Chapter Text
Estelle woke to pale grey light and the faintest ache at the back of her neck.
For a moment she couldn’t place why she felt so strangely dislodged—like she’d fallen asleep halfway through a sentence and woke up with the ending still missing. Then memory slid back into place: Severus’s head heavy on her shoulder, his breathing deep and even for once, the warmth of him pressed along her side.
And the way she’d eased herself away and slipped back to her own chambers in the small hours, leaving him asleep in the armchair.
She rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, the thin morning light turning the plastered stone a washed-out silver.
She hadn’t meant to stay so long. She hadn’t meant to enjoy it so much.
The thought sat in her chest like a stone she did not know what to do with.
After a few minutes of wrestling with the urge to pull the blankets over her head and ignore the world, Estelle exhaled sharply and swung her legs out of bed. Hiding would do no one any good. Certainly not Harry. Certainly not Severus. Certainly not herself.
Besides, she had said she would meet Charlie at breakfast.
And she’d finally run out of excuses to avoid the staff table.
Half an hour later, scrubbed free of ash and forest dust, hair braided neatly over one shoulder, Estelle made her way up from the dungeons, through the cool hush of the corridors, and into the warmth and noise of the Great Hall.
It hit her like a familiar wave—the hum of voices, the clatter of cutlery, the rustle of owl wings as the morning post swooped overhead. Sunlight spilled in through the enchanted ceiling, bright even through a thin veil of cloud.
The long house tables were dotted with hunched shoulders, bed-mussed hair, and half-awake expressions. Hufflepuffs clustered around porridge. Ravenclaws shielded their letters with their elbows as they read. Gryffindors laughed too loudly for the hour. Slytherins pretended not to care that everyone else was there.
The Durmstrang students hunched in a group along the far end of the Slytherin table, speaking low and sharp in thick accents. Beauxbatons girls sat together midway down the Ravenclaw table, elegant and self-contained, their light blue uniforms a splash of color amidst darker robes.
Estelle’s eyes slid automatically toward the staff table.
Charlie was easy to find. Even if she hadn’t recognized his hair—a shade brighter in the Great Hall’s light, cropped shorter now—his posture would have given him away. He sat one chair down from Hagrid, leaning back as he spoke animatedly with Minerva, who watched him with narrowed eyes that did nothing to hide the fondness behind them.
Estelle felt something ease in her as she saw him laughing.
She walked the length of the hall and slipped into the empty chair on Charlie’s other side, between him and Flitwick’s high stack of toast.
Charlie turned as she sat, face breaking into a wide grin.
“There she is,” he said. “I was starting to think the forest had eaten you after all.”
“Don’t say that,” Hagrid rumbled, looking faintly alarmed. “Forest’d never do tha’. It likes her.”
“So I’ve noticed,” Estelle said, reaching for a pot of tea.
Minerva’s sharp gaze flicked to her. “You’re joining us today, Estelle. That makes a pleasant change.”
Estelle lifted her cup. “I was shamed into appearing. I heard rumor the castle still provided breakfast.”
Flitwick chuckled into his pumpkin juice. “You’ve been brewing yourself hollow down there, my dear. Even potions masters need kippers and toast.”
Estelle stole one of his toast slices before he could object. “I’ll be sure to inform Severus of your decree.”
Minerva’s mouth twitched. “If Severus Snape voluntarily eats more than coffee and resentment, I shall award ten points to every House.”
Charlie snorted. “You haven’t changed much, Professor McGonagall.”
Minerva’s eyebrows arched a fraction. “And you have changed enough to grow a bit of sense, Mr Weasley, if your letter suggested accurately that you are now responsible for dragons.”
“‘Responsible’ is a strong word,” Charlie said, buttering his toast with the kind of focus usually reserved for explosives. “I prefer ‘on speaking terms with.’”
“You mean they don’t eat you,” Estelle said dryly.
“Not so far.”
Minerva’s lips thinned. “And Romania? You’ve been there… how long now?”
“Nearly four years,” Charlie said. “Before that, a year in Wales. And, well, a brief stint in the Carpathians you might remember someone complaining about, Professor.”
