The Unruly

"Sometimes, the hardest part of healing is allowing yourself to be healed."

Anonymous

The next morning dawned grey and muted, a thin mist clinging to the windows of Spinner’s End as Arabella stirred awake. She lay still for a moment, disoriented, before the night's events came flooding back. The warmth at her side, the quiet rise and fall of Severus’s chest as he slept—she had almost forgotten.

Carefully, she glanced down at him. He was still asleep, his head resting in her lap as it had been for hours. Arabella’s hand, which had remained tangled in his hair for much of the night, was numb, and she slowly, cautiously, moved it away. Severus didn’t stir, his face slack with exhaustion, the rigid tension that usually gripped him now absent. For the first time in as long as she could remember, he looked at peace.

A pang of something—guilt, maybe—twisted in her chest. She shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t feel this warmth from him. Not after everything. Not after Regulus. Not after the loss she’d endured. Severus might have found some kind of solace in their twisted coexistence, but for her, it was always shadowed by the memories of those who were gone.

And yet, she hadn’t pushed him away last night. Hadn’t left him to tend to his wounds alone. She had let him rest his head in her lap, let herself feel something beyond the weight of her grief. The thought of it now made her uneasy.

As carefully as she could manage, Arabella shifted, inching her body out from beneath Severus’s weight. He groaned softly but didn’t wake, and she took the opportunity to stand, stretching her stiff muscles as quietly as possible. The air in the sitting room was cold, a sharp contrast to the warmth she’d shared with him throughout the night.

Glancing once more at Severus’s sleeping form, she wrapped her robe tightly around herself and headed toward the kitchen. There was a stillness in the house this morning, an odd sense of calm that both comforted and unnerved her. She began preparing a pot of tea, her movements mechanical as her thoughts drifted back to Regulus and to Sirius.

Guilt crept in, its familiar weight settling heavy on her chest. Regulus had always been her protector, her confidant, her safe place. And now, with him gone, a hollow ache had taken root in her, one that Severus could never fill. She wasn’t even sure if he wanted to.

As the tea steeped, Arabella pressed her palms flat against the cool surface of the counter, willing herself to breathe, to focus on something other than the churning mess of emotions inside her. She could hear the soft patter of rain against the window and the creak of the old pipes, but her mind was elsewhere, lost in a tangled web of memories and regrets.

The sound of footsteps behind her broke through her reverie. She turned to see Severus standing in the doorway, his face pale and drawn, though his eyes were as sharp as ever. He had changed out of his bloodied robes, though the stiffness in his movements told her he was still in pain.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice quiet as she poured him a cup of tea and slid it across the table toward him.

Severus’s gaze flicked to the cup before settling on her. "You should’ve let me handle it last night," he said, his tone flat but not entirely ungrateful.

Arabella rolled her eyes slightly. "You were bleeding all over the place, Severus. What did you expect me to do, just leave you there?"

"You didn’t have to stay," he said, taking a sip of the tea, his eyes never leaving hers.

There was an unspoken weight to his words, a quiet accusation that made Arabella’s stomach twist. He was right, in a way. She hadn’t had to stay. She could have walked away, could have kept her distance. But she hadn’t. She had let herself be pulled into his world, into his pain. And now, she wasn’t sure how to pull herself out of it.

Arabella forced a small, tight smile. "Well, I guess I’m just not as heartless as you think I am."

Severus didn’t respond to that, his expression unreadable as he took another sip of tea. The silence between them stretched on, thick with unspoken tension.

After a few moments, Arabella cleared her throat, desperate to break the oppressive quiet. "You never answered my question last night," she said softly, her eyes searching his face for any sign of what he was thinking. "About what you were doing out there. Why you came back hurt."

Severus’s jaw tightened. "It’s not your concern."

"Not my concern?" Arabella repeated, incredulous. "I live here, Severus. If you’re getting yourself killed out there, I think I deserve to know."

His eyes darkened, the sharp edges of his usual demeanor snapping back into place. "I don’t owe you explanations," he said coldly. "You’re here because it’s safer for you than anywhere else, not because I’m obligated to keep you informed of my every move."

The words hit harder than she expected. She stared at him, her mouth slightly open, caught between anger and hurt. "I know that," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "But you don’t have to keep shutting me out. We’re both stuck here, Severus. The least you could do is—"

"The least I could do," he interrupted, his voice rising just a notch, "is exactly what I’ve been doing. Keeping you alive. You’re not in a position to demand anything more."

Arabella’s throat tightened. "I never asked for this," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. "I never wanted to be here, trapped in this house with you."

His expression flickered, just for a moment, but it was enough. Something sharp and raw twisted between them, something that neither of them knew how to handle.

"You’re right," Severus said, his voice low and cutting. "You didn’t ask for this. But neither did I. Do you think I enjoy this? Being stuck here with a Squib, of all things?"

The word hit her like a slap. Squib. She had always known what she was, had always felt the weight of her magical inadequacy, but hearing it from Severus—hearing it from him in this moment, with that cold, biting tone—made it worse. It cut deeper than it should have.

For a long moment, neither of them moved. Arabella’s chest tightened, her eyes burning with unshed tears, but she refused to let them fall. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.

"You think I wanted to be this?" she finally said, her voice trembling with the effort to keep calm. "You think I wanted to be useless?"

Severus’s expression hardened, his eyes cold and unyielding. "It doesn’t matter what you wanted. This is the way things are."

Arabella’s heart pounded in her chest, anger and hurt swirling together in a toxic mix. "Fine," she snapped, her voice shaking. "If that’s how you see me, maybe I am useless. But at least I’m not—" She stopped herself, the words catching in her throat. At least I’m not a Death Eater. At least I’m not a coward.

But she couldn’t say it. She didn’t want to push him that far. Not yet.

Severus’s eyes narrowed, as if he knew exactly what she was thinking. The silence between them was suffocating, heavy with everything left unsaid.

Arabella stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor as she pushed it back. "I’m done," she muttered, her voice thick with emotion. "I’m done with this conversation."

Before he could respond, she turned and left the room, her footsteps echoing through the narrow hallway as she retreated to her bedroom. Once inside, she slammed the door shut and leaned against it, her chest heaving with the effort to hold back the tears that threatened to spill over.

She hated this. Hated the way he could make her feel so small, so insignificant with just a few cold words. Hated the way she had let him get under her skin, had let herself care about him despite everything.

But most of all, she hated how much she had lost. Regulus was dead. Sirius was gone, fighting a war she could never understand. And now, here she was, stuck in this house with Severus Snape, a man who could never see her as anything more than a Squib, an unwanted burden.

Arabella let herself cry. She sank to the floor, her back against the door, and let the tears flow freely, her sobs quiet but relentless.