betrothed. Dressed like a prize. Paraded through a party she clearly wanted no part of.

He had told himself it would be nothing. That he'd nod politely and leave before dessert.

But the moment he saw her, he felt the same pressure in his chest he'd felt seven years ago—only heavier. Sharper.

Because now there was no classroom. No desk. No institution separating them.

And she was no longer a child.

There had always been a tension in her hands when she spoke, a stillness that didn't belong to girls her age.

Most men wouldn't have seen it.

They'd have looked at her soft mouth, her delicate frame, and called her docile. Lovely.

Fools.

He'd seen the calculation behind her eyes.

The way she scanned a room like it might turn on her.

The restraint she wore like silk gloves.

She had learned early that silence was safer.

He recognized it.

Because it was the same way he had learned to survive.

He reached a low stone wall near the back of the garden and rested a hand on it, fingers curling loosely over the cool edge.

He didn't sit.

Didn't relax.

Just stared out across the grounds, toward the twisting hedge maze and the flickering torches set around the perimeter.

He could still leave.

He should.

There was nothing for him here but trouble.

A girl promised to a man with power.

A father who still held sway in certain corners of the Wizengamot.

A world of champagne politics and bloodline arrogance he had spent most of his life despising.

But—

The sound of her voice lingered.

Do I factor into whatever this is?

He had answered too honestly. Even when she didn't know it.

His hand tightened slightly against the stone.

He did not want her.

Not the way fools wanted things. Not with the heat of drunken affection or the blunted impulse of men too stupid to fear consequences.

No.

Severus had never loved like that. He didn't know if he ever would.

What he felt was darker. Older. A low, quiet pull toward what was his.

Not by right.

Not by invitation.

But by recognition.

There had always been something about her that didn't fit.

Even now, she didn't move like someone who belonged in satin and jewels.

And Severus—he had always taken things like that.

Things that didn't fit.

And made them his.

He had offered her the garden not to be kind.

He'd offered it to see what she would do with it.

Footsteps.

Soft ones.

Measured.

He did not turn.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stepping into the gardens was like walking into a pool of cold, clear water—bracing and startling, but immediately better than the stifling warmth of the manor.

She lingered at the top of the stone steps, inhaling deeply, savoring the rich scent of damp earth and roses.

For just a heartbeat, she allowed herself to close her eyes, leaning briefly against the cold iron railing, letting the night air chase away the perfume and politeness that had clung to her inside.

It was a moment before she noticed him.

A shadowed figure near the edge of the garden, tall, still, his robes draped darkly against the faint, lingering twilight.

Severus Snape had not turned.

He didn't look startled or curious or even mildly impatient.

He merely stood, his back straight and proud, as though he'd already mapped her exact footsteps from the manor to the garden wall.

She took another slow breath, steadied herself, and descended the steps onto the gravel path.

The faint crunch of her shoes against the gravel filled the heavy silence, and she moved slowly, deliberately, giving herself time to decide what she was going to say—or if she would say anything at all.

She could simply turn around and return to the party, to her fiancé and her parents and their endless parade of fake politeness.

But the pull toward Snape was quiet and relentless, a silent gravity she had felt from the moment their eyes met in the foyer.

When she finally stopped beside him, there was just enough distance between them for propriety.

She placed one gloved hand delicately against the stone wall, mirroring his own posture.

Shalee didn't speak.

She just looked out into the darkness where torchlight shimmered softly in the mist.

It was her who broke the silence.

"You knew I'd follow you."

He let out a slow breath, faintly amused.

"No. I hoped you would. Hope and expectation are rarely the same thing."

She glanced up at him.

In the soft, lingering twilight, his face was carved sharply in shadow, and the subtle creases around his eyes deepened as he studied her.

He was older, yes, and perhaps the faint traces of grey at his temples betrayed the years.

But beneath it, he was striking—elegant in the ruthless way of storms or deep waters.

Something dangerous hidden behind composure.

"I'm surprised you care," she said softly, tracing patterns in the stone beneath her fingers. "I wasn't sure you'd even remember me."

Snape turned slightly, facing her fully.

"Do you truly believe that?"

Shalee's heart skipped again.

"Shouldn't I? Seven years is a long time."

"Seven years is nothing," he replied, quiet and certain. "But it is long enough for you to find yourself on the verge of marrying someone you do not love."

She stiffened, glancing sharply up at him.

"That's hardly your concern."

"No," he agreed, unmoving. "But it seems to be yours."

She pressed her lips tightly together, staring out across the gardens again.

A distant peacock called mournfully from the hedges, and a chill settled beneath the silk of her gown, making her shiver slightly.

She folded her arms protectively across her chest, her voice lowering until it was almost a whisper.

"What did my father tell you?"

"Nothing he needed to. Your father is a cautious man," Snape said, voice dry, precise.

"But cautious men often betray more in what they don't say."

She shook her head slightly, bitter amusement tugging at her lips.

"You sound exactly the same, professor."

"And how is that?"

"Like you know something everyone else doesn't," she said softly, meeting his gaze.

"And like whatever it is, it amuses you more than it should."

A slow, rare smile flickered across his face—barely there, quickly gone.

"Perhaps."

There was a silence then.

Fragile and full of things unsaid.

When she spoke again, her voice trembled slightly, betraying the fear she worked hard to keep hidden.

"I don't want to marry him," she whispered.

The words escaped before she could cage them, but once said, she couldn't take them back.

Snape turned toward her, his expression sharpening slightly.

Not surprised, but carefully guarded.

"Then why are you?"

She looked down, swallowing.

"Because it's expected. Because my family wishes it. Because..."

Her voice faltered, then steadied again.

"Because there isn't another choice."

He was silent a moment longer.

Then, very slowly, very carefully, he leaned closer—not enough to break the fragile boundary of propriety, but close enough that his voice was a murmur between them, nearly conspiratorial.

"There is always another choice, Miss Cromwell. Though few are willing to pay the price."

Shalee raised her eyes sharply to meet his again.

"What do you mean?"

Severus's gaze darkened, the calm veneer slipping just enough for her to glimpse the intensity beneath.

"Precisely what I said."

"And what's your price, Professor Snape?"

"My price, Miss Cromwell, depends entirely on how much you want your freedom."

The question lay heavy between them, daring her to respond.

She stared at him, at the proud, unyielding face before her, at the man she'd remembered as distant and unapproachable—now suddenly, impossibly close.

"Everything," she whispered finally. "I would give everything."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus inclined his head slightly, eyes glittering in the darkness.

The moon was rising now, casting her in silver.

And though her words had been soft. Almost too soft. They rang in his ears like a spell cast just for him.

I would give everything.

The moment she said it, something shifted.

In him. In the air.

In the delicate strands of restraint he had spent the last twenty minutes gripping like reins around his own throat.

Of course she didn't know what she meant.

Of course she had no idea what offering herself to him truly implied.

But she had offered.

Without conditions.

Without terms.

He could feel his pulse in his fingertips.

Severus allowed the silence to stretch—watched her in profile as her brows knit slightly, like she was realizing, even now, that she'd said too much.

Or maybe not enough.

Her gown caught the breeze and clung lightly to her hips, her throat bare beneath the heavy cluster of heirloom pearls that had once belonged to her mother's grandmother.

He could taste her fear in the air.

Not fear of him.

No—something more dangerous.

Hope.

"How fortunate," he murmured at last, his voice smooth as ink in water, "that I am in a position to accept such an offer."

She turned toward him sharply, eyes wide—not frightened, just uncertain.

Curious.

Too curious.

"You... you're offering to help me?"

"I said there's always another choice."

His eyes met hers, steady and black.

"And I am prepared to give you one."

Her breath hitched.

She searched his face for something—motive, maybe. Mercy.

But Severus had long since perfected the art of letting others find what they needed in his expression.

The truth was only dangerous when it was spoken aloud.

"What are you offering?" she asked quietly.

He smiled then.

The faintest curve of his mouth.

Controlled.

Intimate.

Dangerous.

"You already accepted," he said, voice low.

Shalee stared at him, her pulse fluttering fast beneath her skin.

Her lips parted. "I... I didn't mean—"

"But you did."

His tone didn't sharpen.

If anything, it softened.

"And that is what matters."

He took a step closer.

It wasn't overt.

It wasn't threatening.

It was measured, almost courtly.

But it brought him into the faint scent of her skin.

Vanilla, brown sugar.

Something caramel beneath it.

And something else entirely, unspoiled, untouched.

The aching tension of a woman trapped in a cage.

"You want freedom," he said, not a question.

"You want to escape your gilded future, your rehearsed affections, your dull, obliging husband-to-be."

Shalee hesitated.

Then nodded, just once.

His voice dropped.

"And you're willing to pay for it."

"Yes."

He studied her, gaze trailing deliberately—lingering at her mouth, then her collarbone, then lower.

Not long enough to be scandalous.

Just long enough that she'd feel it.

"Then it's done."

"What is?"

"The arrangement."

She blinked.

"But—what do I owe you? I mean, I don't even know what I'm agreeing to."

"You said everything," he reminded her.

"I accepted."

A pause.

His eyes glittered.

"I would advise you not to make offers so recklessly, Miss Cromwell. Not unless you are prepared to see them honored."

Shalee's throat bobbed.

She didn't speak.

She didn't need to.

Severus stepped past her, deliberately slow, letting his voice trail close to her ear as he did.

"I'll send for you within the week."

She turned as he walked away, heart pounding, mouth dry.

"Wait—what do you mean?"

He glanced back once.

"You're not marrying him."

And with that, he vanished into the darkness between the hedgerows, like smoke.

Chapter Text

It came by owl.

No Ministry seal. No family crest.

Just thick black parchment folded crisply and tied with a green silk ribbon.

It had no return address.

Only her name, written in precise script that hadn't changed since Hogwarts.

Miss Cromwell

She stared at it for ten minutes before opening it.

Her maid had already left the tray of tea and honeyed toast beside her writing desk, and the morning sun was bleeding through the tall windows of her private rooms, catching on the gilded picture frames, the porcelain vases, the delicate floral bedspread her mother insisted was "cheerful."

Shalee sat still in her dressing gown, cat curled on the windowsill beside her, staring at the letter like it might vanish if she blinked too hard.

The message was short.

You accepted. I'm collecting.
Bring what you cannot bear to lose.
Do not speak of this to anyone.
– S.S

That was it.

Her fingers trembled slightly.

She read it again.

Then again.

It wasn't a request.

It wasn't even a warning.

It was a summons.

Quiet. Final.

Like the toll of a bell you don't hear until it's already fading.

She didn't know what to make of it.

It had been four days since the party. Four days since she last saw him.

She hadn't spoken to her father about their conversation in the garden.

Hadn't dared.

She'd returned to the party, pasted on her smile, let Thaddeus spin her around the floor for the engagement waltz while her heart beat out of time against her ribs.

She'd had dreams every night since then.

Not about Snape. At least not exactly.

But about eyes in the dark.

Her cat, Fiona, stirred on the windowsill and gave a long, luxurious stretch, blinking those pale green eyes at her with quiet suspicion.

She'd had Fiona since she was fifteen.

A rescue. Fierce, moody, deeply loyal.

Shalee reached out and scratched behind her ears.

"I suppose we're going somewhere," she murmured. "I just wish I knew where."

The hourglass on her desk turned itself over.

She had three hours.

Shalee rose from her seat and moved to her wardrobe, heart pounding.

It felt ridiculous, packing.

What did you pack for... whatever this was?

She chose with care.

A small carved box of photographs—her mother as a girl, a candid of her grandmother from a fishing trip in Cornwall, a blurry picture of her and Thalia Travers at Hogwarts grinning in their school uniforms.

Her jewelry roll.

Her worn sketchbook and her favorite quills.

The small stack of records she wasn't willing to leave behind.

Her collection of rare-stamped letters, her grandmother's ring, and a velvet pouch of moonstones she'd never been able to explain her attachment to.

And Fiona, of course.

The cat climbed into the carrier without protest, as though she understood better than Shalee did that something permanent was happening.

By the time the carriage arrived—black, unmarked, drawn by thestrals and steered by a driver with no face beneath his hood. Shalee's hands were shaking.

The footman said nothing. Only opened the door.

She stood at the edge of the drive, trunks packed, hair pinned, gloves buttoned, and looked once, back at Thornhedge Hall.

No one had noticed she was leaving.

Not yet.

She stepped into the carriage.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The carriage came to a stop so softly she barely noticed until the jolt of stillness reminded her she was real.

The world outside the frosted windows was dark. Deeper and wilder than the countryside she knew.

Trees loomed like sentinels, dense and tall, their gnarled limbs tangled against a pale sliver of moonlight.

There was no path. No lights.

Just the hush of leaves in the wind and the faint sound of something alive moving far off in the brush.

The door opened.

Cold air swept inside, sharp as steel.

The hooded driver said nothing.

He only waited, hand outstretched to assist her down.

She gathered her trunk, reached for Fiona's carrier, and stepped down carefully into the chill.

The moment her boots touched the moss-covered stone, she realized she wasn't at a house.

She was at an estate.

Hidden.

Ancient.

And completely unmarked.

Set into the forest like it had grown there of its own will, the structure before her rose high and dark, the windows narrow, the doors towering and heavy.

Ivy curled up the sides in thick, choking strands.

The architecture was half-forgotten—older than the manor she'd grown up in, older than most of the homes in Wiltshire.

There was no crest on the gate.

No welcoming candlelight.

Just stone. And silence.

Her pulse was high in her throat now.

She wasn't afraid, not exactly.

But she was... aware.

Of how far she was from home.

Of how much she didn't know.

A second figure appeared then, just beyond the doors.

Tall. Rigid.

Familiar in a way that struck her like a violin's first note—low, vibrating, impossible to ignore.

Severus Snape stepped forward.

He wore black again. Of course. But not the same robes from the party.

These were different. Less formal, more practical.

A long coat belted at the waist, sleeves cuffed. His hair was drawn back at the nape.

He looked, if possible, more dangerous here than he had under the chandeliers.

This was his element.

And she was standing in it.

He came down the short stair to meet her.

His eyes traveled once over her figure, then flicked to the carrier in her hand.

"A cat," he said mildly.

Shalee held her chin up. "She's important."

He met her eyes.

A pause.

"Good."

Another silence.

The wind stirred between them, catching strands of her hair and curling them around her collar.

Severus watched them with quiet amusement, then turned toward the house.

"Come inside. It's cold."

She hesitated.

Just for a moment.

Then she followed.

Inside, the estate was no warmer in spirit, but the temperature rose sharply once the heavy doors closed behind them.

The entryway was dim and narrow, candle sconces casting warm golden light against dark wood paneling and high archways.

Everything smelled faintly of clove and ancient parchment.

Her heels echoed slightly as she stepped in after him, levitating her small trunk with her wand and the carrier in her other hand.

Fiona made a low, disgruntled sound from within the carrier.

He didn't offer to carry it.

He didn't offer to take her cloak.

Instead, he turned back to face her fully.

"You followed my instructions precisely?" he said, his voice low and smooth.

Shalee nodded. "Of course I did."

A pause.

The way he looked at her then—sharp, measuring, unspeakably calm—made her throat tighten.

He stepped closer.

"Then allow me to be very clear about where we are, Miss Cromwell."

She tensed. "All right."

"You are no longer under your father's roof."

"Yes, I gathered that."

"You are no longer the property of your betrothed."

"I was never—"

"You are no longer anyone's but mine."

Her eyes widened slightly.

"Pardon?"

"You made a bargain," he said, quieter now, as if it were a sacred thing.

"I accepted it. You gave me everything. That means you belong to me now."

She blinked.

"I didn't mean—"

"But you did," he cut in gently.

"You just didn't understand the weight of the words you used. That is not my failing, Shalee. It is yours."

The sound of her name on his tongue stilled something in her spine.

He stepped closer again.

Close enough to smell the faint, sharp edge of his cologne—cedarwood and potion smoke.

Close enough that she had to tilt her chin up to meet his gaze.

"I am not here to hurt you," he said softly.

"I have no interest in cruelty. Only truth.

And what is true... is that I intend to keep you."

Chapter Text

Her lips parted, stunned.

"I don't understand," she whispered.

"You will."

He looked down at her, gaze burning low and steady.

"And you'll thank me for it."

Shalee's fingers tightened around the handle of Fiona's carrier as Severus held her gaze.

The words still rang between them

I intend to keep you.

The room felt suddenly smaller, warmer, the air too still.

Her lips were parted slightly, but nothing came out.

Severus turned his head.

"Winky."

A pop, echoed through the entryway as a house-elf appeared. Small, wiry, with eager brown eyes and a tidy forest green smock that bore no crest.

She bowed excitedly, head low almost scraping the floor.

"Yes, Master Snape?"

Severus didn't look away from her.

His voice was steady.

"Take Miss Cromwell's belongings to our bedroom."

The words landed with such quiet finality that it took a moment for Shalee's body to catch up to her mind.

Our bedroom.

Her head turned, slowly.

Her breath caught.

"I—sorry—what did you say?"

Severus blinked once, deliberately.

"You heard me."

She set the carrier down too quickly.

Fiona meowed indignantly as it tipped, but Shalee hardly noticed.

"You mean my bedroom. Right?"

There was a beat of silence.

A single candle crackled nearby.

"No," he said softly. "I do not."

The stillness in his voice made it worse.

There was no malice in it.

No threat.

Like a law of nature.

Shalee took a step back.

"I—I think you've misunderstood something," she said, trying to laugh but failing.

"I thought you were helping me. That this was protection. From the marriage. From—"

"I am protecting you," he said.

"Then why—why would you say something like our bedroom?"

He tilted his head slightly, like he was indulging her confusion, letting her walk into the shape of the thing on her own.

He took a single, slow step forward.

"Because you belong to me now, Shalee."

Her breath hitched hard.

"Belong?"

"You gave yourself to me. I accepted.
What exactly did you think that would mean?"
His voice was calm, almost curious.

"A flat in Diagon Alley? A guest suite upstairs with a little stipend for books and sweets while I dealt with your father and called off your wedding?"

She stared at him, stunned.

"I thought—I thought I'd be safe."

"You are safe," he said at once, the quiet edge of something dangerous tightening beneath the softness of his tone.

"Safer than you've ever been. No one will come here. No one will take you back. You are not married. You are not watched. You are not owned by anyone else."

He stepped closer again, and this time she didn't move away.

"But safety," he murmured, "comes with permanence. And permanence means belonging."

Shalee felt her throat close.
Her heart thundered behind her ribs.
"You—this isn't—I'm not here to—"

"To be forced?" he interrupted gently.

"Of course not. I have no intention of touching you without your invitation."

She froze.

He let the silence sit before continuing, his voice a near-whisper.

"But you will sleep in my bed."

Her eyes widened.

"Why?"

