Trapped, Alone

The alarm echoed through Gringotts like a spectral scream that shook the very depths of its cavernous bowels. In an instant, goblins stopped counting gold coins and shimmering emeralds, quills stopped mid-stroke on endless parchment, and a wave of uncertainty swept through the wizarding city like an icy whisper: the Potter lineage was in danger.

Evangeline was in danger.

The report quickly reached the Ministry, and before it could pass through too many inexperienced hands or indifferent hearts, it reached Albus Dumbledore. The elderly headmaster of Hogwarts, with his imperturbable presence and his blue gaze that usually distilled wisdom in every blink, weighed the situation with absolute gravity. He couldn't afford to be careless. Not with her. Not with the only hope they had against the coming darkness.

It was then that he turned to Severus Snape.

The man, with his gloomy appearance and impenetrable gaze, didn't need detailed instructions. His heart, withered and hardened by years of suffering and divided loyalties, beat with an old protective instinct when he heard the name Potter on Dumbledore's lips. Not for the man, of course. Never for him. But Lily...

Without wasting any more time, he disappeared in a whirlwind of black cloaks and sharp magic, heading for the only place where he could begin his search: Privet Drive.

That house was as ordinary as the others, something he could imagine perfectly worthy of Petunia. Its facade was ordinary, with an elegant and colourful garden, filled with petunias and jasmine, but not a single lily.

He climbed the steps of house number 4 and knocked on the door with the firmness of someone who brooked no delay. Barely a few seconds passed before it burst open, revealing the heavy figure of Vernon Dursley.

"Who...?"

The recognition was immediate. The blood drained from Vernon's face, his moustache trembled. Wordlessly, he tried to close the door, but Severus slipped a foot between the frame and the wood. He didn't like being there, and yet, he knew he had no choice.

"You're—you're—you're one of them!"

As he crossed the threshold of the Dursleys' shabby house, Snape felt the atmosphere fraught with almost palpable tension. Every corner seemed to stifle magic, and the family's cold welcome only fuelled the unease already brewing within him. The walls were decorated with pictures of a chubby blond boy, but no physical trace of a girl.

With almost military precision, his dark eyes scanned the room, finding subtle signs and traces of a presence that transcended the ordinary. It was in the dimness of the hallway at the foot of the stairs that he noticed a faint flicker of magic dancing capriciously.

Darkness. Sinuous. Uncommon. The kind of magic that clung to the walls like an infestation. Like a residue. Like a reminder.

The air in the room seemed to thicken. Vernon and Petunia stepped back, as if afraid Severus might tear their skin off with a look.

“What are you doing here?” she exclaimed, her eyes filled with spite. She moved with nervous agility, betraying a resentment that had simmered for years. “You are not welcome.”

Snape stared at her. No further proof was needed. There was something far more sinister in the air. “Tuney. Where is she?”

Petunia paled. Her reaction was almost imperceptible, but Snape caught it instantly. A twitch at the corner of her lips, a quick blink. He knew exactly who she meant, but she didn't say his name. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Evangeline,” he repeated, with almost cold firmness, “tell me where she is.”

She shot up from her chair, as if the mere mention of her name was a direct blow to her core. “Don’t mention her!” she screamed, her eyes blazing with rage. “Don’t you dare mention her! She’s a curse! An aberration!”

Snape took a step forward, his eyes blazing with intensity. “What have you done to her?” he questioned her, the threat in his tone crystal clear. “I ordered you to give me an answer.”

Petunia backed away, pushing him away with an aggressive gesture, like a desperate woman. “Don’t mention her, don’t even speak of her! That’s what she deserved! She was never normal! Never…”

“What have you done?”

Snape's tone turned deadly, and his presence filled the threshold like a storm about to break loose. Petunia, however, stood firm, though her hands trembled slightly as she tried to hold the door open.

But it seemed she could not help it any longer. Her face twisted with disgust and fear, she began to speak, almost as if she did so by accident. "She didn't laugh. She didn't cry. She didn't speak. She... she wasn't like a normal child. She just stood there, staring at me. Those green eyes... so empty, so cold. As if she weren't alive, as if she were... dead." Petunia's voice broke on a gasp of terror. "Those eyes... We fed her, clothed her, but she never behaved like a normal child. And then these strange things happened..."