Minerva’s eyes glinted. “I recall certain letters mentioning ‘foolhardy night flights’ and ‘absolutely unacceptable proximity to dragon flame.’”
“Exaggerations,” Charlie protested. “Mostly.”
“Dragon flame,” Minerva repeated flatly.
Charlie shot Estelle a look. “You see? This is what I mean. No faith.”
Estelle smiled into her tea. “I have enough faith not to assume you’ll be immolated before Friday, if that helps.”
“High praise,” he said.
Minerva’s sharp gaze softened as she studied him. “And you’re enjoying it? Truly? The work, I mean. Dangerous as it is.”
Charlie’s expression shifted, some of the jest dropping away.
“I am,” he said simply. “They’re incredible creatures. You don’t get used to it, exactly, but… you learn them. Their moods. Their habits. The things that startle them. What calms them. They’re not mindless. Just big and badly understood.”
“That sounds familiar,” Estelle murmured.
Minerva’s eyes softened further. “You are your mother’s son,” she said. “Stubborn, driven, entirely too brave.”
Charlie ducked his head, though he did not look displeased.
“Thank you, Professor,” he said quietly.
Estelle watched the exchange with a warmth she tried not to show too clearly on her face. Minerva had always liked the Weasleys—she’d admitted once, half-grudgingly, that the world needed more people like them. Brave in untidy ways. Loyal in loud ones.
“So,” Estelle said, nudging the conversation back into lighter waters, “how many times have you been asked about the—”
“Hemlock exports?” Charlie interrupted sweetly.
She shot him a look. “You were expecting ‘dragons’?”
“Everyone’s expecting dragons,” he said. “Which is precisely why I am not allowed to talk about them above a whisper and only while Hagrid is swearing he won’t repeat it within earshot of a student.”
“I never said I wouldn’t,” Hagrid muttered.
“Exactly my point,” Charlie said.
Minerva sniffed. “Rest assured, Mr Weasley, you are under no obligation to answer any impertinent questions staff may pose about the first task either.”
“Yes, Professor,” he said. “Though between you and me, it is killing me not to brag.”
Estelle laughed, a short, delighted sound that escaped before she could temper it. “You can brag in non-specific metaphors.”
Charlie brightened. “Oh, I can do that. The beasts are—hypothetically—majestic. Hypothetically enormous. Hypothetically capable of turning a Quidditch pitch into kindling in under four minutes.”
Minerva’s head snapped toward him. “Mr Weasley.”
“Hypothetically,” he repeated quickly. “And only if profoundly annoyed.”
“Dragons do not need an excuse to be annoyed,” Estelle said. “Existence appears to suffice.”
Charlie gave her a sideways grin that hit her like a memory.
Romania. A cramped wooden table, two chipped mugs of something too strong, Charlie’s laugh ricocheting off the low ceiling. The heat of his hand on the small of her back as they stepped out into cold night air. The decision to follow him home. The equally deliberate decision to leave three months later, with no promises they both knew they couldn’t keep.
She felt that ghost of familiarity now—comfortable, fond, uncomplicated.
Rather unlike the entanglement currently sleeping in an armchair in the dungeons.
“We should catch up properly,” Charlie said, spearing a sausage with unnecessary enthusiasm. “Away from dragons and Headmistresses and impending doom.”
“An intriguing combination,” Estelle said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Hogsmeade,” he replied without pause. “Tomorrow. Afternoon. Before all hell breaks loose. Pint of butterbeer, maybe two, you telling me all about terrifying young minds into respecting dangerous plants.”
“I don’t terrify them,” she said. “I gently encourage them to appreciate the consequences of inattention.”
“Same thing,” he said cheerfully. “So? You in?”
Estelle hesitated only a second. The thought of leaving the castle, even just to walk down the familiar path to Hogsmeade, tugged at something inside her—like a tight muscle being coaxed into stretching.
She needed air. She needed a reminder that the world existed beyond castle walls and dragon cages and Karkaroff’s sneer.
“Yes,” she said. “I’m in.”
Charlie grinned. “Excellent. I’ll drag Hagrid along for cover. Or as bait, depending on whether anyone’s watching.”
“I heard that,” Hagrid grumbled, though his eyes crinkled.
