Aonaran
Noun: A person who lives in self-imposed isolation or seclusion from the world.
»»———- ———-««
There’s never much to do at these functions.
My parents seem to get a kick out of dragging me along with them, showing me off to their colleagues and higher ups. It’s always the same—put on an expensive gown, an even more expensive perfume on top, and make sure I look put together enough to make the adults question my age.
I get the question a lot. “You’re only sixteen?” Why, yes, generic ministry worker number seven, I am. “But you seem so mature for your age.” Thank you, generic company founder number twelve. So I’m told.
I don’t even mind the interrogations or the introductions, really. I just loathe how dull it all is. That’s what no one tells you about high society: no one has a real personality. It’s all cold, calculated fragments of a human shoved into a too-perfectly-tailored suit or an obviously-too-expensive dress. The only semblance of a real emotion any of them will express is arrogance—because, after all, if you have galleons in the bank, you simply must be better than everyone else.
Right?
“Ah, pleasure to see you again, Miss Halloway. I was wondering when to expect the resident spitfire to show.”
Snape inclines his head, a form of greeting. I can’t help but to smirk slightly.
“As if I could get out of it,” I shoot back, shaking my head. I gesture outwardly to the event. “Not a fan of—what did they call it?—international diplomacy, Professor?”
Snape sighs, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes back far enough to see his brain. “I’m not a fan of much of anything these days, Miss Halloway. One of the most harrowing things about aging.”
“I see,” I reply, nodding along to show I’m listening. “Surely the boys in our house are accelerating the process, no?”
“Still at odds with them?” he asks, his voice flat and bored, though I’ve known him long enough to detect the subtle curiosity there.
I look out into the crowd and spot the familiar group of teenage boys making my life positively miserable. A shock of white blonde hair—Malfoy, obviously—a dark skinned Edgar Allen Poe wannabe (Blaise Zabini, an intriguing study), and Theodore Nott, who shares enough in common with the Weasley twins to warrant not needing any introduction. With an upturned palm, I motion to them. “Can you blame me?”
Blaise is brooding in the corner as usual, an air of detached superiority about him that grates on my nerves. Theo is on his third—no, fourth—glass of firewhiskey and he is not handling it well, holding onto Blaise for support as he sways and stumbles. Honestly, the fact that he keeps sneaking drinks isn’t surprising to anyone except Theo, who seems more impressed with himself each time.
And Draco? Well, he’s tailing his father like the spoiled little rich prick he is, sucking up to him for any semblance of approval. It’s pitiful, really. Lucius will shake hands with some important attorney or lawmaker to get them in his back pocket, and all the while, Draco is just beside him, staring up at his father like a lost puppy begging for a treat.
That’s exactly the life I’m afraid of—the kind of thing I avoid. Soul-sucking dementor-like people who only care about how deep your pockets go, not about you.
Snape crosses his arms beside me, following my gaze. “Ah. Lucius again?”
“It’s not just him,” I reply, sighing despite myself. “It’s all of them. I thought when I transferred out of Ilvermony, I’d have a real chance at starting over. But no—it seems my family’s reputation precedes me.”
“Reputation can be a burdensome thing,” Snape says, his voice quiet enough that only I can hear. “But if it’s any consolation, I find most of your classmates more tolerable when they’re afraid of you.”
I let out a short breath, almost a laugh. “Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“It’s supposed to be true.”
We lapse into silence for a moment, watching the glittering mass of sycophants shuffle from one meaningless conversation to another. I know my parents are somewhere in the crowd, probably singing my praises to someone they want something from. They do love me, in their way—father with his distracted affection, mother with her relentless belief in my ‘potential.’ But they treat me like a limited edition investment: rare, valuable, and more impressive the less accessible I am.
I feel the weight of a gaze on me before I even turn. It’s Malfoy. Again.
Malfoy’s leaning against a gilded pillar like he’s trying to look effortless, but his eyes keep darting in my direction like I might suddenly disappear. It’s been like that since fourth year—since I was named prefect. He decided we had some sort of bond after that. Keeps trying to “casually” talk to me in the common room, walks slower in the corridors so I’ll catch up. As if I’m not already actively avoiding him.
