Trapped, Alone

The room didn't smell like home. It didn't smell like anything, really, except for that vague scent of old wood and disturbed dust, as if the furniture itself had just awakened from a long, nameless slumber. Evangeline sat on the edge of the mattress, feeling the springs protest beneath her weight like a sleeping creature longing for more rest. Her suitcase, closed with effort and with the ancient creak that always seemed longer than it was, lay to one side, already half open from the haste with which it had been left there.

Everything had that tinge of something barely used, something that had existed without purpose for years. The walls were grey, as if they'd forgotten to have colour, and the dark furniture didn't help in the least. A wardrobe with a crooked door, a small table marked by antique glasses, a dusty lamp that Mr Snape, with a single wave of his wand, had forced into new life. There were no mirrors, which pleased her. 

It bothered her to see her reflection frequently. She preferred to imagine her face with Marvolo's descriptions, who told her her eyes looked like enchanted gems—and that sometimes they shone as if there was fire behind their irises.

The window was the only truly fascinating thing. Wide, taller than her, and with glass stained by moisture and time, though perfectly visible. She climbed onto the sill without a second thought, her feet crossed, her bandaged fingers resting on the edges, her forehead almost touching the glass, as if that way she could enter that world beyond the dust, the confinement, the weight of secrets.

Outside, the street was uneven. There were no children playing, no dogs, no bicycles whizzing by and shouting with joy. But the old houses had smoking chimneys and drawn curtains. There was movement behind the windows. Distant echoes of conversations, of people who lived without knowing she existed. Beyond, barely visible, a shop with a pale blue awning, a flower shop covered in withered plants, a plaza with broken benches still occupied by vague figures. People. Adults. Oblivious to her.

Still, it was so much more than she'd ever had before.

The cupboard under the stairs had no windows. No wardrobe, no books. No chair in the corner, no antique trunk. No view that offered the world. Only darkness, the smell of bleach, dampness, and her fear. That room, in comparison, was a luxury. A palace.

Evangeline sat on the bed, testing the firmness of the mattress. She said nothing. Her bandaged fingers pressed a little on the edges of the rough bedspread. There was no pillow, but she didn't need one. She sat up a little to take off her shoes, liking the feel of the cold wood. It reminded her of the stone in the orphanage, of something that didn't burn or freeze, but simply was. Constant.

From the hallway came a muffled murmur. A deep voice, a male one. Curious as ever, Evangeline slipped out of bed and tiptoed to the half-open door. She didn't make a sound. She never made a sound when she didn't want to. It was a skill learned in the house on Privet Drive, where every squeak could mean punishment, and every overly loud breath could cost you a blow. 

She peeked out with just one eye, just through the crack.

Mr Snape's back was turned, his posture as rigid as ever, but what caught her attention was the other man. Sitting opposite him, one leg crossed over the other, his arms calm, as if completely at ease in his presence and, more importantly, in control. His dark hair, longer than usual for the men she'd seen, fell over his ears and beyond. But it was his face that stayed with her. It was as sharp as a knife, with cold, sharp grey eyes. He wasn't frowning, but there was something restrained about him, as if every muscle was primed for war, even though he sat at peace. And in his hands, he twirled a wand. A shiny, dark stick, filled with silver sparks that flickered every time his index finger stroked it.

“Petunia would have loved him,” Evangeline thought with a flicker of dry humour, “if it weren't for the stick glowing with sparks.”

The wand flicked out tiny silver particles as it brushed against his palm, as if responding to a silent energy in its wielder. She watched, fascinated for a second longer, before retreating as quickly as she had arrived.

“Is this where we'll be living now?” she asked aloud, looking at no one in particular. But the answer was swift.

“It's temporary,” Marvolo hissed, his voice always too close. As if he were nestled against her neck, as if his words were gnawing at her skin.

Evangeline closed her eyes for a moment. Not to surrender, but to listen better. To let her mind become a room for him. To let his voice expand like smoke in her ribs.

“And then?”

“Then... we'll have them take us where we're meant to be.”

“Where is that?”

“Where the world doesn't drag you down like dirt. Where your power isn't a disease, but a crown.”

She smiled. Something small, almost practical. “Promise?”

“Always. Have I ever lied to you?”

She thought about that for a moment. No. Marvolo never lied to her. Not like the Dursleys. Not like the nuns. Not like the welfare woman who told her “everything will get better.” Marvolo didn't lie. He demanded. He whispered. He asked for things she sometimes didn't fully understand, but that tickled her chest with power. With belonging. And in a world where Evangeline Potter had never belonged to anything but the corner of shame and the forgotten drawer, that was everything and more.