Minerva cut into her kipper with precise efficiency. “So long as you are both back before curfew, and do not smuggle a dragon into the Three Broomsticks, I suppose I can tolerate this excursion.”
“No promises,” Charlie murmured.
Estelle laughed again, feeling some of the heaviness she’d been carrying loosen at the edges. Charlie had always had that effect on her. He was like firelight: warm, bright, occasionally reckless, but never unkind.
She was still smiling, eyes crinkled at something he’d muttered about a Welsh Green with a taste for wizards’ hats, when the atmosphere at the staff table shifted.
It was subtle.
A small eddy in the current.
The kind of change she would have missed if she hadn’t felt him before she saw him.
The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The air seemed to cool by a degree.
Estelle looked up reflexively.
Severus had just entered the Great Hall.
His expression, at first, was unreadable—its usual mask of disinterest and mild disdain. His hair was neatly bound. His robes swept behind him with familiar precision. A few of the nearer students instinctively straightened in their seats.
Then his gaze found her.
And in the space of a heartbeat, the mask cracked.
It wasn’t obvious, not to anyone who didn’t know the minute shifts in the angles of his mouth, the way his shoulders tightened, the flicker in his eyes that flashed too quickly to be nameable.
But Estelle saw all of it.
He took in the picture at the staff table with one sweep: Estelle leaning in toward Charlie, Charlie grinning, Minerva looking wryly amused, Hagrid chuckling at some shared joke.
And Estelle laughing.
Not carefully. Not guardedly.
Just… laughing.
His eyes darkened.
The storm she’d joked about more than once—the one he kept banked so carefully beneath layers of control—rolled silently across his face.
He approached the table anyway, long strides even, cloak swaying in disdainful arcs. To anyone else, he would have looked merely displeased with the concept of breakfast.
To Estelle, he looked like something brittle had been knocked loose inside his chest.
She straightened instinctively, her laughter fading at the edges, her fingers tightening around her teacup.
Severus reached his usual seat beside Minerva and across from Flitwick.
He did not sit.
Instead, he stopped directly behind Estelle’s chair.
“Black,” he said evenly. “Weasley.”
“Professor,” Charlie said easily, looking up with the open curiosity of someone who did not yet realize he was standing at the edge of a minefield.
Estelle turned slightly. “Severus. Good morning.”
It sounded more formal than she meant.
His gaze flicked to her, cool and assessing.
“You’re dining with us,” he observed.
“Yes,” she replied. “Thought I’d remind the students I’m not a nocturnal myth that only appears over cauldrons.”
“Hn.”
His eyes shifted back to Charlie.
“You must be Mr Weasley,” he said. “The dragon enthusiast.”
Charlie smiled. “One of them, at least. Charlie Weasley. We’ve met—briefly, I think. You gave a lecture at Hogwarts the year I finished. On poison-antidote theory. I sat in, terrified the entire time.”
“Most graduates are slow to recover from their education here,” Severus said mildly. “Some never do.”
Charlie laughed. “I took it as a sign I’d picked the right field. If theory scared me that much, I figured fire couldn’t be worse.”
“An interesting metric,” Severus said.
Estelle picked up her knife and carefully began cutting her toast, mostly to give her hands something to do. The air between the two men felt… electric. Not openly hostile, but humming with the tension of things unsaid.
“Charlie is here for the first task,” Estelle said, attempting to smooth the edges. “To help oversee the… transports.”
Severus’s lip curled faintly. “How noble.”
Charlie either didn’t notice the bite or chose to ignore it. “More practical than noble. Someone has to make sure they don’t accidentally light the wrong thing on fire.”
“Or the right thing,” Severus said. “Depending on perspective.”
Estelle shot him a quick warning look.
He held her gaze a second too long, something sharp and wounded glinting just beneath the surface.
“So,” Charlie said lightly, plowing on, “you teach Potions, yeah? Estelle says you’re brilliant.”
Estelle nearly choked on her tea.
Severus’s eyebrows lifted a fraction. He turned his head just enough to look down at her, eyes narrowed in a way that asked very clearly, *Oh, she does, does she?*
Estelle stared determinedly at her plate.
“Professor Snape is very good at what he does,” she said, deliberately bland.
“High praise,” Severus murmured.
