The Unruly

"There are times, when I do not choose healing. I'm stubborn. I choose self-destruction instead hoping that I will learn what it's like to have wounds again. And learn and learn and learn and learn again."

- Juansen Dizon

The night was thick with silence when Arabella’s eyes fluttered open. She wasn’t sure what had woken her at first—the house, usually so still, felt alive in a way it hadn’t before. Something was off. As she blinked against the darkness, she realized it was the soft sound of movement downstairs. She strained to listen, her heartbeat quickening as the creaking of the floorboards reached her ears.

Severus.

Her first thought was instinctual, the awareness of his presence something she had grown attuned to in the weeks they had lived together. He was never careless, never moved around the house without purpose, and certainly never at this hour. Arabella threw off her blankets and hurriedly pulled on a robe, tying it at her waist as she padded barefoot toward her door.

As she stepped out into the hallway, the soft glow of a single lamp from the sitting room spilled up the stairs. The sound of shuffling—heavy, uneven—grew louder, and her breath hitched as she descended.

Severus was there, leaning against the edge of the couch, his hand pressed firmly against his side. His face was ashen, and his breathing labored. There was blood. Too much of it. Dark, thick, and seeping through his robes, staining his fingers as they attempted to staunch the flow.

“Severus?” Arabella’s accent French accent showing through with her anxiety, the rush of panic breaking through the quiet of the night.

“No,” he interrupted, his tone firmer this time, though there was a noticeable tremor in his voice. “I don’t need your help.”

Arabella froze for a moment, stung by the cold dismissal, but she steeled herself. She wasn’t about to leave him like this. “You can’t do this on your own,” she said, moving closer despite his protests. “Severus, you need—”

“What I need,” he bit out, wincing as he adjusted his weight, “is for you to do as I say and go back upstairs.”

Arabella’s jaw tightened in frustration. He was impossible—stubborn, secretive, and maddeningly self-sufficient, even when he was clearly in no state to care for himself. But she wasn’t about to walk away from him, not now, not when he was bleeding in front of her.

"Heal yourself then," her voice sharp "Use your magic and heal yourself and I'll go upstairs."

He glanced down in shame. 

"I may be a squib, but I grew up in a wizard family, I'm wholly aware you can't heal yourself in this state," she knelt in front of him, her gaze meeting his. “You’re going to make it worse if you don’t let me help,” she said firmly, though there was an underlying note of concern in her voice. “Please.”

For a moment, Severus didn’t respond. His black eyes were locked onto hers, as though he was trying to decide whether she was worth the trouble. His breathing was shallow, and Arabella could see the tension in his face, the way his jaw clenched as he fought against the pain.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled slowly. “Fine,” he muttered, though there was no gratitude in his voice. Only exhaustion.

Arabella moved quickly, helping him lower himself onto the couch, careful not to jostle his injury. His body sagged against the cushions, his usual rigid posture giving way to the toll of whatever battle he had fought that night.

“I’ll get some bandages,” she murmured, rising to head for the small cabinet where he kept muggle healing supplies for her.

As she rummaged through the drawers, her mind raced. What had happened? Severus never spoke of his work, never told her where he went when he disappeared for hours, sometimes even days. And she never asked. She had learned quickly that he was not one to share more than was necessary. But now, as she watched the blood soaking through his robes, the questions bubbled up inside her, unspoken but relentless.

When she returned with the bandages, she knelt beside him once more. His eyes were closed, his face pale in the dim light, but he was still conscious, his breaths shallow but steady.

“Let me clean the wound first,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. Gently, she peeled back the fabric of his robes, revealing the gash beneath. It was deep, but not fatal. Not yet anyway. The skin around it was already bruising, and Arabella had to fight back the wave of nausea that rose in her throat at the sight of so much blood.

She worked quickly, her hands surprisingly steady as she cleaned and bandaged the wound. Severus didn’t make a sound, though she could feel the tension in his body as she wrapped the bandages tightly around his side. His silence was unnerving, but it was better than the sharp, cutting words she had expected.

When she finished, she sat back on her heels, wiping her hands on a towel. “There,” she said quietly, her voice barely more than a whisper in the stillness of the room. “That should hold for now.”

Severus opened his eyes slowly, his gaze flickering to the bandages before meeting hers. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt heavy, charged with something neither of them could name.

Arabella opened her mouth to say something—anything to break the tension—but before she could speak, Severus’s voice cut through the quiet.

“Tell me a story,” he said, his voice low and rough, though there was something vulnerable in the way he said it.

Arabella blinked, surprised. “A story?” she echoed, unsure if she had heard him correctly.

He didn’t repeat the request, but his eyes remained fixed on hers, waiting.

For a moment, she hesitated. She wasn’t sure why he was asking; Severus Snape didn’t seem like the type to enjoy stories, especially not ones told by her. But there was something in his expression, something raw and unguarded, that made her nod in agreement.

“Alright,” she said softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch beside him. She thought for a moment, searching her memory for a story, and then one came to her—a tale her mother used to tell her when she was a child.

“There’s a fable,” she began, her voice gentle as she settled into the rhythm of the story. “It’s typically told in French so it might not translate properly. About a young girl named Blanche who lived in a small village at the edge of a great forest.”

Severus shifted slightly; his gaze still fixed on her as she spoke.

“One day, Blanche wandered too far into the woods and found herself lost. As she tried to find her way back, she came across a wolf. It was wounded, much like you,” she added with a small, almost teasing smile, though Severus didn’t react.

She continued, her voice soothing as she recounted the fable. “Instead of running, Blanche helped the wolf, bandaging its wound and staying by its side until it was strong enough to walk again. The wolf, in return, guided her back to the village, where she was reunited with her family.”

Arabella paused, glancing at Severus to see if he was still listening. His eyes were half-closed now, his breathing slow and even, but she could tell he was still awake.

“And the moral of the story?” she asked softly, her fingers absently brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “Kindness, even to those we fear, can lead us home.”

Severus’s head lolled to the side slightly, his eyes slipping closed as the last of his tension seemed to melt away. His breathing deepened, and Arabella realized with a start that he had fallen asleep.

For a moment, she didn’t move, unsure of what to do. His head had fallen against her thigh, his dark hair brushing the fabric of her robe. The sight of him like this—vulnerable, quiet—stirred something deep within her. He looked so different when he wasn’t scowling, his features softened by sleep.

Carefully, so as not to disturb him, she shifted slightly, making herself more comfortable. Her hand hovered above his head for a moment before she let it rest gently in his hair. It was softer than she had expected.

The quiet of the house settled around them once more, and Arabella leaned back against the couch, her heart beating a little faster than it should have. The tension between them—always present, always simmering—had shifted tonight. She wasn’t sure what it meant, or what would happen when he woke up.

But for now, in the stillness of the night, she let herself enjoy the quiet, the warmth of his presence against her, and the feeling that, for once, neither of them was alone.