"Because it is yours now as much as it is mine. Because this is your home. Because you are mine.

And what is mine does not sleep down the hall like a guest."

She stood trembling, her fingers curling at her sides.

"So that's what this is," she whispered.

"You brought me here to—to eventually—"

"Claim you?" he said, his gaze dark, fixed.

"Yes. In time. When you come to me. When you're ready. And you will be ready."

The air between them nearly crackled.

"But until then," he continued, soft as velvet, "you are free to live. To write, to work, to go to school if you wish. The world is yours, Shalee.

Whatever you desire, except to leave me."

She said nothing.

She couldn't.

She was trying to breathe.

"You are not a prisoner," he said.

"You are mine. That is different."

He leaned in then. Not to touch her, but to let his breath curl just against her cheek, his voice barely more than a murmur beside her ear.

"I'll never force you to my bed,"
"I won't need to."

And then he stepped away, turned to the elf with a flick of his fingers, and strode down the hall as if the matter had been settled.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She stood in the entryway long after he disappeared.

Not because she was stunned—though she was.

Not because she was afraid—though something cold and electric had taken root in her chest.

She stood because if she moved, she might collapse under the weight of what had just happened.

Our bedroom.
You are not a prisoner. You are mine.

The words rang in her ears like they'd been whispered into the bones of the house.

Fiona gave a low, frustrated meow, still confined to her carrier, but even the cat's restlessness felt distant.

The candlelight flickered, and the sconces hummed gently on the walls, as if unaware that the axis of her entire world had just tilted beneath her feet.

Her breath came slow.

Shallow.

Measured only because she was trying not to lose control.

She stepped back against the wall, her spine meeting the wood paneling with a soft thud.

Her  fingers pressed flat against her skirt as if bracing herself from the inside out.

Her skin felt too hot, her mouth too dry.

She had thought, genuinely believed, that he had done this for her.

To rescue her. To protect her from a life she didn't want.

But it was never that simple.

She didn't feel safe.

She didn't feel in danger either.

She felt possessed.

And that terrified her more than anything else.

Her eyes burned.

"Winky," she said softly, suddenly, as though remembering the elf was still standing in the corner.

The house-elf tilted its head politely.

"Yes, miss?"

Shalee blinked at the trunk and the carrier.

"I—I can take them myself."

The elf's ears twitched.

"Master Snape said—"

"I know what he said," she cut in, too fast.

Then, gentler.

"Just... I'd like a moment. Please."

Winky looked at her for a long beat.

And then, surprisingly, gave a slow, solemn nod before vanishing with a pop—leaving her alone with the weight of her choices.

Shalee pressed her palms to her eyes.

She had left everything behind.

Her parents would wake in the morning and find her rooms empty.

Her fiancé would arrive with lilies and empty compliments only to learn she was gone.

No one would know where.

No one would know with whom.

She hadn't even left a note.

And yet, here she was.

In a stranger's house.

With her belongings and a cat and a man who had once taught her how to brew poisons but now promised her something far more intoxicating.

Not freedom.

Not marriage.

Something else entirely.

You're not a prisoner. You're mine.

She drew a breath, opened her eyes.

And lifted her trunk with trembling fingers.

The trunk scraped softly against the stone as she pulled it behind her, Fiona's carrier in the other hand.

Her steps were careful, each one echoing slightly through the long corridor that stretched ahead, flanked with tall shadowed portraits and high, arching ceilings that seemed to bend the air around them.

Past the entry hall, the corridor opened into a wide landing, the walls paneled in dark alderwood.

The sconces here were lower, casting long golden shadows.

To her right, a staircase swept upward into darker quarters, but to her left—down a narrower, carpeted hall—there was a door slightly ajar.

That was where she went.

Her heart thudded louder with every step.

Fiona was quiet now, her green eyes alert as if she too sensed something strange.

Shalee pushed the door open.

Chapter Text

The room beyond was.

Not what she expected.

Large, yes.

High ceilings. Ornate.

But not cold.

The walls were painted a deep, elegant slate, warmed by a fire burning steadily in the hearth.

Tall windows were drawn with thick velvet curtains, and the floor was covered in layered rugs, old and soft, their patterns faded with time.

Bookshelves lined one entire wall—floor to ceiling.

And not the kind meant for display.

These had clearly been read, re-read, touched and lived-in.

But it was the bed that stole her breath.

Enormous. Canopied.

Dressed in black and forest green linens.

No lace. No satin. Nothing that matched the rooms she'd grown up in.

Two wardrobes stood on opposite walls.

One was open.

Inside hung clothes she didn't recognize, but they were obviously for her. Her size, her style, her palette.

Blouses and robes in jeweled tones, sleepwear folded neatly, even shoes that matched the arch of her foot perfectly.

He'd been studying her, what she liked. What she needed.

But it didn't feel like just an invasion.

It felt like preparation.

Her throat tightened.

She set Fiona down and opened the carrier.

The cat darted out immediately, leapt onto the bed, and curled into the nearest pillow like she'd always lived here.

Like this was home.

Shalee moved slowly to the edge of the bed.

Her hand hovered above the blanket, then lowered—pressing into the soft, thick duvet.

Her eyes drifted across the room again.

A writing desk in the corner, already stacked with parchment and sealed inkwells.

A vase of fresh lavender near the window.

It was too much.

Too prepared.

Too intimate.

Her hands clenched slightly in her lap.

This is your home. Whatever you desire—except to leave me.

She closed her eyes for a long moment.

And then—

"Do you like it?" came a voice from the doorway.

She startled.

He was leaning against the frame.

No sound. No warning. Just there—as if he'd been watching.

Severus Snape, in dark robes that looked softer than what he wore in public, with the faintest impression of satisfaction in his eyes.

She didn't speak right away.

He stepped forward, just one pace, and gestured faintly to the room.

"I wasn't sure which color you preferred. I chose the ones you always wore at school."

Shalee swallowed.

"I wore green because I was in Slytherin."

"Mm," he murmured, a faint smile. "But you kept wearing it. Even after."

She didn't know how to respond.

He stepped closer.

"Say something," he said, not unkindly.

Her voice was barely above a whisper.

"This is... a lot."

"It's yours."

"No, it's yours. This house. This room.
This—this whole situation."

He tilted his head.

"And now, it's shared."

She stood abruptly, eyes wide.

"I'm not ready for this."

"You don't need to be."

His voice was calm, absolutely still.

"There is no timeline, Shalee. No demands."

"Then why the bed? Why the wardrobe? Why this?"

"Because it's where you live now."

He let the words settle.

And then, more softly,

"Because I want you to know that everything you need is already here."

Her lips parted.

"Why me?"

Severus studied her carefully.

"I could lie. Tell you it was kindness. Or debt. Or duty."

He stepped closer. Now only a few feet between them.

"But the truth is... I've wanted you since before I should have."

Her stomach dropped.

"I said nothing," he continued.

"I did nothing. Not once. Not ever.

But I watched. And I knew."

Shalee took a step back, her voice trembling.

"You were my professor."

"I am not anymore."

"And you think that makes this acceptable?"

"No," he said, eyes burning into hers.

"I think it makes this inevitable."

She didn't move.

Not even when he stepped fully into the room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him with a sound that felt far too final.

Shalee stood near the foot of the bed, her hands still clenched by her sides, Fiona watching silently from a folded place atop the pillow.

The fire crackled behind her.

The sconces hummed.

And he—he moved through the room like a man settling into routine.

He walked toward the wardrobe opposite hers and slipped the clasp of his outer robe loose with one hand.

It fell away.

She flinched.

"Don't—" she gasped, voice suddenly sharp, brittle as glass. "Don't take your clothes off."

Severus turned to glance at her, one brow arching.

The linen undershirt he wore clung faintly to the planes of his shoulders and chest, more defined than she'd expected for a man his age—less wiry than he once was, more solid now.

There was no hurry in his movements.

Just deliberate intention.

He kept unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt.

Shalee took a step back.

"Stop. Just—stop."

He paused.

His hands rested calmly at his sides.

Then, with maddening ease, he spoke.

"Settle."

Her breath hitched.

"I told you already," he said, turning fully to face her now.

"I will not take your body from you."

Her lips parted in protest, but no sound came.

"You are in my room. In our room," he continued evenly,

"because you accepted what I offered.

You are not here because I tricked you into a brothel, Shalee.

You are not here to be used."

Her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

"I am undressing," he said softly,

"because it's time for bed."

She stared at him like she didn't understand the language.

"I sleep here," he said simply. "So do you.

If you prefer the left side, take it."

His voice remained low, maddeningly steady.

"I will not ask you again to trust me. That was your choice.

You made it."

She blinked hard.

"I didn't think this is what you meant."

"I know," he murmured. "That's what made it so easy."

Her face flinched like she'd been slapped.

But he didn't move toward her. Not even an inch.

Instead, he returned to his wardrobe, removed his shirt slowly and folded it with surgical precision.

His pale skin caught the firelight briefly—scarred across the shoulder, faint and old, a ghost of some battle long passed.

Then he reached for a long, dark sleeping robe—simple, soft, nothing decadent—and slipped it over his frame without another word.

Shalee remained exactly where she was.

Paralyzed.

She didn't want to cry.

Didn't want to run.

She didn't even want to scream.

She just wanted to understand what she had done.

He tied the belt at his waist and turned back toward her.

His expression was unreadable.

Not smug. Not cruel. Just quiet.

Unmoving.

"The bed is yours. As is everything in this house. Including my protection. Including my name, if you want it."

She stared at him, stunned.

"I will never force your hand," he said again, voice soft now.

"But I won't let you forget it's already in mine."

And with that, he moved to the bed, turned back the covers with practiced care, and settled onto the far side, back against the headboard, opening a book as though this were any other night.

As though she hadn't just realized she might never be the same again.

She couldn't move.

Her feet remained rooted to the rug, just beyond the edge of the bed, as if stepping any closer would confirm something she couldn't take back.

The fire crackled behind her, casting soft orange light across the stone floor, and the weight of her own heartbeat filled her ears like the echo of a distant drum.

He didn't look at her.

Severus sat at the far side of the bed, already reclined back into the pillows, his long legs stretched beneath the blankets, a book open in his lap.

His reading glasses—thin, silver-rimmed—perched low on the bridge of his nose.

He hadn't spoken since he gave her the choice.

He didn't need to.

Because the silence was already saying everything.

Shalee's eyes were fixed somewhere near the hearth, unfocused, blurred, her chest tight with a pressure she couldn't name.

She stood with her arms limp at her sides, her breathing shallow, her mouth slightly open.

The cold realization was beginning to creep up her spine—inch by inch.

This was real.

She wasn't going home tomorrow.

Her mother would wake up to a made bed.

Her father would send owls to every friend in the Ministry.

Thaddeus would panic, embarrassed, furious.

The headlines would follow.

Heiress Disappears Days After Betrothal Ball.

And none of them would know where she had gone.

They would never guess here.

They would never guess him.

Her gaze flicked toward him—just for a second.

He looked so at ease.

As if he'd already envisioned this moment a hundred times.

As if he had rehearsed this.

And that was when the first tear slipped down her cheek.

She didn't feel it. Not at first.

Only noticed the slight warmth against her skin as it reached her jawline and disappeared beneath the high collar of her dressing gown.

Then another. Slower.

And another.

Shalee didn't make a sound.

She just stood there as her body began to betray her.

Her shoulders remained squared, her mouth tight, but the tears kept falling.

One by one, gentle and quiet, cutting soft wet paths down her cheeks.

She wasn't even crying from just fear.

It was something else too.

The moment before grief becomes mourning.

The breath before surrender.

A kind of wordless heartbreak—because a part of her already knew he would never let her leave.

A voice—small and terrifyingly calm—whispered:
You said yes.
He didn't lie. You just didn't ask.
And now, you're his.

She didn't wipe her face.

She didn't speak.

She only stood there, as her old life slipped quietly off her shoulders like a forgotten cloak.

Fiona gave a low, tired meow, curled now into a tight ball on the green pillow nearest the headboard.

The candlelight flickered.

The sconces hummed softly.

The house breathed around her.

Shalee's fingers flexed at her sides.

Then she moved.

One step.

Then another.

But not toward the bed.

She crossed slowly to the low chair near the fire.

She set her dressing gown aside, pulled the throw blanket folded neatly across the armrest, and slid carefully to the floor.

It wasn't graceful.

Her knees ached from the cold stone beneath the rug.

The blanket was too thin.

Her pillow was a cushion taken from the chair.

But it was hers.

She lay down on her side, facing the fire, and pulled the blanket up to her chin.

Her eyes stayed open, fixed on the flickering shadows dancing along the hearth.

Her breath still felt uneven, but the tears had stopped—dry now, though the skin beneath her eyes was tight with salt.

Behind her, she heard the faint rustle of a page turning.

Nothing else.

No protest.

No remark.

He didn't try to stop her.

He didn't even seem surprised.

Minutes passed. Maybe hours.

She didn't sleep. Not really.

Her body hovered somewhere between tension and exhaustion, her fingers curled tight in the fabric near her throat.

The quiet of the room was unbearable.

Like the house itself was watching.

She heard him eventually shift beneath the blankets, close his book, and extinguish the bedside candle with a whispered nox.

And then silence.

No movement.

No breath out of rhythm.

No gloating.

Just stillness.

She stayed awake longer than she meant to, waiting for something.

A sound. A gesture. Anything that might tell her what to expect next.

But Severus Snape didn't speak another word that night.

He let her sleep on the floor.

Because he knew she wouldn't, for long.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He didn't look up when she moved.

Not at first.

He heard the faint swish of fabric, the pillow being ripped from a chair, the rustle of the throw blanket being shaken out.

Her footsteps were light, tentative. Afraid.

And when she dropped to the floor beside the fire—slowly, with quiet resistance—he turned a single page of his book and marked the sound.

It was exactly what he expected.

She couldn't bring herself to lie beside him. Not yet.

She wasn't ready for proximity.

For acknowledgment.

For the intimacy of silence shared beneath the same quilt.

She needed distance.

A measure of control.

A line between what she'd agreed to and what she now feared she'd given away.

Good.

He preferred it that way.

Let her draw her lines. Let her tell herself she was still choosing.

Because the truth was—she was.

She had chosen the moment she stepped into the carriage.

She had chosen the moment she packed her photographs and her cat and not a single goodbye.

And most of all—most of all—she had chosen when she stood in the garden, heart in her throat, and said:

Everything.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

Her body was curled beneath the too-thin blanket, her curls spilling onto the makeshift pillow.

She had tried to bury herself in warmth, but the fire was fading and the stone was still cold.

She wasn't sleeping. Not yet.

Her breath came unevenly, the kind of rhythm he knew from years of watching students break quietly behind bathroom doors and under library desks.

Not sobbing. Not wailing.

Just unraveling.

He listened to the faint hitch in her throat as the tears slipped quietly down her cheeks.

No whimpers. No movement.

Just grief.

He closed his book slowly.

Set it on the bedside table.

And sat still.

He didn't go to her.

That would be a mistake.

Too soon. Too much.

She wasn't ready to be held.

She would flinch. Shrink.

And while he had no intention of harming her, he had every intention of making her his.

He could wait.

He had waited this long.

Instead, he sat in the dark and watched her outline flicker in the firelight.

The curve of her shoulder.

The shape of her hand curled against her chest.

The delicate bones of her face, still so young, still unknowingly his.

She had no idea.

No idea how many years he'd spent thinking of her. Not in the crude way most men desired, but in the slow, obsessive way that made him study.

Learn.

Prepare.

He had known how she took her tea before she ever told him.

He knew the way she twisted her ring when she was nervous, the way her mouth pressed into a line when her father interrupted her at dinners.

He knew the names of her childhood friends, about the diary she kept hidden.

Severus shifted slightly in the bed, adjusted the pillow beneath his head, and stared into the dim light of the fire.

Eventually, her breathing slowed.

The tension in her body unwound by degrees.

Sleep claimed her—not with comfort, but with exhaustion.

He listened for a long time.

And when he was sure she was truly asleep—deep enough not to stir—he allowed himself one small indulgence.

He whispered her name into the dark.

"Shalee."

Quiet.

Possessive.

Final.

Then he closed his eyes and let the quiet claim him, too.

Chapter Text

She woke to birdsong.

Faint, distant. It filtered through glass so old it hummed with the sound. Pale grey light was beginning to pour through the tall, curtained windows, outlining the bedroom in the quiet silver of morning.

For a moment, she didn't remember where she was.

The fire had long since gone out. The floor beneath her was cold. The throw blanket had slipped from her shoulder in the night, and her limbs ached with the stiffness of stone. Her head felt heavy. Her eyes were sore.

And then she remembered.

Everything.

She sat up too fast. The blanket slid down her arms, and the rush of blood to her head made her dizzy. She pressed her hand to her temple, blinking around the unfamiliar room.

His room.

Their room.

The bed behind her was made again. Clean lines. Pillows fluffed. The linens pulled tight, undisturbed. No sign of a body having ever lain in it.

Snape was gone.

She stared at the bed for a long moment, as if its untouched perfection might explain where he'd gone. But it offered no answers.

Fiona stirred from where she'd burrowed herself into a patch of sun beside the wardrobe. The cat stretched with a contented yawn and padded toward her, curling against her hip like nothing in the world had changed.

But everything had.

Shalee stood slowly, her muscles protesting. Her hands were pale. Her knees ached. Her throat was dry. She crossed the room with silent, barefoot steps and opened "her" wardrobe. Inside, she found soft robes in deep greens and muted greys, all her size. Silks, cottons, wool blends. Nothing ostentatious—but all far too expensive to have been bought in haste.

Everything fit her.

He had been planning this.

She pulled on a pale slate-green dressing robe with trembling fingers. The fabric was smooth, warm. It smelled faintly of lavender and sandalwood. Too soft. Too careful. It made her want to cry again.

There was a silver tray on the writing desk. She hadn't noticed it last night—probably hadn't been there yet. A teapot sat at its center, delicate porcelain, steam still curling faintly from the spout. Two slices of toast. A small dish of raspberry jam. A note folded neatly beneath the cup.

Her stomach twisted.

She approached slowly, peeled back the note with trembling fingers.

His handwriting, of course. Precise. Clean. Unmistakable.

If you are hungry, eat.

If you are bored, the library is three doors down.

If you wish to speak, I'll be in my study.

Left at the stair, second door.

– S

That was all.

No good morning. No apology. No explanation.

No reference to the night before.

Just simple, cold instructions. Like she was a new guest. Or a particularly intelligent creature being introduced to a new enclosure.

Shalee stared at the note.

She hadn't dreamed it. He meant this.

He meant every word.

She sat down, hard, on the edge of the bed and stared at the tea. It was still hot. Still waiting.

Just like everything else.

The note was still between her fingers.