“Gods, he’s looking again,” I mutter.
Snape follows my line of sight, then makes a noise that I can only describe as long-suffering.
“Perhaps he thinks you’re friends.”
I arch a brow. “Then he’s even more delusional than I thought.”
Snape almost smiles. Almost. “You’ll have to learn to navigate your classmates more diplomatically if you want to survive sixth year.”
“I don’t want to survive,” I say, folding my arms. “I want to graduate and disappear into obscurity.”
He gives me a look, sharp and unreadable. “That’s not your destiny, Miss Halloway.”
“You sound like my mother.”
“Perish the thought.”
From across the room, my father catches my eye and lifts his glass in a silent toast. I offer him a practiced smile. Beside him, my mother is locked in conversation with a stern-looking man in deep green robes, her hand resting gently on the man’s arm as she speaks. Expanding circles. Always expanding.
Snape leans in slightly. “If it helps,” he says, “I find your contempt for this world oddly refreshing.”
“Funny,” I reply, draining the last of the drink I shouldn’t be holding, “so do I.”
My mentor hesitantly pats me on the shoulder—it’s awkward and jerky, but I know he means well. “I wish I could offer you better advice. All I can say is it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to get along with the Malfoy boy. His family offers connections most couldn’t dream of possessing.”
“I don’t care about connections,” I say dryly, setting my empty glass on a passing tray.
“Then, at the very least,” Snape starts, moving as if to walk away, “he might be less insufferable if you stop avoiding him. If there’s one thing I know about the Malfoy men, it’s this: their egos are easily bruised, and they’re entirely too persistent.”
Snape’s robes whisper as he walks off, leaving behind that parting wisdom like a bad taste in my mouth. Of course he’d say that. He still sees Draco as some sort of valuable asset. I see him for what he is: a perfectly polished blade with as much edge as a circle.
I barely have time to sigh before a familiar, overly sweet voice interrupts my brief moment of solitude.
“There you are,” Pansy Parkinson says, appearing from the crowd like a well-perfumed shadow. Her manicured hand curls around my wrist like we’re old friends.
We’re not.
“Unfortunately,” I murmur.
She doesn’t blink, just flashes me that tight, knowing smile—the kind that’s more threat than warmth. “Come on. Speeches are about to start and I’d rather throw myself into the Thames than sit through another Lucius monologue about the ‘importance of transcontinental alliances’ or whatever tonight’s buzzwords are.”
I raise a brow. “And you want me to… what, skip out with you?”
“You’re a prefect,” she says, as if that somehow absolves her of responsibility. “You’ll keep us from getting caught. Or at least lie better than I would if we do.”
I eye her, weighing the pros and cons. On the one hand, Pansy grates on me in ways I didn’t know were possible until I met her. On the other… anything is better than listening to a bunch of old money types congratulate each other for being exactly the same.
“You’ve got five minutes,” I say, already letting her drag me toward one of the side corridors.
She snorts, half triumphant. “That’s all I need.”
We slip behind a velvet curtain just as Lucius steps up to the stage, voice already dripping with smugness. I catch a flash of Malfoy’s face as we move past—he sees me, I know he does. His expression flickers like he might follow, but he doesn’t. Good.
Pansy pushes open a side door and we’re met with a rush of cool night air. The estate’s garden stretches out ahead of us like something from a dream—all silver light and shadowy hedges. She kicks off her shoes immediately.
“Honestly,” she mutters, walking barefoot into the grass, “if I have to listen to one more person say ‘the future of international unity lies in our youth’ I might actually scream.”
“Or vomit,” I offer.
She grins over her shoulder. “That too.”
We walk in silence for a few moments. I keep expecting her to start gossiping or prying—her favorite pastime—but she doesn’t. Just walks, arms out slightly like she’s soaking up the moonlight. And maybe this is why I tolerate her. Not because we’re friends. But because sometimes, like now, she knows when to just be.