Charlie, oblivious to the undercurrent, went on, “You two must work together a lot. Herbology and Potions go hand in hand. I imagine it makes the students’ lives easier, having a bit of coordination between the dungeons and the greenhouses.”
“It does,” Estelle said.
“At times,” Severus allowed.
Charlie grinned. “Must be nice, having someone to talk shop with. Out in Romania I mostly have dragons and the occasional half-asleep intern to bounce ideas off of.”
“You could try the dragons,” Estelle said. “They might have insightful feedback.”
“They mostly complain the food isn’t charred enough.”
“Kindred spirits, then,” Severus said.
Before Estelle could decide whether that was self-directed or not, Charlie shifted in his seat, turning slightly more toward her as he reached for his mug. His knee bumped hers under the table—an old, easy sort of contact. The kind that came from having shared cramped benches and narrow beds and mornings after without regret.
Her body remembered the familiarity. Her stomach swooped once, not with romantic flutter but with the disorienting sensation of two eras of her life colliding in the same breath.
She shifted back instinctively, but not before Severus’s gaze flicked to the movement.
Something in his expression shuttered further.
“Well,” Charlie said, wiping a crumb from the corner of his mouth, “I should go make sure Hagrid hasn’t snuck off to visit the—hemlock exports—without me.”
Minerva made a faint, imperious noise that translated to, If either of you go near a dragon without proper supervision, I will transfigure you into a teapot.
Charlie slid his chair back. The bench scraped faintly against the floor.
He turned to Estelle.
“Tomorrow?” he said. “Hogsmeade?”
“Yes,” she said. “Three o’clock?”
“Perfect.”
His hand landed gently on her leg under the edge of the table—a brief, entirely natural gesture for him, fingers warm through the fabric of her robes.
Estelle went very still.
It was nothing. It was a friendly press of contact. It was habit.
But she felt Severus’s attention snap to the point of contact like a spell.
Before she could subtly move away, Charlie leaned in, planting a light kiss on her cheek in obvious farewell.
It was soft. Quick. Familiar without being intimate.
Hagrid’s beard twitched in what might have been a suppressed grin.
Minerva’s eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, cataloguing everything and filing it away for later.
Flitwick pretended to adjust his fork.
For Estelle, time stretched thin.
She caught a flash of red hair. The ghost of dragon smoke on Charlie’s clothes. The warm brush of his lips against her skin.
And then it was over. He straightened, winked, and said, “See you then,” before heading down the staff table and out of the hall.
The moment his hand left her leg, she exhaled, only then realizing she’d been holding her breath.
She turned her head.
Severus had not moved.
He stood exactly where he’d been, robes undisturbed, posture razor-straight.
But his face—
His face was no longer masked.
Stormy didn’t quite cover it.
His eyes were dark, almost black in the morning light. His mouth was pressed into a thin, bloodless line. A small muscle ticked near his temple in a betrayal of tension.
“Severus—” she began.
He cut her off.
“Enjoy your breakfast,” he said, voice cold enough to frost the tea. “We have a staff meeting at ten.”
Before she could reply—before she could reach for him or make some half-formed explanation that would have sounded pathetic even to her own ears—he turned sharply on his heel and strode down the length of the table.
His robes flared like a curtain closing.
He didn’t look back.
Estelle watched him go, stomach twisting.
Around her, the noise of the Great Hall pressed in again—the clink of cutlery, the murmur of student voices, the flap of owl wings. It all sounded oddly far away.
She looked down at her plate.
Her toast, once steaming and golden, sat unbitten and cooling rapidly. The butter had congealed at the edges. Her tea had gone lukewarm.
Her appetite evaporated.
Minerva said nothing. But Estelle could feel her assessing gaze like a weight on the side of her face.
She picked up her toast anyway, holding it more out of habit than hunger.
Her fingers left faint indentations in the soft bread.
For the first time since she’d stepped into the Great Hall, Estelle wished she’d stayed downstairs. That she’d watched the light change from her own window with a mug of tea and a quiet, sleeping man in the next room to confront later.
Instead she sat at the staff table with a cold piece of toast and the distinct, suffocating awareness that she had just hurt someone she cared about—without quite knowing how to fix it.