Her eyes traced the lines again. There was no signature. Just that simple, razor-sharp – S, as if anything more would've insulted her intelligence.

A few minutes passed before she realized she was sitting there crying again, silently, her throat aching from how tightly she held herself upright.

She didn't want to cry anymore.

So she wiped her face. Pulled her hair back with shaking fingers. Then she opened the door.

The hallway outside was quiet. Not eerie, just expectant.

Like the house had been holding its breath for her to join it.

She didn't go to the library.

She didn't eat.

She walked left at the stairwell.

Second door.

His study.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door wasn't locked.

It gave easily under her hand—smooth, oiled, as if it had been opened a thousand times without protest.

The study was warm.

Not in the way the bedroom had been, prepared and silent, but in the way a room lives when someone actually uses it. The scent of parchment and ink and old varnish filled the space, curling beneath the fainter traces of coffee and ash and something herbal—wormwood, perhaps. There was a fire here, too, burning low in the hearth, casting a golden sheen across the dark oak shelves that lined the walls.

He was seated behind a wide desk, quill in hand, bent over a page in his familiar, slanted script.

He didn't look up right away.

Of course he knew she was there.

Shalee stepped inside and closed the door behind her with much more force than necessary.

He didn't flinch.

"Sleep well?" he asked without looking up.

"No," she said flatly.

A beat.

"Pity."

She moved forward a few steps, slow, controlled, her bare feet silent on the stone floor. She stopped just short of the desk, her arms folded tightly across her chest.

"You knew I would sleep on the floor."

"I suspected."

"You wanted me to."

He looked up at last.

The expression on his face was maddeningly neutral. Not smug. Not kind. Simply aware. Focused. Like he had been watching the progression of a potion that only now began to bloom.

"I wanted you to choose," he said. "And you did."

Her jaw tightened. "That wasn't a choice."

"It was. Just not the one you expected."

She stared at him, teeth clenched behind her lips. "You planned this."

He said nothing.

"Didn't you?" she pressed, voice sharp now. "The bedroom. The wardrobe. My favorite tea waiting at dawn. You planned all of this."

He leaned back slightly in his chair, the firelight catching on the slight threads of grey in his hair.

"Of course I did."

The calm in his voice made her breath catch.

"Why?" she whispered. "Why me?"

His gaze sharpened. Not cruel. But direct.

"Because I want you."

The words were not shouted. They weren't seductive. They were spoken like a fact.

Like gravity.

She shook her head. "You were my professor."

"I was. Seven years ago."

"I was a child."

"You are not a child anymore" he said, and his voice dropped now, low and velvet-dark.

Her throat tightened.

"You think you know me?"

"I know you better than anyone ever has," he said simply.

She took another step forward, fury and confusion swelling tight in her chest. "So what now? What is this? Am I just supposed to sit in your house and—what? Let you train me into wanting you?"

He stood.

It was quiet. No drama. No rush. But he was tall, and the movement filled the room like a shift in weather.

"I told you," he said. "I will not touch you unless you come to me."

Her heart thundered.

"But make no mistake" he stepped around the desk now, slowly, until he was only inches from her, "you will."

She didn't move.

Didn't breathe.

He stood so close she could feel the heat of him. His hands didn't reach for her. His voice didn't rise. But his presence was unbearable. Dense. Anchored. Hers, whether she wanted to admit it yet or not.

His eyes searched hers—quiet, endless.

"You already came to me once," he murmured. "You just didn't realize what you were doing."

Her eyes burned again.

But she didn't cry.

Not now.

She wouldn't give him that.

Not twice.

She hadn't moved.

Not when he closed the distance between them.

Not when he stood toe to toe with her, the edge of her dressing robe brushing the hem of his coat. Not even when the heat of his body reached hers and stayed there, still and knowing.

He didn't touch her.

"You can fight this for as long as you like," he said, eyes locked on hers. "You can sleep on the floor. You can glare at me across your tea. You can pace the halls and curse my name."

His voice dipped, darker now. Intentional.

"But eventually... you will come to me."

Shalee's breath hitched. Her spine stayed straight, but her pulse betrayed her—thundering just under her skin. He could see it in her throat. Feel it in the silence between them.

"And when you do..." he continued, voice quiet but merciless, "when you stop pretending you don't want to be wanted"

He leaned in just enough for his mouth to brush the shell of her ear—not a touch, just breath.

"I will make you feel things that will drag your soul out of your body."

She exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering despite herself.

"My hands," he murmured, "will leave you shaking. The sound of your own voice will shame you. And when I've finished with you"

A pause.

"When I've filled you so deeply you can't speak my name without gasping—your eyes will roll back in your head like you've been possessed."

Shalee's knees nearly buckled.

But still—he didn't touch her.

He simply stood there, watching the color rise high in her cheeks, watching the breath stutter from her lips.

"And when you come to me," he said, pulling back just enough to meet her eyes again, steady and unflinching, "it won't be confusion. Or fear. Or obligation."

His voice was soft now. Intimate.

"It will be need."

Shalee swallowed hard, her fingers curling into the sleeves of her robe.

"You don't know me," she whispered.

But he only smiled.

"I know exactly what you are," he said. "You're just starting to learn."

He turned from her and walked calmly back behind his desk.

Sitting down with the slow, fluid confidence of someone who knew he'd already won something—and had no reason to gloat. Severus didn't look at her now. He reached for the parchment he'd been writing on when she entered. Dipped his quill into the inkwell without a sound. Began writing again.

As if her body wasn't still trembling just three feet away.

She stood in silence, arms still crossed tightly in front of her, but no longer to guard herself.

Now it was because if she didn't hold herself together, something inside her might unravel so completely she wouldn't find her way back.

Her skin felt too tight. Her throat too dry. She couldn't look at the floor. Couldn't look at him. Couldn't look at anything.

Not without remembering the heat of his breath in her ear.

When I've filled you so deeply you can't speak my name without gasping...

She closed her eyes, and to her horror, felt her thighs press together slightly. It was instinct. A flicker. But it was real.

The shame hit her like a cold wave.

He had seen it, too. She knew he had. He didn't need to watch her to feel what was happening. He could read her better than any book in this library. He had been studying her for years. She just never noticed.

And now she didn't know how to unsee it.

"I hate you," she whispered, barely audible.

The scratch of his quill stopped.

He looked up again. Calm. Completely composed.

"No," he said softly. "You hate that I told the truth."

She turned then, swiftly, so he wouldn't see the way her cheeks burned.

Her hand trembled as it found the doorknob.

"Shalee."

She froze.

His voice was low, not commanding—just steady.

"You may run back to our room. You may avoid me for days, if that makes you feel in control. But understand this."

She turned her head just slightly, not enough to face him.

"This house belongs to me," he said. "And you belong to this house."

A pause.

"So you belong to me, too."

Her breath trembled. But she didn't speak.

"And eventually," he said, quieter now, the last nail in the coffin, "you'll stop asking why that terrifies you... and start asking why it excites you."

Shalee opened the door and left without a word.

Her heartbeat echoed in her ears the whole way down the corridor.

Chapter Text

She didn't know how far she walked.

She didn't care.

The corridors stretched endlessly, floor after floor, wing after wing—dark wood and velvet drapes, long carpets that muffled her steps, sconces flickering dimly on their own. The estate was enormous. Older than she'd thought. Older, maybe, than he had ever let on.

There were no windows on the second floor. Not here. Just stone walls and low-beamed ceilings that made everything feel closer. Deeper. Like walking inside a memory she didn't recognize.

Shalee moved fast at first, turning corners, trying doors. Most were unlocked. Parlors. Libraries. Sitting rooms full of books that smelled like his hands. A conservatory choked with herbs and botanicals that pulsed faintly with ancient magic. Rooms that had clearly been prepared for her: clean, warm, tailored.

None of them were hers.

She tried the kitchen wing.

Too exposed.

She tried the second-floor drawing room.

Too curated.

Everywhere she turned, she found him. Not physically. But in the scent of the linen, the precise way things were arranged, the handwriting in the margins of books left behind. The house bent around him. It was him. The walls watched her.

She felt like she was being inhaled.

She tried not to panic.

Eventually she reached a staircase she hadn't noticed before—narrow, partially hidden behind a tall tapestry in the north hall. She slipped behind it with shaking fingers, her heart racing as she climbed, steps uneven on the spiraled stone.

She found herself in an upper wing on the third floor. It was colder here.

Dust lingered faintly on the edges of the banister. The sconces were dimmer, casting shadows longer than they should've been. These rooms weren't curated. These had been closed off.

She moved fast now, fingertips trailing along the doors as she passed. One. Two. Three.

Most of them opened with a push, hinges groaning softly. Empty guest quarters. Storage. An old music room, the harp in the corner veiled in muslin, half-lit by a window that faced the woods.

Still not right.

She pressed on until she found it.

At the end of a long, unlit hall—half-concealed behind a crooked wall beam—was a door.

The knob was cold in her hand.

She turned it slowly.

The room beyond was small. No fire. No carpet. Just a stone floor, high narrow windows, and a heavy oak desk pushed against the far wall. Empty shelves. A disused armoire. And—near the corner—a faded settee with a blanket draped haphazardly over the back.

But most important: a door latch. A lock. And a key, still in the bolt.

Her breath hitched.

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her, fast. Twisted the lock with a sharp click. The sound echoed like a gunshot through her chest.

Safe.

For now.

Shalee sagged against the wood, sliding slowly to the floor, one hand still clutched tight around the key.

Her body shook—not with sobs, but with the kind of silent panic that coils in your throat and stays there. The memory of his breath still whispered down her neck.

You'll stop asking why it terrifies you... and start asking why it excites you.

She pressed her palms against her eyes.

She wasn't crying.

She wouldn't cry.

She just needed this one place. This one locked door. This one room where she wasn't being studied. Or led. Or watched by eyes that knew too much.

This room was hers now.

Even if it had only been his to give.

The sun shifted in the windows.

It never touched the floor directly—just a pale, half-hearted glow through the narrow glass high above. The air in the room had the heavy stillness of an attic or a crypt. Dust settled quietly in the corners. Nothing stirred.

For the first time since she arrived, Shalee breathed without the weight of him in the room.

She didn't do much. She didn't scream. Didn't pace. Didn't cry.

She just sat.

For hours.

She curled up on the old settee, legs drawn under her, a faded wool blanket pulled around her shoulders. The room smelled like cedar and dust and old ink. There was a broken quill left on the desk. A cracked candle. She found a piece of parchment tucked in the armoire drawer—blank, forgotten—and a half-empty ink bottle with a good enough nib.

She didn't know what she was writing. She just wrote.

Lists, names, nonsense.

Anything to feel like her thoughts still belonged to her at least .

Fiona had stayed in the bedroom. That was good. She didn't want her to follow. She didn't want to be touched. Not even by love.

She didn't eat.

The hours bled together.

And then—

A sound.

Footsteps.

Slow. Even. Measured.

Not in a hurry.

Not angry.

Just coming.

Shalee's eyes flew to the door.

Then silence.

For one long, suspended second, she thought maybe he'd passed.

And then—

"Alohomora."

The lock clicked open.

Softly. Almost gently.

The handle turned.

And the door opened.

He didn't fill the frame with menace. Didn't storm in. Didn't shout.

Snape stood there like the inevitable answer to a question she hadn't wanted to ask.

His eyes swept the room once—quick, surgical. No judgment. Just inventory. Her hunched posture. The blanket. The ink on her fingertips. The way she flinched when the door opened.

He stepped inside. Closed the door behind him.

Didn't lock it.

Didn't need to.

She didn't move.

"I gave you time," he said.

His voice wasn't angry. Just low.

"I let you find this room. Let you lock the door."

He stepped forward once. Not too close.

"But you seem to be forgetting one thing."

She blinked slowly, her mouth dry.

He tilted his head slightly.

"This house," he said, voice quiet, "bends to me."

A pause.

"And so will you."

His voice echoed in her ears.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"And so will you."

The words weren't shouted. There was no intentional cruelty in them. Just certainty. The quiet confidence of a man who'd waited patiently for the inevitable—and believed, fully, that he was nearing it.

But this time... he miscalculated.

Because Shalee didn't answer.

She didn't snap or curse or scream.

She didn't call him a monster or a liar or say all the things she'd rehearsed in her head while curled up beneath that blanket.

Her lower lip trembled, and her shoulders gave a single, stuttering jolt—small enough that he might've missed it if he wasn't watching her so intently. But then her face crumpled. Her arms dropped to her sides. Her whole body seemed to fold.

And the sound that left her wasn't a sob.

It was smaller than that.

Just one word.

"Professor"

Her voice cracked.

"Why me?" she choked. "What did I ever do to deserve this? What am I being punished for?"

She covered her mouth with one shaking hand, as if she could catch it—stop the dam from breaking—but it was already too late. The tears fell fast now, hot and silent. Her chest hitched. Her knees bent. She sank slowly, helplessly to the floor in the corner of the room like her legs had simply given up.

Severus didn't move.

He stood there, utterly still, something unreadable flickering across his face.

He had expected resistance.

He had expected rage. Coldness. Even calculated silence.

But not this.

Not this breaking.

"I left everything," she whispered, gasping between breaths now, "and I thought—God, I thought you were saving me. I thought—I thought you were the safe one."

Her voice cracked again, higher this time.

"I didn't know you were waiting. I didn't know I— I didn't know"

She shook her head violently, wrapping her arms around herself like she could pull her bones back into place.

And then she was crying in earnest—knees pulled to her chest, face buried in her hands, breath stuttering like a failing spell. The kind of crying that came from something too deep to explain. The kind that didn't stop when it should have.

The room was silent except for her.

And Severus stood frozen.

For the first time in years, he didn't have a precise response.

Because this—this human, trembling collapse—was not something he had planned for.

The sobs came harder now, less controlled. They tore from her chest in sharp, uneven gasps that echoed off the stone walls like they didn't belong to her at all.

Her hands trembled against her face. Her breath came too fast. She couldn't get enough air. Her thoughts were crashing into one another like waves—too loud, too many, too much.

She rocked slightly where she sat, her fingers clutching fistfuls of the worn blanket still wrapped around her. Her hair fell forward in loose tangles around her face. Her shoulders shook with each breath, but it didn't slow. It only built.

"I didn't ask for this," she choked. "I didn't know what I was agreeing to—I thought I was escaping—and now I'm in a house I can't leave, with a man I don't understand."

Her voice broke violently.

"I can't breathe—I can't breathe—"

Her arms tightened around her knees, and she folded in on herself completely, forehead pressed to the tops of her shins, her whole body curled like she could vanish into the seams of the floor.

"I don't want to belong to anyone," she sobbed. "I want to belong to myself—just for once—just once—"

Her words collapsed into raw sound—no longer sentences. Just grief. Just a scream buried inside her throat.

And Severus still hadn't moved.

He stood only feet away, the door shut behind him, the shadows of the hallway still lingering on the threshold. His face was unreadable—but his hands were not. They hung at his sides, curled slightly, not clenched in anger, but hovering just above action. Just above interference.

He hadn't expected this.

Not this.

He had seen her composed. Dutiful. Silent. Sharp.

He had never seen her like this.

He hadn't thought she could break like this.

He'd believed she would bend.

He hadn't prepared for shattered.

And for a moment—just one—he felt the faint, unmistakable bite of guilt.

Not regret.

But something adjacent.

His voice, when it came, was low.

"Shalee."

She didn't lift her head.

She couldn't.

He said nothing else. Not yet.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
His voice reached her gently.

And then—too gently—his footsteps followed.

She heard them crossing the stone.

Measured. Intentional.

She didn't lift her head. Her fingers tightened where they clutched the edge of the blanket. Her knees pulled tighter to her chest. She knew what was coming. She could feel it.

The moment he crossed into her space, the air shifted.

She couldn't stop shaking.

He crouched beside her.

And then

A hand.

Just the faint pressure of his palm on her back.

A single, deliberate contact.

The first time he'd touched her.

And she snapped.

Shalee flinched so hard her whole body jerked sideways, away from him, nearly toppling against the desk. She gasped like she'd been branded.

"Don't touch me!"

Her voice came out strangled, high and cracked from screaming into her knees.

Severus froze.

She scrambled to her feet with a force that was almost animal. Her hair was wild, her cheeks stained, her body tight with panic. She staggered backward until her spine hit the wall and stayed there, arms braced wide like she needed to keep distance with her whole body.

"Don't—don't you dare—you don't get to touch me!"

He didn't move.

Her chest heaved, eyes wide, burning.

"I know what this is," she spat. "I know why you brought me here. You said it. You said it. Last night. You told me what you wanted to do to me—you looked me in the face and told me."

Her voice shook. Not with fear now.

With fury.

"You didn't save me. You claimed me."

Still, he said nothing.

"You knew I didn't understand what I was agreeing to, and you let me say yes anyway. You let me pack my things. You opened the door and let me walk into this—like it was a choice. Like it wasn't a trap!"

Tears blurred her vision again, but they didn't fall this time. Her rage held them back.

"You were my professor," she whispered. "For seven years."

He looked at her then—really looked—and she saw something flicker behind his eyes. Not guilt. Not shame. Just that same unreadable calculation, stopped in its tracks.

"I trusted you."

Her voice was hoarse now. Thin.

"I called you professor even last night. Even today! I didn't even think about it. That's how deep it goes. You taught me my first wand movements. You corrected my essays. You watched me grow up. And all this time—what, you were waiting for me to get old enough to fuck?"

The word hung in the air like a curse.

Ugly.

Severus didn't flinch. But the stillness of him shifted.

"You didn't steal me," she said, quieter now. "You let me hand myself over."

Then, breaking again, her voice split.

"And now I don't even have a room."

The silence after that was unbearable.

She wiped her face hard with the back of her hand, furious with herself for crying, for showing anything, for still calling him professor.

She wasn't sure if she wanted to disappear or make him leave.

But either way—

This room wasn't safe anymore.

A wail, torn from her throat, so raw and guttural that it sliced through the air and knocked the breath from his lungs.

"I don't want to be here" she screamed.

He took a half step forward, instinctively.

She backed away, stumbling, shrieking the words again louder, like they were the only thing she could get out without breaking her ribs.

"I don't want to be here— I don't want to be here, I don't want to be—"

Her voice cracked and twisted mid-sentence, turning into a series of gasps and choked sobs. She could barely breathe. Her knees buckled again. She hit the floor hard, hands clutching her own hair, eyes wild and wet and empty.

And then she said it.

"I don't want to live anymore."

The words stopped everything.

Time. Breath. Gravity.

It hit him like a curse straight to the chest. A single sentence with no warning, no buildup. Just ugly, exposed, bleeding in front of him on the stone floor.

His heart dropped.

He stared at her—at the girl who had once sat in his classroom, too quiet, too smart, scribbling in the corners of her parchment.

