The Silence of the Locket

Adela left Dumbledore's office with her mind in a storm of thoughts, her stomach a hollow pit of unease. The old wizard had cut to the chase, asking her what had felt like thousands of questions about her childhood, the orphanage, her education, her parents, the arrival of her letter and her arrival to Hogwarts, even her rebellious nightly trips and her two-month long escape to Spain when she was sixteen. He had seemed to want to know absolutely everything about her, in what she thought had been an attempt of filling in the gaps of a story he hadn't shared with her. The questions had been precise, calculated. He was searching for something.

As she walked back to the Ravenclaw common room, her mind raced. She understood the gravity of the matter at hand, Dumbledore was trying to bring down the worst dark wizard the world had ever encountered, so she felt guilty and childish when she admitted to herself that she had felt used. Questioned and chucked out after hours, almost like one-night stand. She quietly chuckled at the comparison as she walked.

She hadn't been able to make out a pattern out of the questions nor understand the importance of their meaning. The puzzle that she was trying to complete in her head was still in pieces. Dumbledore had been smart, thorough. He had asked the right questions in the exactly right words so that she couldn't get any conclusions out of the conversation. Mean, she thought, irritated at the lack of information. She hated not knowing, feeling left out of the loop.

Still, she understood, and even if it was hard to do, she decided to take on a more mature point of view and try to help as much as she could, even if it felt confusing and exasperating at times.

Nevertheless, in between the cryptic, mysterious and undecipherable nature of the meeting, she took pride in having caught a change in Dumbledore's expression, even if it had gone a quickly as it had appeared. But she had seen it, there was no doubt in that. When Dumbledore asked about her parents, she told him the truth. Her mother had died during childbirth, and her father had abandoned them at some point, though she didn't know when. It was all Mrs. Cole had told her.

"Mrs. Cole? She's still alive?" asked Dumbledore, trying to mask his surprise under a tranquil tone.

"Barely" replied Adela, "she's almost ninety, and she's very weak. Sometimes she gets disoriented and we have to lay her down to rest. I'm afraid she doesn't have long." She felt a little tug in her heart at this. After all, Mrs. Cole had cared for her during her whole life, and seeing her slowly losing herself was not an enjoyable experience.

"Miss Benson" said Dumbledore, intending to ask her another question, but suddenly he trailed off and became awfully quiet. His eyes flew to her, slightly widened, staring hard, and Adela saw a very well hidden but indistinguishable look of dawning realization. She could have sworn she had heard the gears in his mind turning and suddenly stopping at a click.

"Miss Benson" he started again, "Do you know your parent's names?" he asked, still looking straight at her, expecting.

Adela almost felt weirded out by the intensity of his gaze.

"Um... I know my father's name was Andy, but I don't know his surname, I took my mom's. Her name was Amy Benson."

Dumbledore's eyelids fluttered and he sat back in his chair, his gaze unintentionally showing her more emotion than he had during the whole interview. She saw his eyebrows rise a fraction of a centimeter, his eyes glint in the flickering candlelight and his breath draw, though it was barely noticeable. Only a person that had been staring at the same vague expression for hours, like Adela had, could have noticed the slight alteration of it. He had already composed himself by his next breath.

"Very well, Miss Benson. Thank you very much. Apologies for keeping you so late", he said as he glanced at his clock. The time it had taken him to say this last sentence was all he had needed to recuperate the whimsical, funny and almost silly demeanor he had shown at the first-day speech in the Great Hall. "Now off to bed, chip chip." He offered her a kind smile and waved her off.

Just as she was about to close the door of the office behind her, she turned towards the headmaster.

"Excuse me sir, I had a question I forgot to ask you." Now that she was here, she wasn't going to pass up the opportunity to ask one of the world's most powerful wizards about the matter that had been preoccupying her for the last days.

"Ask away, dear", he replied kindly.

"I feel like magic has been... escaping me. Even if I get the theory right and the wand movement perfect, I can barely lift a feather more than a few centimeters. I've been wondering... if maybe... I don't know, maybe there's been a mistake, maybe I'm not really...well, you know, a witch." She felt almost embarrassed as she uttered these last words, admitting her vulnerability to the world's most powerful man wasn't easy.

Dumbledore took in her words carefully, but smiled at her after a few seconds. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to think that they don't belong in this world. You have only just discovered your true nature, Miss Benson, it is only natural you require a certain period of adaption to it. I would not worry myself if I were you, dear, as I'm sure your other teachers have told you, it is merely a matter of time and practice." Nevertheless, under his kind smile, Adela was sure she had recognized something else. The gears in his mind had started turning again, and she couldn't help but think that it had something to do with their conversation. Were both matters connected somehow?