"Where is she?" Snape repeated, more demanding this time. "Where did you leave her?"

She looked at him with sudden coldness. Her face tightened, and a small spark of fury flickered in her eyes.

“Wool’s Orphanage,” she said contemptuously. “There it is. Let me be clear: it’s not my problem. Now get out of my house! Go! Go!”

Snape stared at her, feeling as though he had just received the answer he was dreading to hear. He didn’t need to listen any further. Without another word, he raised his wand, and in the blink of an eye, he vanished from the Dursleys’ house, instantly transported to his destination.

The air around the orphanage had an unusual weight, thick and ancient, as if the very structure exuded the solemnity of the centuries it carried within its foundations. There was no sign of joy in the place, no hint of the carefree nature of childhood. The stone walls, firm and monotonous, rose with a severity that stifled any hint of warmth.

Snape regarded the facade with a mixture of distaste and resignation. Places like this produced two kinds of creatures: those who broke under the weight of cruelly imposed discipline, and those who learned to live in the shadows, silent and watchful. He wondered, with some discomfort, which of these categories Evangeline Potter fell into.

When the orphanage door closed behind him with an almost reverent sound, the sound of the creaking floorboards seemed to echo throughout the corridor. Around him, the women who prowled the halls wore dark gowns, as if they were novices in some forgotten convent, covered from head to toe in robes that reflected the ancient customs of the medieval era.

The woman who greeted him was young, but her clothing and bearing made her seem older. She wore a simple, dark-hued habit, unadorned, and her veil covered most of her hair. There was something about her expression that set it apart from the stern coldness Snape had expected: a certain twinkle in her eyes, as if she still retained some softness within the rigid structure in which she lived.

"How may I help you, sir?" she asked softly, though her eyes were searching him cautiously.

Snape didn't waste time with unnecessary courtesies. "I'm looking for Evangeline Potter."

The woman—a novice, judging by her attire—exhaled a barely perceptible sigh before nodding. There was something in her gesture that Snape immediately grasped, a mixture of resignation and slight melancholy.

"Yes... of course. Please follow me."

She turned on her heel and began walking down the corridor without further ado, her gait punctuated by the faint creak of the ancient tiles beneath her feet. Snape followed her, his sharp eyes scanning the surroundings with precision.

There were children here and there, but they were not playing. They weren't laughing. They sat in rows, murmuring prayers under the supervision of women dressed similarly to the novice who led them. The girls wore long dresses of modest fabric, and the boys looked like small commoners from a forgotten time, with short trousers, rough wool vests, and button-down shirts closed to the neck. The overall image had a medieval air, an unyielding rigour that hung in the air like an invisible mist.

“She is… a very special girl, sir.” The young woman’s voice was gentle, but there was something in her tone that suggested a silent complicity, an unspoken understanding that needed no explanation beyond words.

Snape watched her, his eyes fixed on her—not on the girl leading him, but on what her words hinted at. There was something more, something beyond the simple description of the girl he was looking for. The young woman continued, without taking her gaze from him, as if she wanted to make sure he understood exactly what she was about to say.

“Evangeline… doesn’t like to talk,” she said, and Snape frowned, analysing the information. “She doesn’t like being with other children. She hates having her things touched, and even more so being touched.” The novice paused, as if carefully weighing her words. “She’s had… situations, problems with the other children.”

Of course. She had to have something of her father. The mischief, the pranks, the horrendous fights—

“What kind of problems?”

The woman sighed, looking away for a moment. “Arguments with the other children. Unpleasant situations. Grotesque, even. I can't blame her alone: ​​children aren't entirely kind to her poor soul. But things never end well when they upset her.”

Snape stopped pacing. “What do you mean?”