He had taken her.

He hadn't forced her. He hadn't raised a wand. He hadn't broken her by violence.

But he had broken her.

He had turned her escape into another kind of prison.

She was gasping now, hands braced on the floor, barely able to hold herself up. Her whole body shook from it—choking on sobs so violent they echoed off the rafters.

And still, she looked so small.

Smaller than he remembered her ever being.

Not a woman now.

Not anything.

Just broken.

"Shalee," he said, quietly.

She didn't respond.

Didn't even look at him.

She was somewhere else now. Drowning in her own body.

He hadn't realized how close to the edge she'd already been.

He had watched her tremble. Heard the tremor in her voice. Read her every reaction with the precision of a man who'd studied her for years.

And somehow—somehow—he had missed this.

She didn't just feel trapped.

She felt done.

And for the first time since the war...

Severus Snape felt fear.

Real, cold, human fear.

Because he could control so many things.

But not this.

Not her wanting to die.

He crouched slowly beside her, careful not to touch her again, careful not to crowd her.

And for the first time since she'd arrived...

He whispered, quietly—

"I didn't know."

Chapter Text

The words were soft.

Almost tender.

But they lit the fuse.

Shalee's body snapped up like something had cracked down the middle of her spine. She pushed herself off the floor fast—so fast he didn't have time to rise with her. Her eyes were feral now, wet with rage instead of despair, jaw clenched, mouth trembling.

"You didn't know?" she hissed, voice like a lash. "You didn't know!"

Severus didn't move. He didn't answer.

And that was all it took.

Her fist flew.

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't precise. But it landed, hard, across the side of his jaw with a sound that echoed sharp off the stone and wood of the walls. His head snapped slightly to the side from the impact.

She swung again.

Her hand struck the flat of his chest, open-palmed, as she screamed—

"You knew exactly what you were doing!— you knew—you stood there in that garden and watched me hand you my life like a child and you just—took it!—"

She hit him again.

This time with both hands, fists pounding furiously against his chest, her body shaking with the effort of holding herself upright. Her voice cracked into sobs again, the impact losing force but never rage.

"You're a predator, Professor. You waited for me to get old enough, and you planned this—every fucking room, every robe, every note on your desk—you planned this!"

He didn't stop her.

She struck his shoulder. His chest. Tried to shove him. Nothing moved.

"I gave you everything and I didn't even know I was doing it," she screamed.

Her fists faltered.

Then slowed.

Then dropped.

She stood there, trembling, breath ragged, inches from him.

And then she spat the words like a curse.

"I hate you."

His jaw was red.

Her hands were shaking violently now, but still balled into fists.

He hadn't raised his wand. He hadn't caught her wrists. He hadn't stopped her.

He just looked at her. Quiet. Still. His breath shallow. His eyes unreadable.

But something inside him cracked.

Because this wasn't control.

This wasn't seduction.

This was war.

And he'd started it.

The silence after her words was thick as tar.

She stood there, trembling, eyes wide and furious, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her fists were still clenched at her sides. The skin across his jaw was already darkening slightly, the sting lingering, radiating down his throat.

He hadn't expected it. Not from her. Not ever.

She was soft, careful, cautious. She had always swallowed anger, hidden it deep beneath layers of manners and silence. But here she was—furious, unhinged, screaming in his face, knuckles red from striking him.

And it made him want her more.

Severus stepped closer. Not aggressively. Not quickly.

But closer.

"You hate me," he said, voice low, not angry, not accusatory—simply acknowledging. He reached up and touched the corner of his mouth carefully, fingers coming away with the faintest trace of blood.

His eyes flicked to hers again, darkening with a strange, unsettling tenderness.

"Good."

She blinked, breathing hard, not expecting that word. Her lips parted slightly, confused, uncertain—still afraid, still furious.

He leaned closer, his voice becoming dangerously quiet.

"I thought about you every day for years," he said softly. "And yes—I planned every moment of this. Your robes. Your room. The tea waiting at dawn. Every book on the shelf. Every flower in the vase. Every lock on every door."

He paused, eyes burning with something that couldn't be called love—but something adjacent, something worse.

"You call me a predator," he murmured, close enough now she could feel the warmth of his breath against her temple. "And maybe I am. But predators chase their prey. I never chased you, Shalee. You walked into my hands willingly."

His gaze was piercing, unblinking.

"I took nothing you did not give."

She shook her head slightly, a whisper escaping her, desperate, fragile. "I didn't know—"

"You didn't ask," he said. "Because you wanted out. Because you needed someone to save you, even if that someone was the devil himself."

Her breath caught sharply.

"You didn't care to know then," he said. "And now you hate me because you do."

He reached up carefully—not to grab, not to hurt—but to brush a strand of hair gently away from her damp cheek. She flinched, eyes squeezing shut, breath hitching in fear and fury, but this time, she didn't strike him.

"I don't regret taking you," he whispered. "But I regret that you've misunderstood."

She opened her eyes slowly, chest still rising and falling heavily. "Misunderstood what?"

His thumb brushed lightly over the edge of her jaw—so softly she barely felt it.

"I wanted you safe. I wanted you close. And yes—God, yes—I wanted you beneath me, willingly. Eventually."

He withdrew his hand carefully, as though forcing himself away.

"But never—never—like this."

He stepped back, breaking contact, eyes still locked on hers.

"You're right to hate me," he said softly.

She didn't say anything.

Didn't scream. Didn't argue. She just looked at him—eyes wide and shining, breath shallow, a muscle twitching in her jaw, and pushed past him.

Hard.

Her shoulder collided with his as she shoved through the doorway of the room, blanket dropping from her arms, bare feet slapping against the stone. She didn't care that she wasn't dressed properly. Didn't care that she hadn't eaten. Didn't care that her legs were shaking beneath her.

She just needed to leave.

To get out.

To find a door, a window, a path—anything.

He didn't follow right away.

Maybe because he knew she wouldn't get far.

She tore down the corridor, breath coming in sharp bursts, her hair wild around her face, the long shift clinging to her legs as she ran. Down the first staircase. Through the hall with the portraits. Left. Right. Toward the main vestibule, the front of the house.

The doors were there.

Tall. Heavy. Carved with ancient runes.

She threw her whole weight at them.

They didn't move.

Not locked.

Just sealed.

With magic.

"No," she breathed, panic rising in her throat. "No—no no no—"

She pulled out her wand from the sleeve pocket. She pointed it at the door with shaking hands.

"Alohomora!"

Nothing.

"Alohomora!"

Still nothing.

She gripped the handle, twisted, slammed her shoulder against the frame. Her heart pounded. Her breath broke. She was trapped.

"Let me out!" she screamed at the wood, at the ceiling, at him, wherever he was. "LET ME OUT—LET ME GO—"

The door didn't budge.

Neither did the windows.

She turned and ran back through the house, tears coming again now from full-bodied panic. She tried every exit. The back hallway. The conservatory. The cellar. The servants' corridor that led nowhere.

All sealed.

All humming quietly with the same magic.

Not meant to harm.

Just to keep.

She fell against the wall near the staircase, hands trembling, mouth open in disbelief, tears streaking down her face.

This wasn't her home.

It was a cage.

And she hadn't even seen the bars.

She didn't hear him at first.

Too much blood in her ears. Too much air in her lungs. She was gasping, hunched at the base of the stairwell like she might come apart there—like the stone might open up and swallow her if she begged hard enough.

Her fingers were curled into the hem of her shirt, white-knuckled. Her knees stung from hitting the floor. Her hair clung to her temples, wild and damp with sweat. She kept looking at the doors. Then the windows. Then the walls.

There was no way out.

No one coming.

And then she heard it.

His footsteps.

Unhurried.

Measured.

That same sound from upstairs. No urgency. No concern.

Because he knew she had nowhere to go.

She looked up, warily.

Severus descended the last few stairs, his expression unreadable, the hem of his robes brushing softly against the stone.

He stopped two steps above her, looking down.

"I told you the doors wouldn't open for you," he said quietly.

She didn't answer.

"Not because you're a prisoner," he continued, "but because you can't run from what you chose."

Shalee's breath hitched. Her voice was raw, broken, nearly inaudible.

"I didn't choose this."

"Yes, you did."

His voice wasn't angry.

It was worse.

It was certain.

"You just didn't ask what it cost."

He descended the last step and crouched, slowly, to meet her where she sat. He didn't reach for her. Not this time. His hands rested lightly on his knees, fingers relaxed. But his eyes—those dark, unrelenting eyes—never left hers.

"You gave me everything," he said. "Those were your words."

Tears welled again. She turned her face, trying to block him out.

"And I kept my promise," he added. "You're free of him. Of them. Of all of it."

He let that sit.

Then, softer—quieter still—

"But there's no going back."

A long pause stretched between them.

She said nothing.

He didn't need her to.

"I won't hurt you," he said.

She flinched.

"Not unless you give me no choice."

Still, she didn't speak.

But her silence rattled him.

Because she wasn't bargaining anymore. She wasn't begging. She was enduring.

And that... worried him.

"You'll come to understand," he said softly, almost to himself now. "Eventually."

He rose to stand again, tall above her, dark and certain and endless as the house itself.

"You'll thank me," he murmured. "And when you do..."

He looked down at her, gaze steady, voice cool and low.

"You'll never want to leave."

And then he turned.

And walked away.

Chapter Text

The days did not pass so much as rot.

Each morning brought a fresh kind of decay. A further unraveling of whatever fragile thread of self Shalee had left. She did not scream anymore. She did not plead. She no longer threw books or shattered vases or begged the elves to help her. That had been the beginning. Now, there was only silence and motion.

She searched. Constantly. Openly. Not out of hope, but from a compulsion so deep it seemed carved into her bones. She wanted the Professor to see. She wanted him to know. That was all she had left.

She ransacked the east wing with shaking hands, testing every window, every lock, every seam of stone for weakness. When she found none, she pressed her fists to the dining hall glass until her knuckles split. She screamed when it didn't shatter. When the air outside seemed further away than the stars. She dropped to her knees and clawed at the floorboards until her fingertips bled.

In the library, she climbed. Not to escape upward—but to reach something. Anything. The highest shelves, the beams above them, the lintels tucked beneath the ceiling arches. There might be something there. A passage. A flaw. Her foot slipped. She didn't care.

She no longer ate. Winky brought food three times a day, then twice, then once, before the trays were spelled away untouched. She no longer drank unless forced. Her throat felt raw. Her breath shallow. But it didn't matter. Let her body give out. Let it shrink and fold in on itself.

She stopped bathing. She stood in the washroom for long stretches, unmoving, her eyes locked with her reflection. Eventually, she stopped recognizing it.

Her hair tangled and matted. Her lips split. Her fingernails broke. Her body trembled when she walked, but she walked anyway.

Barefoot, she traced the entire length of the west wing, testing the panels behind tapestries. She pulled three down before Merrin the ancient house elf, with his ever knowing eyes. Appeared with a cracked whisper: "Please, Miss, not those."

She ignored him.

In the sunroom, she vomited from exhaustion and sobbed so hard her ribs ached. She crawled into the corner and stayed there until her spine locked up.

One morning, she sat at the base of the staircase for so long that the light changed three times. She didn't speak. When Severus walked past her, she raised her eyes and asked in a flat, hoarse whisper: "What do I have to do to make you let me go?"

He couldn't answer. He didn't try.

She tried the roof. Climbed the trellis like a fugitive, fingernails hooked into the wood. It snapped under her weight. She crashed to the stones below, split her lip open and tore her knees raw. She didn't cry out. She didn't even react.

Later, Merrin found her lying facedown in the conservatory. Her breath fogged the tile faintly. When he bent down to help her up, she murmured, barely audible, "Is there a way out through the roof?"

She dragged herself into the dungeon stairs. Scraped her fingers along the mortar. She stopped responding to her name. She slept curled in the corner of his room, wedged against the door, her body a barricade against his reach.

Every corner of the house had her tears in it. Her smell. Her breath. She left small traces of herself everywhere—but less and less each time. A hair. A cracked nail. A smear of blood from a blister. She was vanishing.

One morning, she left a single word on his pillow.

Please.

And then she stole the blade.

It was not a cry for help. It was not a fit of rage. It was precision. Decision. Calm.

The silver straight razor came from his private cabinet. She knew where it was. She knew the hour he would be away, locked in his study. She waited until the house was quiet. Until Winky had gone to bed. Until even Merrin's anxious steps had stopped pacing outside the door.

She ran no water in the tub.

She stripped her ruined nightdress and folded it. Sat carefully on the cold porcelain, knees drawn up, breathing evenly.

And cut.

One wrist. Then the other.

She bled for a long time.

And when her vision began to swim, when her body began to tilt sideways and the floor came up to meet her, she smiled.

Finally.

Then the wards shrieked.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The moment the wards cracked, the manor seemed to tilt.

Severus didn't hesitate. He bolted from the study, robes whipping behind him, wand already in hand. The enchantments threaded into the very bones of the estate were ancient—keyed to sense blood, trauma, rupture. And they were howling now. Screaming through the foundation.

He knew.

The bathroom door was locked.

He blew it off its hinges with a burst of wordless magic—and for a moment, his brain refused to register what he was seeing.

Then the world snapped into focus.

Shalee was crumpled in the empty tub, limbs bare and blood-slicked, her skin almost the same pale grey as the porcelain. One arm hung over the side. The other was clutched to her chest, where two long slashes curved from wrist to elbow like red ribbons. The floor was sticky with blood. The silver straight razor glinted on the tile, almost elegant in its simplicity.

"Shalee."

The word came out strangled.

He crossed the room in two steps and dropped to his knees in the blood pooling at the base of the tub. Her pulse was thready beneath his fingers. Her eyes fluttered, unfocused. Her lips were parted slightly, but no sound came.

She was slipping.

He raised his wand and began to work.

"Volneratio tenere. Sanguis cohibe. Nervorum conexio. Vasorum restituo—"

The spells flooded the room, layer after layer of ancient medical magic pouring from his wand in precise, brutal succession. His voice was steady, but his hands shook. The blood would not stop. Her body was too far gone.

"MERRIN!" he roared.

The elf appeared instantly, his ears standing straight with panic.

"Bring me the dark kit from the potions vault," Severus snapped. "Now. Winky too. I need blood replenishing draughts, arterial clotting tincture, nerve reknitters, and sterile bandages."

Merrin vanished mid-nod.

Severus cast another stabilizing charm, sealing the largest vessel in her left arm with a hiss of magic that made the blood evaporate from the wound in smoke. Her breathing hitched—barely audible.

"Stay with me," he muttered. "You will not go like this. Not in my house."

Merrin reappeared with a large black satchel and Winky at his heels. The younger elf shrieked when she saw the tub.

"Miss—no, no, please—"

"Quiet," Severus barked. "Winky—dose the draught. A full vial. Merrin, hand me the reknitter."

Winky's hands were shaking so badly she nearly dropped the stopper. But she managed to pour the viscous blood-red liquid into a crystal vial and bring it forward. Severus took it from her, tipped Shalee's head up, and forced the potion down her throat.

She choked once—but swallowed.

"Again," he commanded. "Second vial in four minutes."

Merrin handed over the nerve tincture. Severus applied it directly to the deeper wound, sealing the exposed tissue with magic that made the walls vibrate.

She twitched violently.

"She's coming back," Winky whispered.

Her lips were turning pink again. Her skin warmed slightly beneath his touch. Her pulse strengthened. Her eyes flickered.

But she was still far away.

He lifted her out of the tub with slow, deliberate motion, cradling her against his chest. Blood soaked through his shirt. She didn't move. Her breath was shallow. Her fingers were curled into her own ribs.

"Warm the bed," he told Merrin. "Fire in the hearth. Winky—prepare more potions. Now."

He carried her through the manor. She weighed nothing. She smelled like iron and tears.

By the time he laid her on his bed, her eyes had begun to open.

He sat beside her, one hand pressed lightly to her sternum. Counting the beats.

And then—she screamed.

A sound tore from her lungs like a wild animal had been trapped there, and now it was breaking out.

"No—NO!"

She flailed against the sheets, her legs kicking, her bandaged arms flying up to claw at her face, her chest, the room. She tried to bolt upright but collapsed sideways. Her eyes locked on him, then the bloodstained towels, then the sealed wounds on her wrists.

"No, no, no," she sobbed, voice splintering. "Why—why did you—"

She turned and heaved over the side of the bed, bile and potion residue splashing onto the rug. Winky darted forward with a basin, weeping openly.

"I was almost out," Shalee gasped. "I was almost gone."

She curled in on herself, hands clawing at her arms like she might open the cuts again by sheer force.

"You were supposed to let me go!" she wailed.

Severus tried to reach for her.

She screamed.

"Don't touch me! Don't fucking touch me—"

He froze.

Merrin hovered at the foot of the bed, his face unreadable. Winky stood sobbing behind her hands.

Her voice rose into a wail.

"I did it right this time. I got so close. You can't even let me die!"

"Shalee," he said softly.

She flung a pillow at him.

"Don't you say my name."

The room trembled with silence.

Then, in a low, cracked voice:

"One day, I will do it. You won't stop me next time. You won't find me. I'll do it in a way you can't fix. I'll be free."

She dragged herself off of his bed to the corner next to the hearth and curled up

Severus stood still.

Frozen in the wake of her final words.

She had dragged herself off his bed with the same strength she used to bleed. There was no performance in her grief, no theatrics to manipulate. She meant every word. And she meant to survive only long enough to escape him—or die trying.

The hearth crackled weakly beside her where she collapsed on the floor. Her body curled in on itself like it wanted to disappear. The faint scent of blood, potion, and char still lingered thick in the room.

He backed away.

Quietly.

Wordlessly.

He turned from her.

"Merrin. Winky."

Both elves looked up instantly.

"You are to stay with her," he said, voice low. Hollow. "One of you at all times. From this moment forward."

Winky gave a tearful nod, already fumbling for a fresh blanket. She hesitated, unsure whether Shalee would accept it, but crept close anyway, laying it gently across her shivering frame without touching her.

Shalee did not react.

Merrin stepped forward and conjured a warded perimeter around the hearth. Not to trap her. Not even to protect her.

But to watch.

Severus lingered at the threshold.

She still hadn't looked at him.

He wanted her to. He wanted her to scream again, to spit, to throw something, to curse his name, to prove she was still fighting.

But there was only silence now.

A silence that scared him more than her rage.

He left.

The door closed behind him with a soft hiss of air.

He made it two corridors down before his knees gave out.

Not from weakness.

From the sick realization that he had become exactly what he once swore to destroy.

Back in the bedroom, Winky sat quietly beside the hearth, legs tucked under her, hands folded in her lap.

Shalee hadn't moved.