Her head felt like it was going to burst open from the pressure of all the information that she had acquired in the last couple of hours. She left Dumbledore's office more confused than she had entered it.

She walked through the halls, barely registering the paintings shifting around her, the torches flickering as she passed. The castle was still new to her, unfamiliar, yet she already found herself moving as though she had walked these corridors a thousand times before.

By the time she reached her dorm, exhaustion pulled at her limbs. She barely changed before collapsing onto her bed, the questions in her head mixing into the haze of oncoming sleep.

And then, the dreams came again.

Cold. A whisper of air against her cheek. The sharp press of something against her chest—freezing, heavy. A white hand, long fingers, the shadow of something, someone, looming over her, a dark, slithering presence swallowing the dim light, watching, waiting, observing.

She woke with a start, gasping.

Her fingers immediately went to the locket at her throat. Still there. But the coldness of it had dissipated, almost as if it had absorbed the heat of the dream.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to take slow, deep breaths. It was just a dream. Just a dream.

And yet, the weight of it stayed with her long after she had risen for the day.

Her first class was Herbology, and she had been right to think she would enjoy it. Plants had always fascinated her, their quiet constancy, their effortless beauty. They had kept her company when no one else would, listening in a way only the speechless could. There was something profoundly soothing about them. The way raindrops traced delicate paths down their trembling green leaves, the silent rhythm of their existence, growing, wilting, blooming, dying. At times, they had felt almost human, a steadfast presence on days when loneliness pressed in.

But perhaps that sentiment applied only to Muggle plants. Because depotting Mandrakes had been a shrieking, ear-splitting ordeal she never wished to relive. Still, she had done well, well enough to be the first to successfully unearth her baby Mandrake, earning five points for her house in the process. She was reassured when Professor Sprout told her that not all classes were like that, and that even she hated dealing with those pesky little plants.

Transfiguration, on the other hand, was a disaster.

Professor McGonagall's sharp gaze flicked over the class as they practiced turning their animals into cushions. Adela sat at her desk, her brows furrowed as she pointed her wand at Milo, who looked nothing close to reassured. He cautiously meowed, as if fearing that making too much noise would make her owner lose concentration and turn him into a grape.

"Mutatis animalis."

Nothing.

Again.

She set her jaw, eyes narrowing in frustration, and tried once more. "Mutatis animalis" she exclaimed, forcing all of her will into the spell.

She felt something, a surge of magic flowing from her arm into the wand, travelling towards Milo, slowly but surely, but after a few seconds, the magic wavered, hesitant, sluggish, and she felt it weaken. She let out an irritated huff but maintained her concentration, set on reviving the spell, and then, just as she thought nothing would happen, Milo's tail flickered and—

A pink ribbon popped in its place.

Milo meowed, confused, looked at his tail and then back at Adela.

Laughter rippled through the room, but Adela wasn't amused. Her grip tightened around her wand. Why was this happening? It wasn't that she was saying the incantations wrong. She knew she wasn't. The technique was correct, the wand movement precise, she had studied it over and over again. So why wouldn't her magic listen to her?

She turned to look at her classmates, stopping on Hermione's desk, whose fat and fluffy cat had turned into a neat and beautifully embroidered orange cushion.

She raked her hands through her long hair in irritation and annoyance. She put her wand down forcefully, which clattered and rolled around on the table. She gave up trying to perform the spell and decided to wait until the class was dismissed.

It was getting old. She sat there, waiting, thinking. She wasn't going to let herself fail. Not now. Not when she finally had someone or something to prove her worth to. After years of excelling in everything but no one to tell, she felt like if she didn't do anything about it, she would be wasting an opportunity.

She felt Milo angrily swat her hand with his paw. She hadn't even realized her hand had been picking at her lips, which now wore a deep slit in the middle, small droplets of blood trickling from it and painting her mouth. She pulled her hand down and sent Milo an apologetic look, he had always hated when she did that.

She clenched her fists. Fine. If her magic wouldn't come easily, she would force it. She decided that from this day on, she would practice, practice and practice. Every day, every night, until she had no weaknesses left to exploit, until her struggle with magic became a thing of the past.

The ringing bell snapped her out of her thoughts, and she left the classroom faster than any of the other pupils.

She rushed out of the door, but before she could turn the corner, she her a voice call after her.