“It's not that she's evil, she isn't. But when someone touches her without her consent or tries to take something from her…” She paused, as if trying to find the right way to describe it, “she reacts in a way you wouldn't expect from a child her age. Children who end up crying, some with bruises. Nothing serious, but enough to make most people avoid her. She doesn't really seek them out, but she doesn't avoid them either. If someone challenges her, she responds. Not with shouting or senseless blows. She does it with… precision.”

Snape said nothing for a long moment. In his mind, the pieces were beginning to fall into place, but he didn't like the emerging picture in the least. That girl, so different, so isolated from the rest. And yet, there was something in the young woman's voice that indicated a hidden affection for Evangeline. Perhaps a pity or compassion that only those who had spent time with the girl could understand.

“And what does she do with her time?”

The woman gave a faint smile. “She paints.”

“She paints?”

“It's the only thing she seems to truly enjoy. I don't know where she gets her ideas, but they're never cheerful houses or sunny landscapes. Her art is... a bit disturbing. But she's talented, there's no doubt about it.”

“Where is she now?” he asked, his tone impersonal, but laced with that restrained urgency that always accompanied him in moments like these.

The young woman looked at him and nodded, as if resigned to doing what Snape wanted. “Evangeline must be in the painting room,” she said, “although she could be in her room. No one knows exactly where she is, but she always ends up returning there.”

Following the young woman through the corridors, Snape allowed himself to study the layout of the place more closely. The painting room wasn’t what one would expect. The orphanage's cold walls echoed the gloom of the place, filled with aged wooden furniture and austere decor. The paintings hanging on the walls weren’t exactly works of art, but religious depictions, austere and sombre, which only served to reinforce the solemn atmosphere of the place.

There was something unsettling about that space, something that seemed almost from another time, as if tied to a time when beauty was considered a sin.

The novice seemed uncomfortable, scanning the empty room and muttering to herself, “Where could she be? She's not usually that far away...” Her voice reflected more than bewilderment; it was genuine concern. Snape paid little attention to her words, for something in him was already beginning to warn him.

His gaze shifted to a small door in a dark corner of the room, right next to an old bookcase that seemed never to have been touched. There, in the keyhole of a closet, something caught his attention. A flicker, a fleeting movement. As if an eye had blinked through the crack.

And not only that. A trace of magic, faint but persistent, hung in the air like an invisible echo. It wasn't magic cast deliberately; rather, a natural emanation, the involuntary mark of someone who had not yet mastered the power within.

Without explaining, Snape stepped forward and pointed at the cupboard. “There,” he ordered gravely, without taking his gaze from the spot.

The novice inhaled with a slight start, but her reaction wasn't one of fear, but of silent understanding. “Evangeline,” she called with measured gentleness. “Come out, dear. You have someone.”

There was no response.

The woman waited a few seconds before trying again, this time with a slight note of concern in her tone. “Please, dear. It's okay.”

Nothing.

Finally, with a resigned sigh, the novice approached the wardrobe and gently opened the door. And there she was.

Small. Thin. Her skin paler than it should be for a girl her age, her arms and legs betraying a lack of proper nutrition. She wasn't skeletal, but the wear and tear was there, evident in her slight build, in the way her collarbones bulged slightly beneath her dress.

Her hair, thick black, fell in waves over her shoulders, darker even than Potter's. But what caught Snape's attention were her eyes. First, that whitish scar that reached the inside of her cheekbone, passed over her right eye, began on her forehead and took up part of it as well.

Her eyes...

He had seen ones like that before.

In a mirror.

They weren't Lily's eyes. They didn't have her warmth or lively intensity.

Not the green of hope or life. They were a cold, distant green. A green that evoked the curse he himself had cast more than once, in the distant past, in a moment that would change everything.

The green of the Unforgivable Curse.

Snape felt a shiver run down his spine.

“There you are,” the young woman said, helping her down. She smoothed the frilly skirt of her beige dress down to her knees, beneath which she wore white stockings. “What were you doing there? We said no more hiding in closets.”

There were bruises on her arms, some old and some more recent. The side of her head was red, as if she had been hit or pressed against something for too long. Her lips were chapped, as if she had bitten them frequently, a sign of persistent anxiety. Her nails were completely bandaged.