The blanket draped over her like snowfall on a dying thing. Her breathing was slow, but shallow. Her eyes open, unfocused, staring into the flicker of the flames as if she might find an exit there.

"Miss," Winky whispered eventually. "You is not alone."

Shalee blinked. Once.

Her lips parted, but she didn't speak. Her throat was raw, voice stripped by screaming.

Merrin stood by the window, watching the dark outside.

Minutes passed.

Then an hour.

Neither elf left her side.

When she finally slept, it was not restful. Her body never fully unwound. She curled into herself, arms tight to her chest, and whimpered when Winky tried to transfigure the hearth rug into a cushion.

They let her be.

And in the quiet, Merrin finally looked at Winky, his voice quiet with age and sorrow.

"She is not broken," he said. "But the master may be."

Chapter Text

The sound of the door closing behind him echoed like guilt.

Severus did not return to his study. He did not go to the potions vault or the library or the war room where dark maps of the world were pinned to ancient boards. He walked past them all. Past the grand staircase. Past the rooms that knew his presence too well.

He went up.

To the third floor.

There were rooms on the first floor. Dozens of them. Bedrooms and sitting rooms and libraries filled with tapestries and furniture passed down through blood and war. The second floor held more of the same—closer, more convenient, still noble.

But he couldn't bear it.

She needed space. From him. From this. From the rot he had wrapped around her life like a noose and called safety.

The third floor had been sealed for years. Dust lingered in the corners. But the air was still. Clean. Quiet.

He opened the door to the best of the unused rooms—south-facing windows, tall ceilings, a carved marble hearth. The bed was large, untouched, shrouded in ivory cloth. The drapes still smelled of old lavender.

He stood in the center of the room and stared.

And then he moved.

He peeled the linens off the bed with a flick of his wand, folded the corners with precise transfigurations. He replaced the mattress, too old. Reupholstered the chairs, scrubbed the floors, summoned a trunk of soft, untouched bedding from the manor stores and spelled the fire alight.

Every motion was deliberate.

He conjured a vanity. Stocked the bath with gentle soaps. Set a wardrobe in the corner and hung robes in it—simple ones, soft ones. Things that wouldn't remind her of him.

And all the while, the images played behind his eyes.

Her body curled on the stone floor night after night. Her voice gone from thirst. Her lips cracked from starvation. The bruises on her knees from falling off the conservatory wall. The hair tangled across her face as she whimpered on the hearth, not even trying to hide that she wanted to die.

She had spent two weeks punishing herself in his presence because she had no other place to go.

And he let her.

The realization made him sick. He leaned over the basin and retched, dry and bitter.

He had watched her fold further in on herself every day. Had told himself it was grief. A tantrum. He had rationalized the way she collapsed on the rug instead of the bed. He had justified every moment she didn't speak, every step she took away from him.

And now she was on suicide watch, wrapped in a blanket by a hearth while Merrin cast silent charms to keep her warm, and Winky spelled sharp objects out of every room.

And it was his fault.

He conjured candles. Dozens. Set them high on sconces with soft-glowing light, not bright enough to hurt her eyes. A small bookshelf. A radio, old-fashioned and charmed to tune to anything. He left the windows unlatched. No spells on the door.

A note.

He hesitated.

Then left one. Just a card, folded. Ink dark and deliberate:

You may move here when you are ready. You may lock the door. No one will enter. This room is yours. —S

He placed it on the pillow. Adjusted it twice. Then walked to the center of the room again, stared once more, and closed his eyes.

She would not heal here.

But maybe she could breathe.

It was the first thing he'd given her without taking something in return.

And for now, it would have to be enough.

"Merrin," he called quietly.

A soft pop, and the house elf appeared, blinking up at him.

"Is Winky still with her?"

"Yes, Master Severus. She is sleeping now."

He nodded.

"She is not to be moved until she wakes and is coherent. But when she is... tell her it's hers."

Merrin blinked again. Slowly. And gave a small, respectful nod.

"Will she... be okay, Master?"

Severus didn't answer right away.

He stared back at the bed. At the lavender blanket. At the quiet, distant walls.

"I don't know," he said honestly.

And for once... that truth did not make him feel powerful.

It made him feel human.

And that was a terrible, terrible thing to feel.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

She woke to warmth she didn't remember asking for.

The light filtering in through the curtains was pale gold, angled just enough that it bathed the stone floor in honey. Her cheek, still pressed to the blanket someone must have draped over her, was hot with sleep. Her eyes were swollen. Her throat burned.

She hadn't meant to fall asleep.

Not here.

Not with him still somewhere in the house.

She blinked groggily, her chest tight with old tears. It took her a few seconds to register the presence nearby.

Then she saw him.

The elf. Merrin.

He hadn't moved.

He sat where he'd been all night, high-backed and still, watching her with those ageless, impossible eyes.

Her spine tensed. Her body didn't trust stillness anymore.

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, weakly, trembling with fatigue and the dull weight of too many emotions pushed too far down. Her voice came out small. Rough.

"Why are you staring at me."

Merrin blinked once.

"Because Master said to protect you," he said simply. "And because Merrin wanted to."

She flinched slightly at the honesty in his tone. There was no manipulation in it. No intention. It was just fact.

She sat up slowly, pulling the blanket around herself without thinking. Her body still ached from sleeping on stone. Her skin hurt. Her head pounded.

"Where is he," she muttered, not sure if she meant to ask aloud.

Merrin stood—not quickly, but with a grace unusual in creatures so often forced to bow.

"Master Severus has made a room for you," the elf said. "On the third floor. Far from his own."

Shalee didn't respond.

"You may lock the door," Merrin added. "It is yours."

Something in her chest twitched at that word. Yours.

"I don't want a room," she muttered bitterly, her voice already thick again. "I want to go home."

But the word home fell wrong in her mouth.

It hadn't been hers for some time now. Not really. Not since her engagement. Not since the masks, the expectations, the contracts. And now... that door was gone.

Merrin didn't answer. Just waited.

Shalee closed her eyes for a moment and breathed—slow, shallow, trying not to cry again. Her body was too tired to do it properly.

When she opened them again, Merrin was still there.

Still watching.

Still waiting.

Still protecting.

"Will he be there?" she asked.

"No," Merrin said softly. "Not unless you ask for him."

She blinked again, the burn in her throat tightening.

She didn't say yes.

But she stood up.

And she let Merrin lead her up the stairs.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The door creaked open.

She stepped through slowly, half-expecting something awful to be waiting—another trick, another gilded lie.

But it was just... a room.

Not his.

Not cold.

Not unfamiliar—but not hers, either. Not yet.

It smelled faintly of lavender. Clean air. Sunlight. No incense, no heavy spell residue, no trace of him.

Shalee didn't move past the doorway at first. Her hand still gripped the blanket around her shoulders. She blinked against the light pouring through the tall eastern windows—uncovered, warm, golden.

The light made the wooden floor glow.

To her left, a vanity stood under an old mirror, untouched. A stack of parchment and fresh ink bottles were neatly arranged beside it. The ink was dark violet. Not black. A small thing. Thoughtful. It caught her off guard.

Straight ahead, the bed sat nestled between two thick velvet curtains. Pale purple bedding with soft silver piping. A throw blanket—lavender—draped over the footboard like someone had folded it by hand. Not a house elf. A wizard.

Her steps were slow as she moved farther in.

There was a reading nook built into the window—arched, cushioned, framed by leaded glass. A place to sit. To breathe. Maybe to disappear.

Her throat closed.

A wardrobe stood in the corner. Empty, but waiting. There was a tea tray set atop a table near the wall, with a self-heating charm and a tiny white porcelain cup.

It was, objectively, the most beautiful room she'd seen in weeks.

It was not a prison.

It was not a cell.

It was something gentler—something worse.

It was an apology.

And for some reason, that made her eyes burn harder than anything he'd done before.

She took one shaky step in, then another.

When her hand touched the edge of the bed, she didn't sit down. She just stood there, trying not to sob again, not in front of the elf who had watched her break a dozen times already.

"Does he think this fixes it?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

Merrin, from the doorway, bowed his head slightly. "No, miss."

Shalee pressed her lips together until they hurt.

"Do you?" she asked, sharper.

Merrin looked up. His face was unreadable in the way only very old things can be.

"I think it is a start," he said quietly. "And I think... it is not my forgiveness he wants."

She turned away from him.

Not because he was wrong.

But because he wasn't.

After a long minute, she finally walked to the wardrobe, opened it, and placed the blanket inside. Her fingers lingered on the wooden frame.

She did not cry.

She did not scream.

Merrin remained by the door.

Still watching.

Still protecting.

She sat on the bed, the mattress sank slightly beneath her weight, soft and welcoming. It felt wrong. Too comforting, too gentle. Shalee hadn't touched a bed since she'd arrived—since the moment he'd told her that her only choice was beside him.

Now, sitting here, the softness beneath her thighs, the quiet hush of curtains drawn against daylight, she felt something snap inside.

Her hands trembled, and she pressed them hard against her eyes, but it wasn't enough.

Merrin remained at the doorway, silent but present.

She looked up through blurred vision, desperate for someone—anyone—to hear the truth she'd been forced to carry alone. Her voice came out a whisper, harsh and shaking.

"You know I'm only here because he wants to have sex with me, right?"

Merrin's enormous brown eyes lifted slowly to meet hers. He said nothing, waiting patiently.

She choked on another sob, wiping at her face angrily. "He was my professor. For seven years. He watched me grow up—he taught me potions, he corrected my essays. He's known me since I was a child, Merrin, and now I'm here—in his house—because he wants me."

Her voice cracked sharply, and she drew a painful breath. "He says he won't touch me. He swore it. But how can I believe that?"

She gripped the blanket beneath her fingers, knuckles white. Her eyes were dark, haunted.

"That's why I sleep on the floor," she whispered, barely audible. "Because if I let myself sleep in his bed—one night, I'll wake up with him on top of me. I'll wake up, and he'll be there, taking me like he took everything else. He says he won't, but he's already lied—already tricked me into coming here. How can I believe anything he says now?"

She bent forward, head in her hands, crying again—silent sobs that shook her shoulders and made breathing painful.

Merrin stepped forward carefully, his voice soft, older than stone.

"Master Severus has many wrongs to him," he said gently, his tone calm and unwavering. "He has made grave mistakes. He has hurt you in ways he may never fully see. But this, miss—he would not do. Merrin knows this to be true."

Shalee didn't look up. Her shoulders shook harder, tears dripping onto her lap.

"He already has me trapped," she whispered. "Why wouldn't he just take that too?"

Merrin's eyes softened, reflecting a sadness he rarely showed.

"Because the Master is afraid of losing your soul forever, miss," Merrin murmured quietly. "Even a wizard who has done great harm may have one thing he will never cross. And for Master Severus, that one thing...is you."

The silence afterward felt deeper somehow—broken only by her quiet, ragged breathing.

She wanted to believe Merrin. But she couldn't. Not yet. The fear had wrapped itself too tightly around her bones.

And Merrin, wise enough to know some wounds needed more than words, remained there quietly, faithfully watching, protecting, and grieving—for the girl who had lost so much, and the wizard who didn't yet realize just how deeply he'd broken her.

Chapter Text

Shalee's sobs had gone quiet hours ago.

She lay curled beneath the blanket, eyes closed, mouth slack, her fingers twisted in the edge of the quilt like it might disappear if she let go. Her breathing had steadied, but not softened. Even in sleep, she looked like someone waiting to flinch.

Merrin stood in the doorway. Watching.

She hadn't passed out from grief—she'd fought it until her body gave in.

Behind him, a soft pop.

Winky appeared, wringing her hands hard enough to leave marks. She looked small. Pale.

Merrin didn't turn around. "Is it done?"

Winky nodded. "Everything locked. Everything hidden."

"The bath?"

"Scrubbed twice."

She's dreaming now," Merrin said. "No nightmares. No thrashing. That's more than we had this morning."

Winky's voice shook. "It's all too quiet now."

"She needs quiet."

"But I don't think it's better," Winky whispered. "It's just...waiting."

Merrin glanced back at the bed, then down at her.

"She needs someone here," he said. "She must not wake alone."

Winky sniffed, wiped her nose on her sleeve, and gave a firm nod.

"I'll stay."

Merrin looked at her for a long time—long enough that her eyes dropped again.

Then he vanished.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The lower corridors of the manor were always cold.

Merrin moved through them like a ghost—fast, but never rushed. Unhurried. Intentional.

When he reached the study, Merrin didn't knock.

He walked in.

Severus looked up, startled, but said nothing. His ink pen hovered mid-word. His face was tight, guarded.

Merrin's voice was quiet.

"She's asleep. In the room you made for her."

Severus set the pen down.

"And?" he asked, too sharply.

"She told me she doesn't believe you."

A pause.

Merrin stepped closer.

"She said one night you will come to her while she sleeps. That she'll wake with your hands on her, and your body inside her, and she won't be able to stop it."

Severus froze.

Not like someone insulted.

Like someone struck.

His voice came low, cold, and slow. "I would never—"

"She doesn't know that," Merrin cut in. "Because you've taken everything else. Her name. Her place. Her trust. You tell her she is free—but every day, she wakes to find you've drawn the line one inch closer."

Severus stood. Fast.

His chair scraped against the stone.

"I haven't touched her."

"You don't need to," Merrin snapped. "You sleep in her mind. You haunt her choices. You kept her alive, sure. But not safe. And now she thinks death would be easier than staying under your roof."

Severus flinched—just once.

Merrin stepped forward, gaze unflinching. "I do not speak this out of disloyalty. I speak this because I have watched your heart poison itself over her. And if she dies—if she falls—I will not bury her for you."

At last, Merrin bowed his head once. "You are still her professor, whether she calls you that or not. Start acting like it."

Then, with a final blink, he vanished.

And Severus Snape—Master of the Estate, war hero, feared professor—stood alone in his chamber, stripped of all excuses.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When Merrin returned, the chamber on the third floor was still warm.

Winky had drawn the curtains partway, letting in only a breath of light. A faint breeze moved the edge of the lavender blanket tucked around Shalee's body. She hadn't shifted. Her hair—dark against the pale pillow—fell in a tangled curtain across her cheek.

Winky sat by the window, red-eyed but steady.

Merrin entered without a sound. She looked up and nodded.

"She still sleeps," she whispered. "No dreams. No sounds."

"Good," Merrin said.

He crossed to the bed. Studied her face.

Even asleep, her brow held tension. Her lips were parted just enough to betray the kind of breathing that didn't come from rest, but from surviving. Her body looked hollowed out, emptied by the hours before.

Merrin had seen that look before. It wasn't weakness. It was the weight of something that should never have been carried alone.

He turned to Winky.

"Fetch food. Something soft. Warm."

Winky blinked. "For the mistress?"

"Yes. We'll try again. And bring her cat. She should wake with something that's hers."

Winky gave a small, relieved nod.

Pop.

She vanished.

Merrin turned back to Shalee. Folded his hands behind his back.

"Miss Shalee," he said softly—not to wake her, just to remind the room that she was still here.

Not a prisoner.
Not a project.
A person.

Then he sank into the chair by the wall, the wood creaking under his weight. And waited.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first thing she noticed was warmth.

Not breath on her skin. Not hands. Just warmth—quiet and real.

Then the scent.

Bread. Tea. Honey.

She blinked against the light. The blanket was still on her—she hadn't kicked it off like usual.

Across the room, a tray steamed gently on the vanity.

And on the cushion near the window, something moved.

"Fiona...?"

The cat stretched, then padded across the bed and curled against her hip with a soft chirp.

Shalee made a sound—half-sob, half-laugh—and reached out, stroking soft fur.

"You are safe, mistress," Merrin said quietly from the chair.

She startled—then relaxed. He hadn't moved.

"You stayed," she whispered.

"Yes."

"...Why?"

"Because the master has taken much," Merrin said. "But not your will. And if you are to stay... it should be because you choose to."

Her hand stilled in Fiona's fur.

"I don't have a choice," she muttered.

"Then let this room be your first," Merrin said. "Your own key. Your own air."

He stood slowly, crossed the room, and returned with the tray. Set it down beside her, careful not to disturb the cat.

"Tea. Bread with honey. Ham. Peaches."

Shalee stared at it. Didn't touch it.

"I'm not hungry."

Merrin crouched beside the bed. One hand resting on the quilt, not touching her, just there.

"You don't need to finish. But you must start. For her." He nodded at Fiona. "She would miss you. So would we."

Her throat tightened. Her voice came raw. "He's not going to let me go."

"No," Merrin said. "He won't. But neither will we let you fall."

That word.

We.

Not him.

Not the master.

We.

Her eyes dropped to the cat again. The steady thrum of purring, alive and close.

"If I eat... will you stay?"

"I will stay as long as you need."

"...Even if I don't talk?"

"Especially then."

She reached for the bread. Her hands shook.

One bite. Just one.

Merrin exhaled. 

The first bite settled in her mouth like dust.

Shalee forced herself to swallow.

The second bite trembled in her hand—but she took it anyway. Slower. Her teeth barely touched the bread before she paused again, a strangled breath catching in her throat.

Merrin didn't move. He remained beside the bed, silent as dusk.

Her stomach, long dormant, gave a faint, confused lurch.

That... was hunger.

Real, animal hunger. Not appetite, not desire—but need.

It had been weeks.

Weeks of picking at toast, of sipping tea and lying about having eaten. Weeks of surviving off  willpower, and spite.

Now it returned. All of it.

The ham followed. Then a few soft slices of peach. Her hands still shook with every motion. But the cat remained on her lap, and Merrin remained at her side.

She didn't speak again.

She simply ate.

Slowly. Brokenly. But she ate.

When she could bear no more, she set the last bite down and leaned back against the pillows, dizzy from the act of it. Her lips were slightly sticky from honey. Her body hurt—but in a different way now. Like a long-frozen limb beginning to thaw.

Merrin stood.

"May I tidy the tray, miss?"

She nodded once.

He lifted the tray with careful hands, not spilling a drop, and turned to set it aside on the writing desk in the corner.

"Will you stay with me?" she asked again, voice so soft he nearly missed it.

Merrin turned back to her immediately. "Yes, mistress. Of course."

"You're the only one who doesn't look at me like I'm... broken."

"You are not broken," Merrin said, approaching the bedside once more. "You are grieving. That is not the same."

Shalee reached for Fiona again. Her fingertips found the cat's soft ears and traced them absently.

"I feel broken."

Merrin sat back in his chair.

"That is something time must be allowed to heal. Not magic. Not even kindness. Just time."

"...Do you think he regrets it?" she asked, eyes fixed on the window. "What he did to me?"

Merrin was quiet for a long time.

Then: "Yes. I think he regrets it more than he can speak aloud."

"But he wouldn't undo it if he could," she whispered bitterly.

"No," Merrin agreed. 

She said nothing after that. Her eyes were dry, but they were far away.