"Wait up, Adela!" she turned to see Hermione Granger rushing up to her, trying to balance her cat on one hand as she tried to stuff her Transfiguration book into her satchel.

"Here, let me help you" Adela grabbed the cat and set it on the ground next to Milo, who tilted his head at it and looked back up at Adela as if asking her if she really thought they would become friends.

"Thanks" replied Hermione, "sorry about Crookshanks, I have to carry him sometimes because he refuses to walk" she laughed politely but started again "I thought we could walk to lunch together", she uttered quietly with a small blush.

"Oh", replied Adela, surprised. "Yeah, that would be nice". They shyly smiled at each other and set for the Great Hall.

Her company was a welcome distraction. As they walked, they soon found that they had many common interests. They got immersed in excited conversation about their favorite muggle books, critiquing various writers, styles and common plots and archetypes. They shared a good number of opinions on different muggle history matters and laughed in agreement at their own intelligent puns. Lost in their capturing conversation, they found themselves surprised to see they had already reached the Hall.

They walked towards Ginny, Neville, Luna, and Harry and Ron, who were both surprised to see them arrive together and so engaged in genuine conversation.

"I see you've made friends with the new girl", said Ron nonchalantly, focusing his eyes on his bowl of French onion soup. Adela caught a slight edge of resentment on his tone, but decided to ignore it.

"Yes, I have", replied Hermione sharply, her voice irritated. "We were just talking about muggle history and literature, it's nice to have someone to share that part of myself with", she said turning to Harry, who suddenly looked up from his own bowl with wide eyes, mouth full and an apologetic look.

"Yeah, I'm afraid I'm just as useless as Ron on that front" he smiled awkwardly at the two girls and looked down at the seats next to him, which were occupied by his school bag, winter cloak and quidditch gloves. "Oh, sorry," he quickly cleared them, "sit here."

Hermione slid into the seat beside Harry, with Adela settling on her other side. The conversation flowed easily as they ate, complaints about homework, laughter at Ron's latest catastrophe in Transfiguration, but then Harry glanced at Adela, curiosity flickering across his face.

"So... you met with Dumbledore yesterday," he said, clearly interested in the subject.

Adela didn't answer right away. She took a slow sip of her pumpkin juice, setting the goblet down with deliberate ease. "I did."

Harry looked at her, intrigued. "What did you talk about? If you don't mind telling us."

Adela hesitated, not because she didn't want to answer, but because she could feel how eager he was to know. Not probing or suspicious, just very interested.

She leaned in slightly, lowering her voice just enough to draw them closer. "He asked me some questions about my past, my magic. I assume he was trying to figure out why my letter came so late." She decided to not mention Voldemort for now, she didn't know if Dumbledore would approve.

"Oh," Hermione said, nodding, clearly fascinated. "And?"

The silenced stretched for a few moments. Then she gave a small shrug. "Not much. You know how Dumbledore is, he speaks in riddles more than actual answers."

Hermione made a face like she understood that all too well. Harry looked thoughtful. "So, nothing useful?"

"Not really." Adela studied them, then smiled playfully. "Why? What's with all the interest?"

Harry opened his mouth, but Ron spoke first, and there was something just a little pointed in his voice, nothing hostile, just an edge of frustration that he barely seemed to notice himself. "Well, you have to admit, it's kind of interesting. The Sorting Hat took its time with you, and now Dumbledore's calling you for a chat? That doesn't happen to just anyone."

Adela tilted her head. "Yeah, I guess it is a little unusual."

Ron gave a noncommittal shrug, focusing on his plate again. Hermione rolled her eyes at him before turning back to Adela, her tone warm. "We're just curious. It's not every day someone joins Hogwarts this late, you must have so many stories." When Adela looked back at her, she could almost swear she saw a faint blush appearing in her cheeks, and Hermione looked away quickly. Now it was Ron's turn to roll his eyes at the girl.

Later that evening, after finishing her homework for the week, she left the common room and walked through the castle's corridors determined, looking for an empty classroom in which she could practice her spell work. It wasn't very hard to find, since it was already getting dark and students were back at their common rooms studying for their exams or simply hanging out.

As soon as she settled in the classroom, she got to work. She did so relentlessly, casting spell after spell, repeating them over and over again, forcing the magic to obey. Milo watched her attentively as she tried changing needles into hair pins, beans into pearls and lifting feathers off the tabletops. After what had felt like hours of continuous and exhausting work with minimal breaks, she was proud to admit that she had seen improvements. Small improvements, but improvements, nonetheless. She had just managed to successfully transfigure an inkwell into a small vase when she sensed a presence watching her from the door.