“I wanted to play a trick on you,” the girl replied, without taking her eyes off Snape. “Boo.”

The novice let out a small laugh, but only he seemed to notice that Evangeline was only saying it to break the tension in the air, an attempt to diffuse the attention since she herself didn't laugh.

“This is Mr...”

“Snape,” he replied, without taking his eyes off her. Evangeline didn't flinch. “Severus Snape.”

“Very well. Mr Snape came to see you exclusively, Evangeline. Isn't that marvellous?”

She didn't answer again. She simply sat back down to continue her painting. Severus tilted his head slightly, noting that it was a candle trying to light the one that had gone out next to it.

“I'll go... go through some papers. I'll let you chat.” The woman looked at him, pleading with her eyes that he follow the series of recommendations she had given him. “You know where I'll be.”

With that, she left them behind with a single curious glance. He didn't know why, but he assumed the calmness with which the girl absorbed the visit of a stranger wasn't normal.

Severus pressed his lips together in an inward grimace. He was used to the presence of children because of his position as a teacher, and to spoiled children because of Draco, his godson; but not to creatures as foreign as Evangeline. Not to the one he'd thought was a spoiled brat, only to turn out to be so similar to...

No.

“Are you a doctor, sir?”

The question snapped him out of his silent analysis. Her voice wasn't hesitant, nor did it contain the full innocent curiosity of a child facing the unknown. It was as if she already knew the answer, as if she were merely confirming something to herself.

He didn't acknowledge the question immediately. He watched her out of the corner of his eye as she returned her attention to her painting, as if her interest in him had been a passing fancy, a brief pause in the midst of something much more important.

“No... I'm a professor.”

“Hm... It doesn't seem like it.” The girl tilted her head slightly. “Of religion?”

He felt the slightest tingle of annoyance creep inside. “No,” he replied tartly, though he softened his tone almost immediately. This wasn't the time for his usual curt attitude. “I teach at a special school. A... different one.”

Evangeline turned her head just slightly, just enough to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “It seemed possible,” she murmured. “So, what do you teach?”

Her tone didn't have the childlike impatience one might expect. It didn't have the selfishness of a wayward child demanding answers. It was more of a question asked because she felt she had to, as if she were carefully tracing the contours of the reality Snape represented.

There were no sighs from him, no tired looks. Only a pause.

“Potions,” he said, gauging the child's reaction.

Evangeline put down her brush, but didn't raise her head. “Like medicine?”

“Something like that.”

The child drummed her fingers against the arm of the chair, still covered with the bandages that hid her ragged nails. Severus noticed the movement and wondered how much anxiety she carried within her.

It was curious. She wasn't dismissing his presence, or questioning it with the irritation of a child who feels watched. She was analysing why. A child who didn't accept things for granted, who didn't accept the world as it was presented to her, but dissected it with her own logic, seeking the structure behind every event.

And he understood that. More than he'd care to admit.

Evangeline didn't insist. She simply dipped the tip of the brush into a small jar of black paint and returned her attention to the half-painted candle on the canvas.

Severus narrowed his eyes. “The candle on the left won't be able to light the other one if its flame is too weak,” he murmured, more to himself than to her.

The girl continued painting, but after a couple of seconds, she answered without looking at him. “Perhaps.”

The professor observed her posture, the tension in her slender shoulders, the way her hand moved with calculated precision. She wasn't ignoring him. Not exactly. She was waiting.

He inhaled slowly.

“Evangeline,” he spoke her name carefully, testing its weight on his tongue. “Do you know why I'm here?”

The girl tilted her face slightly toward him, but her green eyes didn't seek him out. “Miss said she came to see me,” she said with a shrug. “I don't mind that much, really.”

That indifference. That tone she had perfected over the years, like a shield against the world.

Severus saw in her a ten-year-old boy with tangled hair, patched robes, and a soul too old for his body. The echo of himself in his childhood.

“You're special.”

She gave a small laugh, without a hint of mirth. “Is that what they tell all children who behave strangely?” she asked, emotionless.

“No,” Severus shook his head. “That's what they tell children who are different from everyone else.”