Merrin tucked the quilt around her gently and resumed his seat.

She dozed lightly for a while after that, her body exhausted from the simple act of eating. Every so often, she twitched—gripping the edge of the blanket, whispering soft, half-spoken words.

Merrin watched, unmoving.

He would stay. Until Winky came. Until another took his place. Until she no longer needed watching.

But he doubted that day would come soon.

Not for her.

Not in this house.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The third-floor corridor had not seen light in years.

He'd enchanted the sconces to burn softly. The bed—an heirloom from his grandmother's estate—had been freshly dressed. Wardrobes had been emptied for her use. A small desk sat beside the bay window, and two warm rugs stretched across the stone floor. She had books now. A view of the grounds. A door that locked, not because it could stop him, but because it gave the illusion of privacy.

And the illusion mattered now.

Because Merrin had been right.

He hadn't given her room.

He'd taken everything and left nothing in its place except himself.

And she had chosen the stone over him. Had chosen starvation, silence, and pain over the comfort he offered.

Because comfort from him came at a cost she would not pay.

He stood in the small antechamber just outside her door, arms folded behind his back, staring at the flame of a wall-mounted lamp. He didn't try to go in. He wouldn't—not yet. Not after what Merrin had said. 

The nausea hadn't left since that moment.

Even now, something in his gut rolled like sickness.

He had not seen her since the incident. Had not heard her voice except through the echo of Merrin's memories—replayed through the estate's subtle bond with its master. Her words burned still:

"One day I'll do it, and you won't be able to stop me."

He clenched his jaw.

She had meant it.

The worst part—the part that unsettled him more than anything—was that he understood why.

He had meant to save her. He told himself that. Convinced himself that taking her would spare her from a life of mediocrity, from being passed from one man's control to another.

But instead... she'd fallen apart.

And it was his bed she refused to touch. His food she rejected. His presence that made her flinch.

There was no triumph in it.

Only sickness. Rot.

And yet—beneath it all—he still wanted her.

He still woke in the early hours of the morning with her name in his throat and the ache of wanting her pressed hard against his skin. He still replayed her voice in his mind, even when she was screaming at him. He still imagined what it would be like to feel her finally soften against him, willingly, begging for his touch with those tear-rimmed eyes and that trembling mouth.

It disgusted him.

It thrilled him.

And it left him standing here, as though watching this flame might make him something else.

A better man.

A man she might choose.

The soft pop of apparition behind him startled him.

He turned.

Merrin stood at attention, hands folded in front of him.

"She has eaten," the elf said simply.

Severus's breath caught.

"...How much?"

"Enough."

A silence fell between them.

"She asked if you regret it."

His throat tightened. "And?"

"I told her you did."

Another silence.

"But I also told her you wouldn't undo it."

Severus looked away. "Because I wouldn't."

"I know."

Merrin stepped closer, his voice lower now.

"She's asked for no one. She calls for nothing. But she ate for me. That means something."

"I don't want her to need you," Severus hissed under his breath.

Merrin's eyes didn't flinch. "Then stop making her fear you."

Severus turned away.

Merrin watched him for a moment longer, then bowed.

"She sleeps again now. I will remain with her."

The elf disappeared.

And Severus stood in the hall, hands balled into fists, still aching.

Still lost.

Still in love with the girl who would rather starve than be touched by him.

Chapter Text

The light outside had changed.

From gold to slate.

The room was dim now, save for the soft flicker of the enchanted lantern on the wall and the low-burning fire in the hearth. Fiona was still curled at Shalee's feet, her tail twitching every so often in a dream.

Merrin hadn't moved.

He sat at the desk now, not to work, but simply to give her space. A book lay open before him, untouched.

He heard the shift before he saw her move.

The rustle of the blanket. A change in her breathing.

Shalee blinked slowly, her eyes adjusting to the room again. Her head turned just slightly toward him.

"You stayed," she said, hoarse.

"Of course."

She sat up a little. Her hair was tangled. Her eyes still puffy. But she looked less like a girl on the edge of the cliff now, and more like someone who had stepped back—even just one pace.

Merrin turned in the chair, folding his small hands over one another.

"If it's not too much," he said carefully, "Merrin would like to ask you something."

She gave him a faint nod.

"Who are you, Miss Shalee?"

She looked down.

It took her a long time to answer.

"I don't know anymore."

"Then tell Merrin who you were. We can start there."

She swallowed thickly. "I was... I was an artist."

Merrin tilted his head.

"What kind of artist?"

"Painting," she whispered. "Mostly. But I sang too. I play piano. Violin. A little guitar."

He blinked, impressed. "A small orchestra."

She gave a sad little laugh, surprised it even came out. "My mother said a pureblood girl should have elegant hobbies."

"Those sound like passions. Not pastimes."

She nodded faintly. "They were. Still are, I think. I just... I always knew I wouldn't get to do anything with them. Not really. Not out in the world."

"Because you were meant to marry?"

She hesitated. "Yes."

"Were you good? At Hogwarts?"

"I was at the top of my year in Charms. My marks were decent across the board."

"And yet you weren't encouraged to continue."

Shalee looked out the window now, her voice flat. "Why would I be? I'm an only child. The pretty one. The obedient one. My whole life was already decided."

Merrin gave a soft hum. "But you were not obedient, in the end."

"No," she whispered. "I suppose I wasn't."

He didn't fill the silence this time.

She broke it herself, voice trembling. "Merrin... do you think I'm still allowed to be those things? An artist? A singer?"

His eyes softened.

"Merrin thinks you must be. Or they will begin to die inside you."

"Even here?"

"Especially here."

She turned toward him. "He won't let me go."

"No," Merrin said gently. "But he may yet let you live. That part, Miss Shalee, is still yours to claim."

She said nothing after that.

But the expression in her eyes had changed.

The firelight reflected off the quiet sheen of tears as she looked down at her hands.

Merrin stood quietly.

"I'll have Winky bring your dinner soon."

She didn't protest this time.

And as he left the room, he made a silent promise to himself:

He would speak to the master tonight.

Because if she was to stay in this house... she must be given something back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Severus sat in silence, the fire low and the room dim. Papers cluttered the desk before him, untouched.

He hadn't moved in hours.

When Merrin appeared, it was without ceremony.

No bow. No greeting.

Just a quiet pop and the sound of small feet stepping forward.

Severus didn't look up. "Is she—"

"She lives," Merrin said, voice tight. "She eats. She rests. But she does not smile, Master. She does not laugh. She does not want."

Severus finally looked at him.

Merrin's eyes were wide, old, and still.

"Master must forgive Merrin," he said. "But Merrin must say what is not his place."

Severus said nothing.

Merrin stepped closer

"The girl speaks of music," he said. "Of painting. Of things that made her heart full, once. She remembers what she had. And she knows she has nothing of it now."

His hands were folded neatly in front of him, as always. But there was tension in the way he held them.

"She sits in that room with a cat and a chair," Merrin continued, "and Merrin tells her it is hers. But nothing in that room belongs to her. Nothing is hers in truth."

Severus's brow furrowed, barely. "What does she—"

"She needs a piano," Merrin said firmly. "She needs paints. Brushes. Paper."

There was no emotion in his tone. Just certainty. A line being drawn.

"Merrin has served the Prince line for one hundred and eighty-four years," he said. "Merrin has buried five masters. He has never spoken like this. Not once."

His eyes did not blink.

"But Merrin cannot watch her disappear."

Severus's voice was low. "You think these things will save her?"

Merrin hesitated. Then: "No. But it may remind her she exists."

A pause. Then another step forward.

"Master must fix what was broken."

Severus didn't argue.

He only said, quietly, "Then I will."

"I'll see to it."

Merrin looked at him a moment longer. 

"She does not believe you love her, Master. But Merrin thinks she might believe you regret."

Severus said nothing.

Merrin lowered his head—not in deference, but in finality.

Then he vanished.

And Severus, for the first time in days, stood.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

By seven-fifteen, the order was placed.

It would arrive by floo in the very early hours of the morning. Custom-handled. Discreet. No signatures. No delays.

Severus hadn't needed to explain himself. Gold was a language older than guilt, and he used it fluently.

He didn't linger in the study after that. He didn't pour a drink or brood by the fire.

He climbed the stairs.

All the way to the third floor.

He stayed far from her room at the end of the hall. The one where Merrin had stayed behind. The one with Winky now curled in the corner chair, half-dozing, her ear twitching every so often.

He didn't look toward it. He didn't allow himself to pause.

He stepped into the first room on the wing—a room that had once been a formal parlor, long ago when the estate still played host to gatherings. It was the largest room on the entire floor, its tall arched windows shuttered but intact, the ceiling high and curved like the inside of a bell.

Dust coated every surface.

The rugs were still rolled up from a past cleaning that had never resumed.

And the shelves—

They were still cluttered with the remnants of a life that had nothing to do with hers. Old spellbooks. Tattered wands. Broken timepieces and stored junk from a lineage of men long dead.

It had to go.

All of it.

Severus pulled the drapes back with a rough tug, letting moonlight spill in. Then he rolled up his sleeves and began the work himself.

No magic. Not yet.

Not for this.

He emptied the shelves with his own hands, lifting, bending, discarding. He moved the furniture—dragged out old trunks, tossed the moth-eaten armchair into the corridor, broke down the warping tables stacked with useless relics.

The dust clung to his skin. The sweat curled at his collar.

But he kept going.

When he did use magic, it was only to scour the corners clean—charmed cloths darting through every crevice, scraping decades of grime from the window panes, the baseboards, the old crown molding.

He reinforced the walls with fresh enchantments for temperature and sound. Re-sealed the windows so she wouldn't feel the chill of winter when it came.

The floors were stripped. The last of the heavy velvet curtains vanished in a plume of ash.

He worked for hours.

He didn't eat. Didn't pause.

The only sound was the hush of his breath and the thump of his heartbeat in his ears.

At some point, Winky appeared to bring him tea. He didn't notice.

She left it on the windowsill and vanished again without a word.

When the firelight of early morning touched the horizon, Severus was still at it—on his knees, scrubbing the hearth clean, whispering a spell into the stonework to keep the room warm and bright no matter the season.

And then—

A pulse of magic at the floo downstairs.

They had arrived.

He stood up slowly, stretching his back with a hiss, wiping his face with his sleeve. Dust streaked his skin, and his palms were raw.

But there was a strange stillness in his chest now.

Something different from guilt.

Something like hope.

He descended the staircase, silently, and went to receive the delivery—not as the man who had broken her.

But as the one who now meant to give her back the pieces he could.

One by one.

Chapter Text

It was dawn when Severus stood back, breathing deeply, eyes heavy from exhaustion, his sleeves rolled up, his fingertips still tingling from the magical effort of the past hours.

The room had transformed entirely.

No trace remained of the old, forgotten parlor. Instead, the space was now a haven—a sanctuary carefully crafted around one thing: the artist who would soon fill it.

The grand piano stood near the wide windows, polished ebony catching the first hints of morning glow. Beside it rested a beautifully carved violin, both expertly crafted from dark wood, gleaming gently beneath protective charms. A guitar stood nearby, elegant, simple, inviting.

Across from the musical instruments, he had arranged the studio: large, polished wooden cabinets lined the walls, their doors slightly ajar to reveal shelves brimming with canvases of every size and texture—hundreds, stacked neatly, waiting for her touch. Next to these were rows of paints meticulously organized by type and color—rich oils, delicate watercolors, vibrant pressed pigments, all arranged so precisely it resembled something between a museum and a master artist’s collection.

An artist’s wheel and kiln sat prominently but unobtrusively toward the back, surrounded by shelves filled with pottery supplies—fine clays, elegant glazes, tools crafted for skilled, patient hands.

Nearby, a tall bookshelf held hundreds of leather-bound piano books, blank music journals, quills, inks, sketchbooks, and thick paper bound into beautiful journals, ready for her inspiration to fill them.

Every inch had been touched with gentle care. Every object placed exactly where it might feel natural to her—accessible, inviting, meant to encourage rather than overwhelm.

The charms he’d laid into the very walls and floor hummed gently, keeping the temperature perfect, protecting the instruments and art supplies from aging or harm. Comfort spells settled subtly into the air, designed to soothe anxiety and quiet despair.

His eyes stung, but he didn’t rub them.

He only stood, staring quietly around him.

The room was magnificent—not merely because of its expense or elegance, but because it had come entirely from a place he rarely acknowledged within himself. Passion. Love. Grief. Guilt.

Footsteps sounded gently behind him.

Merrin stood at the doorway, perfectly still, eyes wide with astonishment.

“Master…” the elf began softly, but his voice broke slightly. He took a step forward, looking around the room in awe. “Master Severus, this is…”

He seemed unable to finish.

Severus watched the elf, weary but resolute. “Is it enough, Merrin?”

Merrin turned slowly, taking in the room again, his wise eyes shimmering faintly in the dimness. “It is more than enough. It is… extraordinary.”

Severus nodded once, silently.

Merrin took another step closer, his small hands clasped carefully together. “She will feel it. That you spared no expense… and no piece of yourself.”

Severus exhaled slowly, turning to gaze at the grand piano, polished like black glass. “I have broken her,” he whispered. “I cannot heal her. But perhaps, with this, she can begin to heal herself.”

Merrin gave a gentle nod. “Yes, Master Severus.”

Severus reached forward, lightly adjusting a single music book atop the piano. His hands lingered, fingers tracing the gilded lettering across its spine.

“Will she hate it because it came from me?”

Merrin moved closer. “No. She may not yet forgive, Master. But she will see this room for what it is: proof you truly see her. Perhaps that is enough for now.”

Severus straightened, stepping slowly back toward the doorway, exhaustion settling heavily into his

He glanced back once more at the room—a small piece of hope, carved painstakingly from regret—and then turned away.

As he moved silently down the stairs, Merrin stood alone, gazing around the exquisite space, the air still humming gently with the magic of Severus’s devotion.

“No,” Merrin whispered to himself, softly shaking his head, “you have not healed her. But you have finally shown her she deserves to heal.”

The third floor was still dim and hushed when Merrin returned to her room.

He moved softly, though there was little risk of waking her too early. The room was warded against harsh sound and chill drafts now—Severus had insisted. The bed curtains remained partially drawn, her figure curled beneath the covers in the same place he had left her hours ago. She had not stirred.

He carried a silver tray balanced perfectly between his long fingers. On it sat a warm breakfast: toast lightly buttered, a poached egg, sliced fruit, and a cup of calming tea brewed with chamomile and a touch of raspberry leaf. A comfort blend, one the old cook used to make for the late Lady Prince whenever she suffered spells of melancholy.

He placed it on the table near the window, then crossed to the bedside and lowered himself onto the cushioned bench at her feet. Winky had vanished when he entered—quiet magic, shifting places. There would always be someone here. There would never again be a moment where the girl could be alone long enough to vanish.

He folded his hands into his lap and waited.

The sky outside was beginning to soften, the first shy hues of gold touching the far hills beyond the estate.

Shalee stirred.

At first, just a shift beneath the covers. Then a soft, barely audible exhale—tension dragging across her shoulders as if she was bracing for another day in a place she hadn’t chosen.

Merrin didn’t speak right away.

Only when her eyes opened and blinked, slowly adjusting to the light, did he lean forward and speak gently.

“Good morning, Miss Shalee.”

Her eyes moved toward him, heavy with sleep, but clearer than the days before.

He nodded once toward the tray. “You have breakfast. Just beside the window. Still warm.”

She said nothing. But after a pause, she pushed herself up to sitting. Her movements were stiff, cautious. As if her own body still felt foreign to her.

She slid her feet over the edge of the bed, grounding herself. The room remained quiet but for the soft clink of the teacup as she lifted it with slow, tentative hands.

Merrin waited until she had taken a few bites—fruit first, then half a piece of toast—before he spoke again.

“There is something for you, Miss,” he said gently, folding his hands again. “When you is feeling ready. Not now, not if it’s too soon.”

She looked up.

He smiled softly. “It’s in the first room on this floor. The one near the stairs. The master… he wished for you to have space. A room that is yours, and only yours.”

Shalee’s face remained unreadable, but her fingers tightened slightly around the teacup.

Merrin added, “No one will enter without your say. It is not for watching. Not for keeping. It is for being.”

He did not say what Master Severus had poured into it. He did not say how many hours the man had worked, bone-tired and grief-struck, to create something beautiful just for her.

He knew it would matter more if she saw it for herself.

“You may go when you like,” he said simply. “And if you prefer, Merrin will go with you.”

A long silence settled. She returned her gaze to the tea, her lashes low over shadowed eyes.

But she had eaten.

And she had listened.

And Merrin, who had lived many lifetimes of human suffering, knew what small miracles looked like.

He smiled softly and remained seated, waiting. Always waiting.

For when she was ready.

Shalee didn’t speak when she finished her tea. She left a slice of pear uneaten, her fingers brushing it absently before withdrawing. Merrin—ever watchful, ever still—waited.

At length, she pushed the tray aside and rose without a word. Her nightdress hung softly around her, sleeves slightly askew, hair still tangled from sleep. But her shoulders were square. Her chin, for once, not tucked.

Merrin stood as well.

He didn’t ask. He didn’t speak. Only moved ahead, slow and careful, leading her out of the bedroom and into the still-silent corridor beyond.

The floorboards on the third level were older, waxed smooth with time and memory. The long hallway stretched before them, the tall windows letting in a wash of morning light.

She followed Merrin, barefoot, silent.

And then he stopped.

At the first door.

He opened it with a nod and stepped aside.

She passed him slowly.

And stopped just past the threshold.

For several long seconds, she didn’t breathe.

It was a sun-washed expanse—soft golden light pouring through the tall windows onto polished wood floors. The smell of varnish and oil paints hung gently in the air, not sharp, but warm. Familiar.

The piano caught her eye first.

Not just any piano—a grand piano, black as ink and glistening beneath the charms woven into the wood. The lid was propped gently open. There were music books beside it. She saw a handwritten note tucked between the pages of the top one, though she didn’t approach it just yet.

She took a step forward.

Then another.

Her hand brushed the violin as she passed it—resting on ornate stands like it had always belonged there. She turned her head slowly, taking in the easels, the hundreds of untouched canvases, the endless paints… sorted, labeled, arranged in color gradients that would have made her mother’s lip curl in disdain.

She stared.

Then turned toward the opposite corner—where she saw the pottery wheel, the kiln, the collection of clays, glazes, brushes. Journals. Ink pots. Quills. Blank sheet music.

And in the center of the room, a chair beside a small table with a cup of brushes, and a single sketchbook lying open.

Her name was written inside it.

Shalee Sue.

Not her full name, not the formal one that was always used at parties and fundraisers and bloody galas.

Her real name.

The one she used to sign on drawings she hid beneath the floorboards of her childhood bedroom.