After a while, she says, “You know, I used to think you were stuck-up.”
“I am stuck-up.”
She laughs. “Fair. But you’re also the only one who tells the truth. Even when it’s inconvenient.”
I glance at her, surprised by the sincerity in her tone.
“You should try it sometime,” I say, but there’s no bite behind it.
Pansy hums, considering. “Maybe I will. Right after you stop pretending you don’t like my friends.”
I freeze. She doesn’t look at me, just keeps walking, arms still outstretched like she’s balancing the truth on her fingertips.
“I don’t like them,” I say.
And it’s mostly true. Mostly.
~
Just as I think I’m about to make my great escape back to Hogwarts—having slipped away from both Pansy and the party—I stop dead in my tracks when I see a shadow a few paces away from me in the dimly lit corridor.
“Who’s there?” I call out, only to receive no reply.
I cast a wordless lumos—yes, I know, I’m not supposed to use magic here but I’m wealthy enough that it doesn’t matter, go figure—and there’s no shadow, only an empty hall.
I breathe a sigh of relief, lowering my wand just slightly before jumping at a hand on my shoulder.
Without a second thought I whirl around and land a punch square into someone’s nose, and the tall masculine figure retreats before I realize—
“Shit, sorry, Malfoy, you scared the hell out of me,” I say hurriedly, grimacing.
He waves me off, still cradling his nose with one hand. “No, it’s fine, I’m good.” He stands up fully, though there’s blood dripping onto his hand. “Hell of a punch you have there.”
I bite back a laugh as I compose myself, remembering who I’m talking to. “Yes, well… ten years of the American education system has to teach you something.”
“Right,” he replies, eyes watering though he tries to play it off. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“No worries,” I reply shortly, keeping my tone flat. “Let me fix that for you.”
Draco flinches when I raise my wand up to his face, looking around frantically. “You can’t—”
“Do you ever stop talking?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “Shut up and move your hand.”
He does as he’s told—whether out of curiosity or fear, I can’t tell—and I flick my wrist. “Episkey.”
There’s a distinct cracking noise as his nose realigns itself and he stumbles backwards, wincing in pain before he sniffs, wiping the mess on the back of his hand. “I don’t like how prepared you were for that.”
“Just be glad I was prepared, Malfoy,” I reply, my voice distinctly disinterested. “And stop sneaking up on people. Especially me. Next time, it’ll be a hex.”
Draco scoffs, straightening up and inspecting his reflection in a dusty wall sconce like it’s a mirror. “First the nose, now threats of future violence. Is this how you treat all your housemates?”
I blink at him, slowly. “Sorry, I blanked out halfway through that sentence. Did you say something useful?”
He frowns. “Charming.”
“I try,” I mutter, already stepping past him.
But of course, he follows, because Draco Malfoy has the self-preservation instincts of a concussed niffler. “You know,” he says, keeping pace like he hasn’t just been assaulted by my right hook and my sarcasm, “I could’ve been anyone back there. What if I was dangerous?”
“You are dangerous,” I say dryly. “Mostly to yourself, but still.”
He presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “And here I thought we were having a moment.”
“Oh, we were,” I say. “I was having a moment of peace. Then you arrived.”
“Wow,” he mutters, with a crooked half-smile. “Do you talk to all boys like this or am I just lucky?”
“Lucky,” I say, eyes still trained forward. “Because if it had been anyone else, I would’ve aimed lower.”
He laughs—actually laughs, like I haven’t been verbally kicking him down a staircase this whole time. “Merlin, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs, falling quiet for a beat. “Here I am.”
I glance sideways just in time to catch him watching me, eyes curious and way too soft for my taste. I roll mine hard enough to see my own brain.
“Seriously, Malfoy, is this your idea of flirting? Because I have bad news for you.”
He lifts a brow. “That it’s working?”
I snort. “No. That I’ve had more chemistry with the suits of armor at the castle. And they don’t bleed on me.”
“Give me a minute,” he says, completely unfazed. “I can make that happen again.”
As we round the corner back to the party, I smile sarcastically. “Pleasure as always.”