She turned quickly, wand raised—

Theo Nott leaned against the doorframe, smirking. She recognized him from Potions.

"Impressive," he said lazily. "For someone struggling in class."

Adela lowered her wand, heart still hammering from the sudden intrusion. "Were you watching me?"

"I was passing by. You're the one making a spectacle of yourself."

She narrowed her eyes, though there was no real heat in it. "Did you need something?"

Theo stepped into the room, slow, deliberate. "No. But now that I'm here..." He glanced at the scattered objects around her. "You're rather dedicated."

"I like to be good at things."

"Perfectionist?"

"Something like that."

Theo hummed, stepping closer and looking at her figure up and down. Then, with an infuriating smirk, he said, "You know, you don't have to try so hard to be impressive. Some of us already think you are."

Adela arched a brow. "Some of us?"

"Me." He tilted his head. "Unless you'd rather it be someone else?"

She laughed, amused at his advances. "You're very forward, aren't you?"

"Only when it's worth it."

Their eyes met. For a moment, she thought about playing along, seeing just how much of the game he was willing to play. But instead, she simply gave him a knowing smile and said, "I should get back to practicing."

Theo chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. "Fair enough. I'll leave you to it."

But as he walked away, he glanced back, smirk still in place.

Adela laughed quietly after the door closed, a sense of confidence running throughout her. "Did you see that, Milo? Still got it." She could swear the cat looked human in that moment, the way he rolled her eyes at her.

"Fine, fine. God forbid I enjoy being flirted with", she replied sarcastically, but pushed all thoughts from her mind and forced herself to get back to work.

She left the classroom a few hours later, feeling exhausted but utterly content. She had seen improvements, which meant that this wasn't impossible. If magic didn't come naturally to her, she would practice until it did.

After answering the door's riddle, she walked in her common room and headed straight to her dorm, not even thinking about dinner. She was so tired after the session that she was sure she would fall asleep on her plate of food.

When she opened the door, she saw Nicole lying on her bed with a book, reading quietly. "Hi Nicky, you're not going down to dinner?"

Nicole looked up from her book, a confused look on her face. "Dinner was hours ago, you didn't go?"

A sense of dread spread through Adela's body that instant as a sudden thought came back to her. "What do you mean hours ago? What time is it?"

Nicole turned her head and looked back at the watch perched on her bedside lamp. "It's 21:55, why?"

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Adela dropped her bag to the floor and rushed out of the bedroom with another word.

"Adela!" called out her roommate, but she was long gone.

Adela skipped a few steps and ran towards the door of the common room, pushing it open and rushing out. How could I forget? He's gonna kill me.

Adela flew past the blabbering paintings towards the moving staircases and almost threw herself down them, running as fast as she could as she descended them towards the dungeons.

How many hours was I practicing for? I'm a dead woman.

She reached the last floor and turned a corner, running towards the corridor of the dungeons. As she got closer, the humid and heavy air intensified the beads of sweat forming on her forehead, and she suddenly realized how hot she was getting.

She reached the door to Snape's office and knocked without a second thought. It opened almost instantly, giving her no time to compose herself.

"Come in", said the professor's deep, silky, monotone voice.

His office was cold. Or maybe it was the contrast of it against how hot she was. Adela stepped inside, the heavy door groaning shut behind her, sealing her into the dimly lit space that smelled of damp stone and something bitter, like smoked crushed leaves burned to the edge of char.

Snape was seated behind his desk, quill gliding smoothly over a parchment, a pile of another fifty sheets next to him. He didn't look up immediately. The only sound in the room was the deliberate scratch of ink against paper, the slow, measured movement of his hand. Then, without warning, the quill stopped.

His gaze lifted, pinning her in place.

"You're late."

His voice was quiet, but it carried. A silk thread wrapped around steel. Adela resisted the urge to glance at the clock. It couldn't have been more than a minute past the hour. Maybe less. But she knew better than to argue.

"Sorry," she said instead, voice softer than she intended. She quickly pulled up her arm to her forehead and subtly swiped away the droplets of moisture that had accumulated on it with the sleeve of her robes. He arched a brow, but said nothing, only gestured toward the front of the room where a cauldron and a row of neatly arranged ingredients waited.

"You will be brewing Dreamless Sleep Potion. The instructions are on the board. I expect silence."

He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, watching as she moved toward the workstation.