Her hand trembled slightly.

Behind her, Merrin stepped in quietly. “The master asked that I show you, Miss.”

She didn’t turn.

She whispered, “Why?”

Merrin paused. “Because he is trying.”

She closed her eyes.

Not because she believed it.

But because it hurt that part of her wanted to.

She turned away from the sketchbook, drifting slowly toward the piano. The keys were gleaming, freshly polished, warm to the touch. When she lowered herself onto the bench and gently touched one, the note rang out pure and clean.

She flinched.

Then pressed another.

Then another.

Just a chord. Soft. Unfinished.

Like she was.

She whispered again, “He did all of this for me.”

Merrin said nothing.

Because there was nothing more to say.

She sat at the piano for a long time. Not playing. Not speaking.

Just… breathing.

For the first time in weeks.

She didn’t move from the piano for a long time.

Her fingers hovered above the keys, frozen in the act of maybe playing. But the music never came. Only a quiet, uneven breath. Then another. And another.

She wiped her cheek before she even realized she’d started crying.

It wasn’t a collapse. It wasn’t the choking, shattering sobs she’d known too well in the days before. This was quieter. A softer unraveling. The kind that curled under her ribs and pressed out through trembling hands.

She stood, slowly, and made her way past the string instruments, touching each one as if they might vanish.

Everything was exquisite. Antique. Tuned.

The violin was so similar to the one she’d begged her father for in third year. He’d laughed and said what use would a wife have for calluses on her fingers?

But the one here—this one gleamed like it had been chosen for her. Like someone had remembered.

She swallowed hard.

The canvases were next. So many sizes—small enough to tuck on a windowsill, large enough to cover the entire wall. All stacked neatly in a cabinet with velvet-lined shelves. She ran her hand over the edge of the wooden organizer—beautiful mahogany with etched brass handles. It matched the room’s old floors perfectly. The supplies inside were categorized with careful magical labeling. Pigments from every range—some she’d only ever read about. Some she had dreamed of using but never touched.

Watercolors, oils, powders, even pressed metallic pigments in ancient tins. It was overwhelming.

Too much.

And yet… not too much.

It was right.

She stepped toward the far corner where the clay was kept. Boxes of it—soft, pliable, wet. Tools arranged in an elegant rolling cart beside a kiln that had been fitted with magic to regulate its firing temperature perfectly.

Her throat tightened.

It wasn’t just that this room had everything she’d ever loved.

It was that he had known.

She had no idea how. She had barely spoken to him as a student. They had hardly exchanged more than the expected academic interactions. Certainly nothing like… this. Not even close.

And yet—

The clay. The paint. The violin.

Even the damn sketchbooks—the same brand she used to steal from the art shops in Muggle London when her mother wouldn’t buy her more than one per term.

How did he know?

She wrapped her arms around herself, a sob finally breaking loose—not loud, but raw. It caught her off guard, and she sank down slowly onto the floor in the center of the room. The sunlight touched her toes through the high windows.

Merrin didn’t move from his spot by the door.

He just watched with sad, gentle eyes.

She whispered, “Why would he do this…”

No one answered.

But in the stillness, her mind provided the words she didn’t want to believe.

Because he saw you.

Because he wanted something from her.

Because he felt guilty.

Because he—

Because he cared.

Even if it was twisted. Even if it was selfish. Even if it was wrong.

No one—not her mother, not her father, not her fiancé—had ever paid this much attention. No one had ever built her a place to be herself.

She cried again. Silent, shaking tears.

And for the first time in days… she didn’t want to disappear.

She just wanted to understand.

The sun had begun its slow rise, casting dappled morning light through the tall studio windows. Shalee remained seated on the floor, arms wrapped tightly around her legs, forehead pressed against her knees. She had stopped crying some time ago, but her breath still trembled, and her shoulders still carried the silent echo of her grief.

Merrin sat quietly in the corner, respectfully turned away, hands folded in his lap. He had not moved since she crumpled to the ground. He had not needed to. Her pain was a language he understood.

The door creaked open just slightly.

Not enough for sound.

Not enough for Shalee to notice.

But Merrin’s ear twitched.

At the far end of the third floor corridor, cloaked in the tall shadow of the hallway arch, Severus stood just outside the frame.

Severus didn’t move.

He didn’t dare.

His gaze fell on her instantly—drawn to her like a lodestone, unbidden and unwanted and inevitable. Her bare feet curled against the wood. Her nightdress loose around her knees. Her head bowed so far she looked folded in on herself, like a wilted flower forgotten in the dark.

He watched the rise and fall of her shoulders, the tightness of her grip around her knees. She looked smaller than she had three days ago.

He hadn’t slept since.

Every word she screamed at him had been replayed. Rewritten. Etched into the hollows of his ribs.

“I’ll do it one day, and you won’t be able to stop me.”

He had pushed her too hard. Cornered her. She had asked for freedom and he had wrapped it in the shape of himself—an unspoken price, a twisted contract. And when she’d fallen, when she’d broken… he hadn’t even let her be alone.

He was poison.

And yet—

Here she was.

In the studio he had made for her.

Not for control.

Not for penance.

But because for the first time in his wretched life, he had wanted to give someone something beautiful. Something untouched by shame.

He didn’t know how to say that.

He didn’t know if he ever could.

So he stayed in the doorway. Silent. Still.

And watched the girl he had stolen from the altar, the girl he would never deserve, cradle herself in the middle of the world he had built for her.

He wouldn’t speak.

Not yet.

He would wait.

For once in his life… he would wait.

She didn’t hear the door open.

But she felt him.

Like a shift in the room’s pressure, or the way the air changed before a storm—every part of her prickled with awareness. Her skin knew before her mind caught up.

She didn’t lift her head.

Didn’t speak.

But her breath hitched.

Her hands curled tighter around her shins.

Severus didn’t move. He hadn’t stepped inside the room. He didn’t need to. He knew she knew. The bond between them now—though fractured and raw—was tethered tight. Guilt, grief, obsession, care. A snarl of threads tangled across the space between them.

Merrin’s gaze flicked toward the door but he said nothing.

No one said anything.

The silence pressed heavy against the walls, like the studio itself was holding its breath.

Severus stayed where he was, shadowed, unmoving. The dark silhouette of his frame barely visible behind the doorway.

Shalee’s shoulders trembled.

She didn’t want to look at him.

Because if she did, she didn’t know what would happen.

Would she scream?

Would she cry again?

Would she try to run?

Or—gods forbid—would she let him see the confusion carved into her chest?

The part of her that didn’t understand why, after everything, she still wanted to know what his face looked like while he watched her.

Why he had done this for her.

Why he still hadn’t come in.

But she didn’t turn.

She didn’t dare.

Instead, she whispered—not loud enough for a normal man to hear, but loud enough for him:

“…why?”

The question was shaped like a child’s.

Soft, trembling, afraid.

Severus’s hand tensed against the doorframe.

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

Shalee let her eyes slide closed. She hated him. And she didn’t. And she did.

And none of it made sense.

But this room… this space… this gift… it did something to her insides.

She should hate him. She does.

But he saw her. Maybe the only one who ever truly had.

And that truth, heavy as it was, sat in the center of the studio like a second presence.

She spoke again—barely audible.

“Is this supposed to make it better?”

The silence stretched for so long that she almost thought he might leave.

Part of her wanted him to. To vanish, to dissolve, to take his shadow and disappear down the stairs like he had every right to.

But he didn’t.

And then his voice came.

Low. Threaded with gravel and quiet sorrow. No pretense. No mask.

“No,” he said. “It isn’t meant to make it better.”

Shalee didn’t move. Her eyes remained fixed on the floor, though the trembling had returned.

“It won’t,” he continued. “Nothing I do will. I know that.”

She dug her fingernails into her arms. Her throat burned, but she said nothing.

“I stole something from you.” His words were deliberate.

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it.

He sounded… older, somehow. Not the imposing figure she had feared, or the strange man who had consumed her world like wildfire. He sounded like someone who knew just how much damage he’d done—and was still haunted by the sound of it.

“I see what I did to you every time you look away from me,” he said. “Every time you sleep on the floor. Every time you won’t eat unless someone’s there to make you.”

Her chest ached. She hated how much truth he spoke. Hated it more that she wanted to believe the rest.

“I did this,” he said. “And I am so… deeply sorry, Shalee.”

She flinched.

Her name. Not Miss Cromwell. Not my dear. Not girl.

“For what it’s worth,” he added, “I didn’t make this room to absolve myself.”

Her eyes closed again, but she turned her face slightly—just enough to see the outline of him in her periphery. Still outside. Still not daring to cross.

“I made it because I hoped it might help you breathe.”

Shalee didn’t speak.

Couldn’t.

Not yet.

But something in her began to crack—not in the way it had when she shattered, but in the way a frozen river begins to shift beneath the sun. Small. Subtle. Almost invisible.

She lowered her forehead to her knees again, hiding her tears.

But this time, they didn’t sting with betrayal.

They burned with confusion. And grief. And something soft that hadn’t had a name in a long, long time.

“I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Her voice broke the stillness like glass. Quiet, ragged, trembling. But it was a beginning.

Severus didn’t answer immediately. He stood in the doorway with his hand braced against the frame, head bowed slightly. Her voice, more than her tears, undid him.

Shalee wiped her face on the sleeve of her cardigan. “Two weeks ago, I was planning a wedding I didn’t want. And now I’m here. In a stranger’s house.” Her voice cracked again. “In your house.”

A beat.

“I was your student for seven years,” she whispered. “You watched me grow up.”

“I did,” Severus said, softly.

“Then how could you do this?”

His breath caught. Her voice wasn’t sharp—wasn’t angry. That would’ve been easier. She just sounded… lost.

He stepped closer, but only just—remaining in the shadow of the doorframe, careful not to cross whatever invisible line she had drawn in the floorboards.

“I thought I was offering you a way out,” he said. “But I gave you a cage.”

Shalee didn’t argue.

She couldn’t.

Because it was a cage. Even if it was gilded.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to look at him—truly look. His robes were simple. His expression drawn and older than she remembered. But his eyes… his eyes were the same. Deep. Hooded. Laced with something complicated and unreadable.

She drew her knees closer to her chest. “Did you ever really intend to let me go?”

“No.”

The honesty hit like a blow.

But for some reason… it didn’t surprise her.

He continued. “Not when you said you’d give anything. Not after that.”

She exhaled shakily. “I didn’t understand what I was saying.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

“And still,” she said quietly, “you took me.”

His jaw clenched. But his voice was quiet. “Yes.”

He closed his eyes. “I’m selfish. And possessive. And I didn’t know any other way to have you.”

The words hung heavy between them. Shalee stared at him—really stared—for the first time since she’d arrived. He looked exhausted. Haunted. There were deep grooves beneath his eyes, like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

“You could’ve done anything,” she whispered. “You could’ve helped me leave without… without this.”

“Yes.” His voice cracked. “But I wanted you. Not just to help you. I wanted—” He swallowed. “I wanted you here. With me. I told myself it wasn’t cruel. That I’d give you everything. That you’d never want for anything.”

Shalee stared at him, her expression unreadable.

“I thought you would come to me in time,” he said, more quietly. “That you’d see what I could be for you. That you’d want me back.”

Shalee felt the breath leave her lungs.

“That’s not love,” she whispered.

“No,” he said. “It’s not.”

He looked down at his hands. They were shaking slightly. He folded them behind his back.

“But I think I’m learning,” he added. “Slowly. Too slowly.”

Shalee looked away again.

And for a long time, neither of them spoke.

Then finally—barely above a breath—she murmured, “This room is beautiful.”

Severus’s eyes lifted.

Shalee wasn’t looking at him anymore. She was looking at the cabinet full of sketchbooks. At the violin. At the sunlight warming the piano keys.

“No one’s ever done something like this for me,” she whispered.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Then finally said, “Then they’ve all been fools.”

Another silence.

This one not quite as sharp.

She didn’t smile. But her breathing was slower now. Less tight. And though her knees were still hugged close, her body had uncoiled just slightly from the tension of before.

“I don’t forgive you,” she said.

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” he replied.

“But this… this makes it easier.”

Something shifted in his chest.

He nodded.

And took a step back—retreating from the door without another word.

Chapter Text

Shalee didn't move for a long time after he left. The studio was silent again except for the ticking of a distant old clock and the occasional creak of the manor settling. Merrin remained with her, seated on the floor beside the piano bench, not speaking, only watching—his large eyes full of knowing patience and wordless worry.

Eventually, she stood.

Something in her chest had gone still—not calmed, not soothed, just silenced, like a bell that had finally stopped ringing. She walked to the far corner of the room where her paints were stored. Without a word, she began to gather brushes, canvases, oils. Her hands moved with strange precision, like she was operating outside herself, like her body remembered something her mind didn't have access to anymore.

Merrin stayed quiet but stood as well, moving to open drawers, pass materials, fetch a small bowl of water. He didn't question her when she refused the plate of food Winky had left on the side table. He simply frowned, ears drooping low.

She worked in silence.

The canvas was large. Brutal white.

She painted in deep crimsons, dark ochres, heavy textures.

Hours passed.

It was almost nightfall when she finally stepped back.

Her hands were stained. Her sleeves soaked. There were blotches of pigment on her cheek and temple.

Merrin stood beside her now, his breath caught.

The painting was visceral. A man's hands gripped a pomegranate, torn open violently, blood-red juice dripping across a pale surface. Seeds scattered in every direction. The fingers were raw, knuckles tense. The pressure of the grip felt almost suffocating.

He stared.

He knew those hands.

He'd seen them clutch parchment, cradle books, twist wand and potion bottle. He'd seen them tremble in anger, clench in guilt, stroke the young mistress's hair when she was unconscious on the floor.

And he saw now what she saw.

He turned to her just as she raised one trembling finger and pointed to the pomegranate.

Her voice came out a whisper, barely audible.
"That's me."

Merrin's throat tightened. A helplessness swelled inside him, heavier than words. He moved beside her and gently touched her wrist with his small, knotted fingers. She didn't pull away this time.

For several minutes, they just stood together in the echoing stillness of the studio. Her paint-streaked hand hung limp at her side. His other hand rested lightly near hers.

After a long silence, Shalee moved slowly toward the canvas again. Her movements were careful now, almost reverent. She bent slightly, picking up a slender brush, and dipped it carefully into dark pigment, deep as spilled blood. She signed her name in the bottom corner—delicate, trembling, almost hidden beneath the violence of the painting.

She stepped back, regarding the work a final time, then turned to Merrin. Her voice was low, steady, quiet with something stronger than grief—resolve.
"Will you give this to him, Merrin?"

The elf's ears twitched slightly, his large eyes widening with concern.
"Miss Shalee...are you certain?"

She nodded slowly. Her eyes were shadowed, but clear. "He should see it. He should know exactly what he's done."

Merrin bowed his head. "As you wish, Miss."

Shalee hesitated briefly, looking once more at the painting. It hurt, somehow, to leave it. Like she was giving away a piece of herself that she could never reclaim.

But she turned anyway, quietly leaving the room.

Merrin watched her retreating figure until it disappeared into the corridor, then turned his attention back to the canvas. He carefully lifted the canvas with magic, not touching the fresh paint, and moved to deliver it exactly as she had asked.

Shalee stepped quietly into her bedroom, the door closing softly behind her. Winky sat immediately upright in the small armchair near the window, her large eyes full of quiet worry.

"Miss," Winky said softly, standing up. "Are you alright?"

Shalee didn't answer. She merely crossed to the bed, climbed beneath the covers, and curled tightly onto her side.

Winky sat back down, ears drooping sadly.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Merrin stood outside the master's study for several long seconds, the painting hovering beside him, still suspended midair by careful magic. He didn't knock. He never needed to. Severus always knew when someone was outside his door.

Sure enough, the door opened on its own with a soft creak, revealing the dimly lit chamber within. The fire had burned low, casting flickering amber shadows over stone and wood.

Severus looked up from a book, eyes landing on the elf and then immediately shifting to the object floating beside him. The moment his gaze locked on the painting, the air in the room shifted.

Merrin stepped inside and let the magic gently guide the canvas down onto the masters desk, careful not to mush his papers. 

Severus rose slowly from his chair.

His breath caught.

It took him a moment to truly absorb it—his own hands rendered in striking, brutal detail. Fingers curled with tension. Veins visible beneath thin flesh. His grip around the pomegranate was punishing, cruel in its intimacy. The fruit split apart, blood-red juice dripping, spilling—staining a pristine white cloth.

The composition was masterful.
But more than that—it was damning.

He stepped closer, eyes dragging across every swollen seed, every rivulet of juice, every shadowed fold of his own palms.

And then he saw it—her name, scrawled softly in the lower corner.
Shalee Sue.

He didn't need Merrin to explain what it meant.

He gripped the back of the chair to steady himself, breath rattling unevenly. Shame pressed down heavier than the smoke in the room. Not for his darker desires—those, he would carry until the end of his days—but for his failure to see her. To protect her. For the two weeks she had laid on the floor like something discarded. For the sobs he had ignored, the meals she'd refused, the words she'd barely spoken.

He had broken her, and she'd painted it.
And then she'd given it to him.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than Merrin had ever heard it.
"She gave this to me?"

Merrin nodded. "Yes, Master. She said... she said you should see it. That you should know what you've done."

Severus lowered himself into the armchair again, but didn't take his eyes off the painting.
"Leave me," he said softly.

Merrin hesitated, ears twitching—but obeyed.

The study door clicked shut behind him.

Severus sat alone in the dark, surrounded by the scent of smoke and oil paint, staring at the brutal truth rendered by her hand. A single drop of pomegranate juice had been painted to run off the edge of the table, down into nothingness. It stained the canvas like blood.

Chapter Text

By the time the sky turned pale lavender behind the curtains, Severus had passed through the tight-lipped stage of drinking and slipped straight into the quiet ache of it. Just past 7 AM. He'd been drinking since three.

The study reeked of firewood, ink, and whiskey.

The bottle sat open beside him, half-empty. His fourth glass lingered at his fingertips—neat, expensive, aged twelve years. It should've burned, but his tongue was numb. He welcomed the dull throb behind his temples like a penance.

His eyes were bloodshot. His collar loosened. One arm draped across the back of his chair while the other traced the rim of his glass again and again with a single blackened nail. A man in mourning for something he still technically owned.

He hadn't spoken aloud since Merrin made his exit. Hadn't left the study either. He'd spent hours staring at her painting. Hours dissecting it in silence. And when it became too much to think, he'd poured another drink.

It didn't dull the guilt—it only made it hum louder in his bones.

He sat like a man who had thrown himself at the feet of a god he didn't believe in, only to be handed back his own reflection—red-stained, hands bloody, mouth mute.

He didn't hear her steps.

Not until the floor creaked softly at the doorway.