Malfoy points to his face, actually having the audacity to seem offended. “What, you’re just going to let me go in there looking like this?”
I scan his face quickly, keeping my expression neutral. “Why not? You’re always a bloody mess anyway. Nothing new.”
“Wow. May as well just punch me again with that attitude.”
“Suit yourself,” I shrug, balling up my fist as if to do it.
He holds his hands in the air in surrender. “Kidding! Kidding. Merlin, you don’t have to be so uptight all the time.”
“I’m not,” I shoot back, smirking at his reaction. “You just like to use my last nerve as a jump rope.”
“A… what?” His face scrunches up in confusion, and he looks around aimlessly as if the answer is on the walls.
I shake my head. “Nothing. Muggle thing.”
He scoffs as if even mentioning the word is an affront. “Aren’t you a pureblood?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be following daddy around, pestering him for attention?” I reply dryly.
Draco blinks, momentarily stunned, and then lets out a low whistle. “Alright. That one hurt more than the punch.”
“Then my work here is done,” I say, already turning toward the exit. The idea of reentering the party makes me physically itch.
But he steps in front of me, not quite blocking my path—just there, like a well-dressed, emotionally confusing roadblock. “Hey… back there. In the corridor. Who were you talking to?”
My stomach knots. It’s subtle, but instant. “What?”
“You said something. Before you lit up the hall,” he continues, voice gentler than I’m prepared for. “It sounded like you were… I don’t know. Calling out to someone.”
I blink at him, my mouth already tightening into that flat line I save for moments like this. “I thought I saw someone. It was nothing.”
Draco doesn’t move. Doesn’t even blink. Just tilts his head a bit, eyes narrowing like he’s putting pieces together I didn’t realize were on the table.
“Right,” he says slowly. “Except you looked freaked. And you don’t really do freaked. Not even when you’re punching someone’s face in.”
I cross my arms. “Why do you care?”
“Because I was there?” he replies, exasperated. “Because you punched me in the face and then fixed me like it was just another Tuesday? I don’t know, maybe because I don’t totally buy the whole ‘ice queen who doesn’t need anyone’ thing?”
My jaw clenches. “You don’t get to analyze me like you know me.”
“I wasn’t trying to—”
“You were,” I cut in sharply, eyes flashing. “But you don’t. So drop it.”
Draco opens his mouth like he’s about to push again, but something—maybe my expression, maybe common sense finally kicking in—makes him stop.
“…Alright,” he says, quieter now. “I’ll drop it.”
“Good.”
And with that, I step past him and disappear down the hall, leaving behind a trail of silence—and a shadow that waits just long enough for Draco to turn away before following after me.
~
The sound of bubbling cauldrons does little to comfort me as I sit in Snape’s office, working on our latest brew—Somnus Revelare, a.k.a. the “Dream Bleed Elixir.” I read about it in a journal stored in the restricted section (which I’ve had access to since second year, but don’t let Hermione know that) and it piqued my interest. Professor Snape agreed to brew it with me, if only because he knew I’d probably try to do it on my own anyway.
“So… I overheard Mr. Malfoy warning his friends not to ‘sneak up on you,’ as he so eloquently put it,” Snape drawls, floating another vial of ingredients over. “Dare I ask?”
I grind up the moonstone carefully, not meeting his eyes. “He caught me off guard,” I say simply.
I can feel Snape raise an eyebrow. “And a swift blow to the face?”
A small smirk starts to tug at the corner of my mouth but I tuck it away. “It’s not my fault I have quick reflexes. Besides, he shouldn’t be coming up behind me without announcing himself in a pitch black corridor.”
“Which you weren’t supposed to be in, I’ll remind you,” Snape says sharply, though it’s more of a formality than a reprimand. “You were supposed to be at the party with everyone else where I could keep an eye on you.”
“I just… needed some air,” I reply, deflating a bit. “You know how I despise those gatherings.”
Snape hums—barely. The kind of sound that could’ve been a scoff or the beginning of an incantation, knowing him. “You despise many things,” he says, with all the warmth of a dungeon draft. “Socializing. Compliance. Authority.”