She set down her bag on a nearby table, and after reading over the instructions, she noticed Snape had purposely chosen an advanced potion for her to brew, clearly in the attempts of humiliating her when she failed. He clearly hadn't forgotten the reason why she had gotten the detention in the first place. She turned her eyes on him, narrowing them in annoyance, but he was oblivious to this, still focused on the parchments on his desk. She would prove him wrong, yet again.

After carefully rereading the instructions, she set to work. Her movements were precise as she chopped, sliced, and ground the ingredients, adding them one by one to the simmering potion. A sleek glass rod swirled through the mixture, catching the dim light as she stirred.

But the moment she turned up the heat beneath the cauldron, the air grew stifling. Between the lingering exhaustion from her run, the intensity of the flames, and the thick, heavy fumes curling around her, the heat became unbearable. With a quiet huff, she shrugged off her robes, then peeled off her school sweater, leaving only the crisp white button-up clinging too tightly to her frame and the grey pleated skirt that suddenly felt shorter than usual.

The cool air against her skin was a relief, but the awareness of it made her feel exposed. Instinctively, she pulled her stockings higher up her thighs, as if the simple gesture could ward off the slight vulnerability she was feeling. They snapped loudly with a crack as they came back in contact with her skin, and she forced her eyes close in embarrassment.

Shaking off the feeling, she rolled up her sleeves, exposing her forearms, and tried to refocus on her task, determined to prove Snape wrong, but she couldn't seem to concentrate.

She had lost all focus; she could feel his eyes on her.

She didn't know if it was her delusional imagination putting in the work again, but the air was thick, charged. A tension that coiled in the quiet, in the way her breath sounded too loud in the stillness, in the way she could feel his gaze even when she wasn't looking. She reached for the lavender, fingers brushing the glass jar, and the clink of it against the table made her flinch.

Get a grip. It's just detention.

Just Snape.

The thought made something twist low in her stomach. She could hear the rustle of parchment as he shifted, the faint tap of his finger against the desk. Not impatient. Just... present. Observing.

She measured out the wormwood, tipping it into the cauldron. Steam curled upward, carrying the sharp scent of herbs and something faintly floral. Behind her, she could sense movement, a slow, deliberate shift. The weight of a presence that made her pulse jump despite herself.

"Stir counterclockwise. Five times."

His voice cut through the hush, closer than before. She hadn't heard him move.

Adela swallowed, gripping the glass rod tighter. "I know."

A pause. Just long enough for her to feel the space between them shrink, to notice the faintest trace of warmth at her back before it was gone.

"Then do it correctly."

She exhaled slowly, forcing her hand to steady as she stirred. Once. Twice. Three times. She could feel him still behind her, not touching, not speaking, just there. A shadow cast by candlelight, dark and unwavering.

Her skin prickled, nerves stretching tight.

"Is this what all your detentions are like?" she asked, trying to make it sound easy, casual.

"No."

That was all he said. Nothing more. And yet, something about the way he said it made her fingers tremble around the rod.

She focused on the potion, on the way the liquid darkened, thickened, shifting from translucent to a deep, swirling purple. A perfect transition.

"Good", Snape murmured, and she wasn't sure if he was speaking to her or the potion itself.

She risked a glance sideways, but he had already turned away, back to his desk. As if the moment had never happened. As if she hadn't felt something shift in the air between them, something hot and restless, pressing against the quiet.

Adela let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.

The rest of the hour passed in a slow, drawn-out hum of awareness. No words. No movement beyond what was necessary. Just the quiet crackle of candle flames, the measured scrape of the glass rod against the cauldron.

She could still feel his eyes on her, but she didn't dare look up. She didn't. But she was dying to. She couldn't. He would see her. She tried to ignore the pull as she sprinkled valerian root over the surface of the potion. She couldn't bear it.

She stole a glance.

Dark eyes, shadowed expression, the sharp cut of his features. Unreadable. Unnerving.

And then, in a second, his gaze flicked to hers.

A slow, deliberate look. A pulse of something thick in the air.

Adela's breath caught. And she hated that it did.

"Focus, Miss Benson," Snape murmured as he looked back down to the parchment on his desk, voice smooth, deliberate.

She swallowed, turned back to the cauldron. But her hands weren't as steady as before.

When the potion was complete, she grabbed a small glass flask and carefully transferred the potion into it.

"It's done, sir," said Adela, and her voice seemed to involuntarily come out quieter than she had wanted.