She paused her brush for a second. It wasn't an obvious movement, nor a start. But he noticed it.

“And you're the expert on that, I suppose.”

The professor's lips curved into a wry smile. “You could say that.”

She dipped her brush back into the paint, and this time her eyes met his through a river of fresh paint. Severus felt the current of magic vibrating around her, floating in the air like an invisible spectre. The girl contained it unusually, not letting it burst out in uncontrolled bursts like other children with untrained gifts. Evangeline Potter held it within her, moulded it, dominated it without her even knowing it.

“I know what you're doing.” Her tone was flat, emotionless, but her eyes spoke for her.

Snape watched her closely.

“And what is it you think I'm doing?”

She tilted her head, her gaze still fixed on him.

“Testing me,” she replied. “Measuring how...” she searched for the right word, “...self-aware I am.”

Severus narrowed his eyes.

She was sharp. Not brilliant in an academic sense, not yet. But she possessed the kind of intelligence born of instinct, of the need to survive in a hostile environment.

“And what have you deduced, then?” he asked, with genuine curiosity.

Evangeline shrugged again. “That I'm clever enough to know that you're not normal either.”

Ah.

Severus felt a fleeting flicker of respect rise within him.

He straightened in his chair and slid one of his hands inside his robes. Evangeline didn't move an inch when he drew his wand, didn't even blink.

She didn't flinch, showed no fear. She simply watched him, turning slowly, a spark of fascination crossing the eerie green.

Severus subtly twisted his wrist and murmured a charm.

The candles on the walls flickered, their light oscillating with palpable energy. On the table, the paint Evangeline had just placed on the canvas rose slightly from the paper, forming small floating filaments in the air before falling gently back onto the canvas.

“Magic is real.” It was a statement, not a question.

“Did you hear about it before?”

Evangeline didn't smile, but she seemed to smile with her gaze. The same gaze that seemed to want to know how much Snape was willing to confess.

“You are a witch, Evangeline.” He finally said.

The girl didn't react. She didn't flinch. She didn't scream or deny his words. She simply stood there, her fingers interlaced in her lap.

The silence stretched between them, until finally, in a softer tone than he had hoped to use, Snape added:

“As was your mother.”

There was a slight change in Evangeline's expression, a small, slower-than-usual blink, a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.

“My mother.”

It wasn't a question. It was a repetition.

Snape nodded, and she inclined her head slightly.

“Why are you telling me this?”

Because you don't accept it as the truth, but as a possible lie, Severus thought. Because you don't doubt magic, but you doubt me. Because you are like me. Because you are too vivid a reflection of something I thought I had kept under a hundred locks.

He clenched his jaw.

“Because it is the truth.”

Evangeline looked at her hands, then at the floor.

Then, she leaned slightly over her painting and with her fingertip spread the pigment from the unlit candle, blurring the edges as if absorbing the information in the same movement.

“I know.”

Severus blinked.

“You don't seem to know.”

The girl tilted her head.

“I did know,” she murmured.

She didn't say it arrogantly. Not haughtily. She said it as if the fact were as undeniable as the colour of the sky or the shape of a leaf.

“I didn't know if saying it out loud would make it more or less real.”

The confession slipped between them like a shadow.

Evangeline, without taking her eyes off her painting, murmured,

“Real things aren't always certain.”

Severus felt a pang in the pit of his stomach.

“That's true.”

She looked up at him, her expression calculated. “So, how... trustworthy are you, Mr Snape?”

And there it was. The real question.

Not about magic. Not about who she was. But about him. About how trustworthy he could be. About whether Evangeline could allow this stranger to interfere with the structure she had built around herself.

Severus felt the weight of his own history pressing against his chest.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't fair that a ten-year-old girl should have to ask those questions. It wasn't fair that Evangeline should have to be aware enough of her world to analyse it that way.

It wasn't fair. But it was reality.

He arched a brow, not answering, but instead looked at her painting, where now the fire seemed more red than before. And Evangeline, after a long moment, nodded, turning around once again, as if a secret answer had passed over her head.