“Don’t forget small talk,” I mutter, pouring the powdered moonstone into the cauldron. The potion hisses, turning from dull gray to a deep violet threaded with silver. “Absolutely dreadful.”
“Yet here you are,” he says mildly, “gossiping like a third-year Hufflepuff.”
“I’m not gossiping,” I protest. “I’m offering you… context.”
“You’re deflecting,” he replies, swirling the cauldron once with his wand. “And you haven’t answered my question.”
I set down the pestle, pressing my lips together before finally saying, “I thought I saw someone.”
There’s a pause, just long enough for the air to go stale.
Snape looks up. Not with surprise—he never allows himself that much drama—but with interest. Concern, maybe, if you squint sideways and subtract the contempt.
“In the corridor?” he asks.
I nod once. “It’s not the first time, either. Sometimes when I’m alone… there’s this shadow. Just out of view. But when I try to look directly at it—poof. Gone.”
“Poof,” he repeats flatly.
“I’m not hallucinating,” I say quickly, sharper than I mean to.
“I didn’t say you were.”
“No, but you were thinking it.”
Snape sighs and folds his arms, his gaze drifting to the potion as it begins to emit a low, rhythmic pulse. “Somnus Revelare can sometimes pull buried memories or repressed magic to the surface just from proximity. Perhaps that’s all it is—a trick of the mind, a remnant of something long gone.”
“Or it’s something real,” I say quietly. “Following me.”
He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he levitates a pinch of sopophorous root toward me and gestures for me to add it. I do. The potion shimmers, flashing crimson before settling into a slow spiral of violet and ink-black.
“You are not to drink this,” he says, the words landing with more weight than usual. “Not under any circumstance. Is that understood?”
I raise a brow. “Would I do that?”
Snape fixes me with a look so dry it could be bottled and sold as a desiccant. “Do not insult my intelligence.”
I smirk faintly, stirring the brew counter-clockwise. “You overestimate me, Professor.”
“And if you take a sip of that potion,” he says coldly, “it won’t be your shadow you’ll have to worry about.”
I open my mouth with another quip ready, but the potion lets out a sharp, metallic chime that silences us both.
The shadows in the corners of the room seem to stretch just a little further.
“So… what are you going to do with it when it’s done?” I ask, trying to keep my tone nonchalant.
Snape raises an eyebrow. “Again with the intelligence. As if I would tell you.”
“Fair.”
He rolls his eyes—fondly, I should add, because that’s the closest he gets to affection—before leaning back against his desk. “We brewed this so you could practice. Not so you could experiment. This brew is incredibly dangerous.”
“Awe, Professor,” I coo, my voice syrupy sweet, “you trusted me to brew it? I’m flattered.”
Snape exhales through his nose, long-suffering and unamused. “Don’t flatter yourself. I trusted myself to be standing close enough to catch your inevitable misstep before it turned into a school-wide catastrophe.”
“You’re so dramatic,” I murmur, watching the potion begin to settle, now the color of deep bruises and smoke. “I’ve only caused minor chaos. Moderate, at worst.”
His gaze sharpens like a scalpel. “You nearly turned an entire corridor into a time loop last month.”
“That was theoretical research, and you can’t prove it,” I say, pulling a clean vial from my robe pocket with the kind of casual grace that makes it very clear it’s not the first time I’ve done this. I turn away slightly, pretending to reach for a cloth.
Snape doesn’t notice—or pretends not to. He’s watching the potion now, eyes narrowed, calculating. “The batch is stable,” he mutters. “It will need to cool. Leave it be until morning.”
“Right. Of course,” I say smoothly, already uncorking the vial behind the desk’s edge. I dip it low, barely brushing the surface, letting only a few drops curl into the glass like wisps of ink.
The cork goes back in with a soft pop. I slide the vial into my sleeve.
Just in case.
Of what, I couldn’t say. In case the shadow starts speaking. In case I start losing time. In case there’s something hiding in my own head that even I can’t see.