Snape looked up at her from behind his desk and stood up. He approached her work station, his steps measured, his robes whispering against the stone floor. He took the flask from her hands, his fingers brushing the glass in a deliberate, unhurried motion before lifting it to eye level. The thick, dark liquid swirled under the dim light, catching in slow, deliberate waves as he tilted the flask to inspect it.

Adela stood still, though her hands twitched by her sides. She knew it was good, she had followed every instruction meticulously, but something about the way he examined it made a nervous prickle rise beneath her skin.

Then his gaze flicked down.

She hadn't even realized what she was doing, her nails picking at the soft skin of her lower lip, tugging, peeling. She felt the sting and the wetness just as the taste of copper touched her tongue.

Snape's eyes lingered, dark and unreadable. A muscle in his jaw flexed, just once.

Adela quickly dropped her hand, but not before she caught the way his expression shifted, subtle, fleeting. A flicker of something just beneath the surface, something unreadable.

He didn't comment on it. Instead, he lowered the flask with an air of finality and placed it on the table.

"Adequate," he murmured, though the weight of his tone made the word feel heavier than it should have. Then, after a pause, his gaze met hers once more, sharp and calculating. "If you trust your abilities so much, you may take some with you."

Adela's brow furrowed slightly. "What?"

Snape gestured to a spare flask on the table, his expression betraying nothing. "Take a sample. Keep it. Drink it whenever you see fit. See for yourself if your inflated sense of self-confidence has a foundation."

Her fingers curled into a loose fist at her side. Was that a test? A challenge? A punishment wrapped in something deceptively civil? Was he actually being kind of nice? The first three options felt more plausible to her.

His face revealed nothing.

She hesitated, unsure whether to respond, unsure if declining would make her seem uncertain, unsure if accepting would feel like some kind of submission.

Instead, she simply nodded once and reached for the empty flask. "Thank you."

The moment she corked it shut, Snape's voice cut through the thick silence again.

"You may go."

That was it. No final jab, no cruel remark, just dismissal. And yet, something about the way he said it made the back of her neck prickle.

She turned sharply, the glass flask clutched in her fingers, and she turned to leave, hand on the door—

"Miss Benson."

The sound of her name stopped her in her tracks. She glanced back.

He studied her for a long moment, expression unreadable, the candlelight casting sharp shadows across his face.

"Do make sure your sharp tongue doesn't write you another invitation to my classroom."

"Yes, sir."

She walked down the stone corridor, her footsteps echoing loudly in the silence. Her mind was a whirlwind, the events of the past few minutes replaying over and over in her head. His gaze, his voice, the way he had looked at her, there was something about it that unsettled her, something that made her feel... too aware of herself.

She shook her head, trying to push the thoughts away. It was ridiculous. Snape was her professor, stern and cold, and it was nothing more than his usual, unnerving scrutiny. That was all.

But no matter how hard she tried to shove the thought aside, it kept coming back, like a whisper she couldn't silence.

I'm attracted to him.

The words lingered in her mind, and she recoiled at it. No. She couldn't be. She didn't even want to be. It was absurd. He was everything she should not be drawn to: harsh, aloof, always distant.

Sure, she had thought him handsome when she saw him in Dragon Alley, but that was different. She didn't know how he was then, how cold and ruthless, plus believing someone was handsome did not equal to being attracted to them.

But still—that look. The way his eyes had dropped to her lips, the way she had felt her pulse quicken under his gaze, the way his voice had sent a shiver down her spine. It made her feel exposed, vulnerable in a way that she couldn't explain.

No. No, she was not attracted to him. That wasn't it. It was just... a reaction. Just a response to his presence, his voice, his... everything that made her feel like she was under a microscope.

She clenched her fists as she walked faster, her breath coming a little quicker, frustration building. She was overthinking this. She had to be.

But as she approached the door to her common room, the words crept back again, more insistent this time.

Attracted. To Severus Snape.

She stopped in her tracks, taking a deep breath, shaking her head violently as if to dislodge the thought. No. It wasn't that. She wouldn't let herself think that. It was impossible, ridiculous. He was a teacher, and she wasn't some foolish schoolgirl with a crush.

She answered the riddle abstenmindedly as her thoughts swirled out of control. She couldn't ignore it, though. No matter how much she tried to deny it. She was. She had to be.

But she didn't want to be. Not like this. Not with him.

"Stop it," she whispered under her breath, slamming the door open. But even as she stepped into the warmth of the common room, her heart didn't slow, and her mind wouldn't let go of the thought.

Attracted. To him.