Assuming it was a house elf, he didn't look up right away.
"Leave me be," he muttered hoarsely, thumb tapping the glass. "Whatever it is, I—"

But he stopped.

Because when he finally looked up—
It was not Merrin.
It was not Winky.

It was her.

Barefoot in the doorway, hair tangled from sleep, eyes ringed with shadows. A thin cardigan wrapped around her shoulders. Arms crossed—not in anger, but like a shield.

And she was staring at him. Not with fear. Not with hatred.
Something else.

Something that made the glass tremble slightly in his fingers.

"Miss Cromwell," he breathed.

He tried to stand. The chair scraped back, his head swam, and he braced against the desk until the room steadied.
"Forgive me," he rasped, voice sanded down by liquor and regret. "I—didn't expect..."

He trailed off. Too many words crowded his throat. That her painting had carved him open. That he wasn't fit to be seen. That he had broken something he wasn't sure he could mend.

But she was still there.
Silent.
Watching.

And for the first time since she arrived at Prince Hall, he was the one who didn't know what came next.

"I saw what you painted," he managed, voice rough as gravel. "I saw what you think I'm capable of."

She flinched but didn't move.

"I am not a good man," he went on, words unsteady. "I've lied. I've taken. I've bound you here. But that—" his breath caught, his throat closing around it—"that tearing-apart, body or soul—I swear to you, never."

His voice trembled now, stripped bare by whiskey and shame.
"Never that."

Her eyes shone in the dimness—wet, glittering—but she said nothing.

His grip on the desk tightened until his knuckles paled. His head bowed, voice collapsing into a whisper.
"I'm sorry. Gods, I'm so sorry for what I've done to you."

The words rang small in the silence.

He lowered his gaze to the floor, swaying slightly as he leaned forward. Drunk, undone, and for once in his life, at her mercy.
"Please," he whispered. "Believe that much."

He wasn't sure what he was asking anymore—mercy, forgiveness, or just that she believe this one thing.

She lingered in the doorway a moment longer, eyes unreadable. Then, wordlessly, she turned and left.

The hush of the door closing hollowed him.

Severus stood frozen, hands clamped to the desk, joints aching. His insides were shredded—guilt, longing, shame—knotted so tightly he was surprised he still stood.

She was gone.

The whiskey burned now. The fire flickered lower. He had never felt so tired, so emptied.

Minutes—or hours—passed. He didn't move.

Then, unexpectedly, the door opened again.

He looked up, expecting a house elf. But it was her.

She crossed the threshold quickly, eyes on the floor, a bundle in her arms—a roll of plain crackers, a glass of water. She didn't meet his gaze as she set them quietly on the table beside the armchair.

Then, without a word, she came to him.

Her hand closed on his upper arm, firm, insistent. Not gentle, but not rough either. He let her pull him away from the desk, back to the armchair.

She pressed the glass into his hand.

It wasn't forgiveness.
It wasn't warmth.
But it was care.

He drank, throat burning with shame and gratitude.

She stayed.

That alone frayed him.

Shalee perched on the edge of his desk, turned slightly away. Her profile was haloed in the hearthlight. She didn't look at him. Silent.

He was afraid to breathe too loudly in case she left.

Then: "Eat the crackers too."

He blinked.

"You're fucked up," she added, flat and tired. "You need something to soak it up."

No cruelty in it. Just practical.

His throat tightened. Slowly, he obeyed. Dry crackers, one after another.

She stayed seated. Her posture eased a fraction. She didn't bolt.

That, in itself, was mercy.

He didn't thank her. He ate. He drank. The silence stretched, fragile but not hopeless.

Then her voice again, soft, direct.
"Where do you keep your medical potions?"

"...Behind the sitting room bookcase. Left side, second shelf."

She nodded once and left.

He sat stunned by the act of her asking. Of helping.

She owed him nothing. Nothing.
And yet—

She returned minutes later with three bottles: hangover solution, anti-nausea draught, hydration tincture. His own handwriting on the labels.

She set them down, then shrank each bottle with a flick of her wand and tucked them into her dress pocket. Silent.

He stared.

Not forgiveness. Not kindness as reward. Just necessity. She had seen him spiraling and decided not to let him fall.

"Thank you," he rasped.

She didn't reply.

She stayed near the desk, arms folded, gaze on the fire.

Minutes passed. Then, steady:
"Do you think you can stand?"

He nodded, tried. Nearly fell.

She was at his side in an instant, hand steady on his arm, guiding him. Her touch was firm, unflinching.

He let her lead him through the darkened hall. At his door, she flicked her wand; the latch clicked open.

She settled him on the bed. His shoes vanished. His robes folded themselves into the wardrobe. He was left barefoot, disheveled, stunned.

She placed the restored potion bottles neatly on the nightstand.
"You need these," she said flatly, handing him the anti-nausea draught. "Especially this one."

He took it, glass cold in his hand.

"I don't want you choking to death in your sleep," she added dryly. "It'd be... inconvenient."

He drank. Then the hydration tincture. She watched until he finished, then set the empty vials aside.

"Good. Now get under the covers."

He obeyed, unsettled by her control but unable to resist it.

At the edge of the bed, she stood stiff, arms folded.
"Go to sleep," she said quietly.

He closed his eyes. Silence stretched.

Then, softly:
"I'll stay until you do."

His chest tightened. He didn't dare move, afraid she'd vanish if he did.

She didn't. She sat in the bedside chair, hands in her lap, chin tilted down.

He drifted slowly, anchored by exhaustion, dulled by drink—and by her presence.

Her faint outline was the last thing he saw before sleep claimed him.

Shalee waited. Watched. Listened for the steady cadence of his breath. Only when she was certain did she let out a long, shuddering exhale, pressing her palms into her eyes.

He was asleep.

She didn't know why she'd stayed. Why she'd helped. Why she still couldn't walk out and slam the door behind her.

She hated him.
Didn't she?

Her gaze drifted back to the bed. He looked impossibly human in sleep, wrapped in shadow and regret.

She couldn't forgive him.
But she couldn't ignore him either.

Not after the painting. Not after his apology. Not after that look in his eyes.

She stood, stiff, and slipped to the door. Paused, looked once more at him, then stepped out, closing it gently behind her.

Winky was waiting, wide-eyed.

"He's asleep," Shalee murmured, voice raw. "Stay with him. Just for tonight."

Winky nodded and padded into the room.

Shalee turned and walked toward the third floor, her hands trembling, her throat tight.

She didn't know why she felt like crying again.

But she kept walking.

Chapter Text

As Shalee stepped back into her room, the sharp crack of Merrin’s apparition echoed off the walls like a firecracker. Shalee jumped, heart leaping to her throat—but it settled just as quickly when she saw the familiar house elf standing there near the footboard, ears drooped slightly, breath shallow from the panic that had clearly driven him to check on her.

“Merrin,” she said softly, her voice low and a little hoarse from the hours she’d been awake. “You can relax.”

He didn’t move at first. His black button-like eyes scanned her from head to toe, making sure she wasn’t hiding anything. No subtle wand movements, no potion bottles, no signs of distress.

Finally, he took a small, cautious step forward. “Mistress… is safe?”

Shalee gave a small nod, standing up straighter. She looked tired. But not like before. Not empty.

“I’m not gonna try anything,” she said quietly, before walking and sitting on the edge of her bed, gaze somewhere on the floor. “We’re past that.”

Merrin exhaled a shaky breath. His long fingers twisted in front of him as if he didn’t quite know what to do with his relief.

He took another step forward, slower this time, until he reached the chair by her window and sat—small and watchful, his eyes never leaving her. Not because he didn’t trust her. But because he cared. More than any house elf ought to care, really.

“Merrin?” she asked after a pause.

He perked up immediately. “Yes, Mistress?”

She looked down at her hands. “Thank you. For… everything. For staying. For watching. Even when I hated that you had to.”

The old elf blinked. His throat worked around something thick. “Merrin will always stay.”

She didn’t smile, exactly, but something softened in her face. She leaned back against the headboard, the morning light beginning to creep through the window beside her.

“Good,” she whispered. “Because I think I need that. Just a little longer.”

And Merrin said nothing, only nodded, but stayed exactly where he was.

The silence between them lingered long enough that Merrin began to nod off, his little head drooping where he sat near the window. But then Shalee stirred, arms hugging her knees to her chest as she spoke softly into the early morning light.

“Merrin?” she murmured, not quite looking at him.

He sat upright at once. “Yes, Mistress?”

Her voice was low, measured. As if she’d been holding the words back for hours. “I went to go see him tonight”

Merrin didn’t ask who. 

She kept her gaze on the wall ahead, eyelids fluttering a little. “I went down there thinking maybe I’d yell at him again. Let it out. I thought… maybe I’d feel better if I saw him miserable.” Her lips twisted slightly. “But when I saw him, Merrin, he didn’t look like the man I hate.”

“He was drunk. Completely pissed actually,” she went on, voice barely audible now. “He was just… staring at a glass, like it was the only thing left keeping him upright. He looked awful. Not smug or arrogant. Just…” She blinked hard. “A man.”

Merrin’s ears twitched, but still he said nothing.

“I don’t know why I helped him,” Shalee whispered. “I gave him water and crackers. I made him take potions. I even pulled him to bed like a bloody nursemaid.” Her voice cracked in quiet disbelief. “I tucked in my captor, Merrin. What the hell is wrong with me?”

The elf shifted in his seat for a moment, “Nothing is wrong with Mistress,” he said carefully. “It is not weakness to see pain… even in someone who hurt you.”

Shalee’s breath hitched. “He apologized,” she said after a moment. “Really apologized. And not to manipulate me this time. He looked me in the eye and said he knew what I thought he’d do to me… and that he would never. That he was sorry for all of it.”

Merrin’s voice was hushed. “Master means it.”

She drew her knees closer. “That’s what scares me.”

They sat like that for a while. Her eyes burning, heart caught in the middle of something she couldn’t quite name. Grief. Confusion. Pity. Fury. All of it, braided together. Each thread indistinguishable from the next.

Finally, she wiped her face with the edge of the blanket and whispered, “I don’t know how to hate him when he does things like that.”

Merrin climbed slowly down from the chair and ambled over to her bedside. He didn’t touch her, but he stood close.

“Mistress does not have to feel anything she does not understand yet,” he said gently. “She only has to rest.”

Shalee nodded, the tears finally spilling over again, but softer this time.

And Merrin stayed with her, silent and steady, as the sky began to brighten.

Chapter Text

The first thing Severus felt when he surfaced from sleep was pain.

His head throbbed. An iron band squeezing at his temples. The room spun faintly, the air stale and tinged with the scent of last night’s fire. The sun, much too high in the sky, stabbed through the crack in the curtains and made him wince. His mouth was dry, his skin clammy, his joints stiff from having slept—collapsed, really—for hours longer than he intended.

He braced himself for the next wave of misery: the familiar bile, the sour nausea, the crawling ache in his bones.

But it didn’t come.

He lay very still, one hand splayed over his eyes, waiting.

No nausea. No urge to be sick. Just the headache, pounding and unrelenting, but even that was tolerable compared to what it should have been.

He lowered his hand and blinked around the dim room. There on the nightstand, just within reach, sat a single glass vial. His hangover relief potion, placed neatly upright, the label facing him.

He stared at it for a long moment, memory surfacing through the haze: her voice, flat and tired, insisting he take the potions. The feel of her hand steadying him as she led him to bed. The crackers she’d pressed on him. Plain, dry, so necessary.

He realized, grimly, that if she hadn’t done what she did, he’d probably be much worse off now. Maybe even dead—choked on his own vomit or dragged down into alcohol poisoning. He had never let himself lose control like that before. Not even on his worst nights. But last night had been something else entirely.

Severus sat up slowly, rolling his neck, letting the pain crackle and fade. He reached for the vial, thumb running along the cool glass, and, with a quiet, hoarse, “Thank you, Shalee,” he uncorked it and drank it down in one gulp.

It worked almost instantly. The pain in his head blurring, then dissolving, the nausea in his stomach clearing enough for him to sit fully upright and breathe.

He looked around the empty room, blankets half-kicked to the foot of the bed, and realized there were no house elves here. No one hovering over him. Just the small, silent evidence of her care.

He wasn’t used to being cared for. Not by anyone. Certainly not by the person he least deserved it from.

He ran a hand through his hair, staring at the far wall, trying to make sense of it.

He owed her everything. He had taken so much. And still—after all that—she’d given him back something small and essential.

The word for it hovered just out of reach. Mercy. Pity. Grace.

He wasn’t sure which was worse to feel.

He rose, stretched, and reached for a fresh shirt, determined to face the day. Even if it was already half gone, and even if he had no idea what he would say to her when next they met.

The steam clung to the mirror in drifting clouds, the scent of clean soap still lingering in the warm air as he fastened the last button of his dark waistcoat. Severus had taken his time in the shower.  Not out of vanity, but necessity. The hot water had helped clear the last of the fog from his head, loosen the ache from his neck, and give him at least the illusion of composure.

He was toweling his damp hair back from his face when the knock came.

He froze.

Not a house elf,  they never knocked.

With a flick of his fingers, the door swung open silently.

She stood there.

Wearing a soft jumper and trousers, barefoot on the stone floor, her hair a little tangled like she hadn’t cared to comb it yet. Her arms were crossed lightly, not defensively — just… uncertain. Her eyes moved over him carefully, calculating, but not harsh. 

His heart gave an uncomfortable jolt.

He didn’t speak, not at first.

And neither did she.

Then her gaze flicked behind him — taking in the state of the room. The half-made bed. The empty vial on the nightstand. Her shoulders eased the smallest bit.

“I came to make sure you didn’t die,” she said flatly, her voice a little dry. “You were—really drunk.”

He swallowed, resisting the urge to reach for the nearest surface to ground himself.

“I’m alive,” he said, his voice rasping. “Regrettably.”

That earned him a look. Not anger, not pity either. Something more like… exasperation laced with something softer.

“Thank you, for the crackers.”

A beat of silence. Her brow furrowed slightly.

“You remember that?”

“I remember… enough.”

Another beat. The pause stretched.

“You didn’t have to,” he said, softer now. “You didn’t owe me that.”

Her face didn’t change.

“You were going to choke on your own vomit,” she muttered. “I didn’t do it for you. I did it so I wouldn’t have to listen to Merrin cry for a week.”

He nodded slowly. A flicker of something in his throat — guilt, maybe. 

“I’m still sorry,” he said. “For everything.”

“I know.”

Another long, quiet stretch.

She looked tired.

She always looked tired these days.

He didn’t reach for her. Didn’t dare.

Instead, he stepped back just slightly from the doorframe and said, voice low and cautious, “Would you like to sit?”

He stood frozen for a beat, fingers still resting lightly against the doorframe as her voice, calm and firm, drifted into the space between them.

“I’ll sit with you,” she said, not unkindly. “But not in here. I was only in your room yesterday because it was an emergency.”

Her eyes flicked around his chamber. Clean, dark, orderly—before landing back on his face. 

“If you want to be around me,” she added evenly, “you can come to the studio.”

Then, without waiting for his response, she turned on her heel and walked away. Bare feet soft against the stone, her silhouette framed for a heartbeat in the hallway light before vanishing.

He didn’t call after her.

Didn’t dare.

For several long moments, he remained perfectly still. His eyes on the space she had occupied, breath slow and measured as if trying to calm the earthquake that had begun in his chest.

She’d come.

Checked on him.

Spoken to him like a person.

And now… she’d given him the choice. Not an invitation, exactly—but something dangerously close to it.

He exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face. He wasn’t sure if he deserved to follow her. But he did know one thing:

He wanted to.

And for Severus Snape, want was a dangerous, sacred thing.

He turned from the window, adjusted his cuffs, and quietly made his way upstairs.

The studio was washed in the pale gold of late afternoon. Shadows drifted over the floorboards, softening the sharpness of everything. Shalee was at her easel, brush in hand, but not painting. She was staring at a blank canvas, her back to the door. She didn’t turn when she heard his footsteps approach, but her grip on the brush tightened just slightly.

He paused in the threshold, unsure for a breath whether he would be welcome if he entered. But she didn’t tell him to go.

He took it as permission.

He stepped quietly inside, letting the door fall almost closed behind him, and hovered at the edge of the space, hands loose at his sides. He could smell the faint tang of oil paint, the sharper note of turpentine, the sweetness of fresh wood. 

Shalee didn’t speak.

She remained silent at her easel, the brush still in her hand.

It was an awkward quiet—not hostile—but not quite comfortable, either. A fragile, uneasy truce.

Severus crossed to the far wall, putting himself a good distance from her, and sank into the old armchair Merrin had moved near the window. He sat back, watching her with a weary, thoughtful patience.

After several long minutes, he spoke. 

“You don’t have to talk to me.” “But you don’t have to avoid me, either.”

She didn’t turn, but she did respond— almost so quiet he might have missed it.

“I know.”

He settled deeper in the chair, letting the light filter across his face. Careful not to take up more space than he was given.

Severus watched as she set the paintbrush down gently on its rest, wiped her hands with a rag, and crossed the room in three silent strides. From the cabinet against the wall, she retrieved one of her largest sketchbooks and a bundle of graphite pencils. Without a word, she came to sit on the rug directly across from him, folding her legs beneath her, spine tall.

She didn’t look at him right away. She opened the sketchbook with quiet precision, flipped a few pages. 

Her eyes lifted then, just briefly.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move.

But when her gaze dropped again and her pencil began its first stroke, he knew what was happening. She was sketching him.

His brows lifted, not in protest—just surprised. There was a caution in his stillness, a slow and careful effort to become part of the moment without interrupting it.

Her eyes flicked up every few seconds, studying the line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands curled loosely over the arms of the chair. 

Severus sat very still.

He wanted to speak—but not to ruin it. His instinct was always to fill silences, to analyze, to control. But now—now he only studied her in return. The furrow in her brow. The way she chewed the inside of her cheek as she worked. A faint paint stain still smudged at the corner of her thumb.

Her face was calm, but not emotionless.

He could see it. How she held her confusion like a stone in her lap, how her fingers moved with certainty even while her heart wrestled with something more painful. She didn’t hate him in this moment. But she didn’t trust him, either.

Still, she was here.

She was drawing him.

And that alone left him feeling more exposed than if she’d slapped him across the face.

He inhaled softly and lowered his eyes to the floor, not quite able to meet her gaze when it rose again. His voice, when it finally came, was quiet. 

“If I’d known I could earn your attention by simply sitting still, I might’ve tried it weeks ago.”

There was the faintest twitch of her lip.

Not quite a smile.

But not nothing.

He stayed still for her. Let her sketch him however she saw him. Not as the man he tried to be—but as the one she saw. The one he’d made himself into.

And somewhere deep inside, he feared what the finished drawing would show.