Snape’s voice cuts back in. “You’re to go straight to your dormitory. No detours. No late-night brooding in corridors. And no charming portraits into giving you alibis—I will know.”
I lift both hands in surrender. “Yes, yes. Straight to bed. As if I have nothing better to do.”
“You don’t,” he says flatly, crossing the room to extinguish the flame under the cauldron. “And for Merlin’s sake, do not draw its attention.”
I freeze. “Its?”
Snape doesn’t look at me as he begins cleaning up, his tone cool but clipped. “Just go.”
I leave without another word—steps quiet, sleeve a little heavier than before, and that shadow?
I swear, it follows me out the door.
Can Snape see it, too? Does he have his own? Is there some universal entity tormenting the both of us, or multiple people, and we just don’t know because no one has admitted it?
No, if he could see it, he would have gotten rid of it by now. Professor Snape wouldn’t in good conscience let me walk around with something dark attached to me. He was probably just humoring me—though I don’t find it very funny at all.
The walk back to the common room is long and lonely, but I don’t dwell on it. At the very least, I have some solitude.
Except for this damn shadow.
I can always see it just out of the corner of my eye. If I stop walking, it ends up in front of me, only to disappear when I move again.
Always just out of reach, but always there.
When I get to the common room door, whispering Parseltongue to open it—yes, very creative, right?—and step through, the shadow disappears. Almost as if I’ve abandoned it in the hallway.
That’s one of the few things I like about dorming in the dungeons. Nothing can reach me here. Not even my own imagination, apparently. If that’s even what this is, anyway.
“Prefect duties?”
My attention snaps back in front of me at the sound of Malfoy’s voice—and the sight of him and his best friend loitering in the common room.
“No,” I say flatly, gripping the vial I smuggled tightly.
Blaise almost looks intrigued. “Don’t you have to clear mentorships and tutoring with Dumbledore? Especially if you’re going to be out late every night?”
“Don’t you have a dimly lit room to haunt, Zabini?” I counter, discreetly slipping the vial into my pocket instead of my sleeve.
“Nah, I only do that on Thursdays.”
I roll my eyes, attempting to walk past them and to my dorm.
“You’re in a mood,” Malfoy calls out, tilting his head.
“And you’re on my nerves,” I shoot back, crossing my arms. “Can’t you take a hint and leave me alone? I don’t want to talk to you.”
Malfoy stands, but keeps some distance between us. “I said I was sorry. Are you ever going to let that go? It was first year for Merlin’s sake!”
“Let it go?” I echo, my voice rising. “No, I’m not going to just let it go. Now leave me alone.”
His expression flickers—guilt, maybe, or confusion, like he still doesn’t understand what it cost me.
I don’t care. He should be confused. He wasn’t the one waking up at the bottom of the Astronomy Tower with no memory of how he got there. He wasn’t the one speaking in a voice that wasn’t hers. He didn’t see what I saw in the mirror.
Some things you don’t just get over.
Especially when it was committed by someone who was supposed to be your friend.
“Oh, the drama,” Blaise cuts in smoothly, his tone betraying nothing. “You Slytherin girls are always making mountains out of molehills.”
“Huh?” Malfoy asks, momentarily confused into silence.
Blaise gives him a pointed look. “John Fox? ‘The Book of Martyrs?’ No? Oh, come on, Draco, read a book.”
I narrow my eyes. “Thanks for the literary critique, Zabini, but if I wanted smug irrelevance, I’d have a conversation with Parkinson.”
Blaise raises a brow, a little impressed, but wisely stays quiet.
Draco shifts like he wants to say something else—some weak follow-up, some excuse polished by years of pretending it wasn’t that bad—but I don’t give him the chance.
“Go back to playing noble heir or whatever it is you do when you’re not wrecking people’s lives,” I snap, already turning on my heel. “And next time you want forgiveness, maybe don’t wait four years to ask for it.”
I don’t look back. I won’t give them the satisfaction.
The dorm door slams shut behind me, sealing off the common room noise—but not the shadow.
That damn thing is already waiting.