What Dumbledore had said didn't count, technically. They weren't lies. They were unspoken truths, and they didn't matter much to her either; She would honour her parents' memory if necessary, but Evangeline had no memories of them, only a green light blinding her.

Evangeline didn't have a mother to cry to and be coddled afterwards; a father to tuck her in and kiss her forehead. Evangeline didn't have much, anyway.

She looked out the window again. There was an old woman dragging a bag of vegetables. A small dog barking at its reflection. A young man smoking by a post. All so normal. So otherworldly still.

“That man with Mr Snape… do you know him?”

“I've seen him before.”

“Is he evil?”

Marvolo didn't respond immediately. And when he did, his voice turned viscous. “He's… complex. Like a door left ajar that doesn't show whether it leads to heaven or the abyss.”

Evangeline tightened the bandages on her hands a little. “I like him. He looks dangerous.”

“Many dangers are beautiful before they devour you.”

The girl said nothing. Not because she had nothing to respond to, but because she'd learned that sometimes silence spoke volumes. Sometimes silence was the only way to avoid breaking what you didn't know was already broken.

The floor creaked outside the room. Footsteps receding. Voices fading. She lay back on the bed, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. There were cobwebs in the corners. Evangeline didn't fear them. Instead, she imagined them to be invisible strings, traps for memories that wanted to slip through.

“Do you think Mr Snape hates me?”

“He fears you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re different. And different is dangerous when it can’t be controlled.”

“And you? Do you think I am... dangerous enough to be controlled? Or you wish to?”

Marvolo laughed. Not maliciously. Not mockingly. He laughed like someone caressing. Like someone whispering a bedtime story.

“I protect you.”

And Evangeline believed.

Then the door opened a crack. She straightened, turning slowly, her back as straight as a taut string.

The air in the room, which moments before had seemed suspended in a kind of contemplative stillness, shifted subtly, as if the dust itself knew something—someone—was about to enter to upset the balance.

It was Mr Snape who crossed the threshold first, his familiar, stern figure occupying the space with his usual mix of silent authority and reserve. His black robes trailed barely over the floor, not a wrinkle, not a misstep. But it was the man following him who truly caught Evangeline's attention. Not out of surprise, but out of that kind of vibrant tension that sometimes precedes a storm.

The man stood in the doorway, as if the room didn't quite deserve him, or as if he had no real intention of belonging there. Not as tall as Mr Snape but still towering over her — as everyone, of course —, with a slight but firm build, his face marked by precise angles, almost carved. More than attractive. More than irremediably magical.

Evangeline said nothing. Not a word, not a sound. But she observed him, without looking away, the way one watches an animal that you don't know is about to approach to sniff or bite. He watched her too, with something that wasn't distrust or interest. Perhaps a peculiar mixture of both. The faintest hint of a smile appeared on the man's lips. Not mockingly, but amused.

The silence between them lasted for a few seconds, which Evangeline thought was necessary. Almost ritualistic.

It was Snape who spoke first, his voice dry as always, devoid of embellishment or obvious emotion. “Miss Potter, this is Regulus. A… companion of mine.”

The word slid slowly, as if he had considered several others before landing on this one. Companion could mean so many things. Evangeline didn't question it. She only lowered her gaze a few millimetres, then raised it again, as if she were giving him permission to enter.

Regulus moved forward a little. His gait was graceful, as if he measured the impact of each footstep in the air itself. It was the complete opposite of Vernon Dursley's heavy strides, or the helter-skelter gait of the orphanage caretakers. This man did not move without thinking. He stopped halfway across the room, taking in the rickety furniture, the cracked walls, the narrow bed. His lips twisted briefly, a cross between annoyance and resignation.

And while it had seemed like a raven at first glance, now her thoughts had transformed. He wasn't a raven, nor a wolf, nor a ferocious bear. He was a snake.

The word hung in her mind like a jewel tangled in fine thread. She smiled faintly. Not with her lips, but with her eyes. Because she loved snakes.

He looked around with an expression bordering on disgust, but without trying to hide it entirely. “It’s better than other rooms in this house,” he commented neutrally.

Professor Snape didn’t reply, but the stiffness in his shoulders deepened for a moment. Regulus, amused by his unspoken discomfort, turned his attention to Evangeline.

“Severus has told me about you,” he said. “Not much. He’s not a man of… sentimental speeches. But enough to interest me.”

Evangeline blinked slowly. She didn’t respond, not yet. She only turned her face slightly toward Snape, barely an inch, and then back to Regulus. A brief, stiff gesture, which nonetheless spoke volumes.

“My name is Regulus Arcturus Black. The only living son of the Noble and Ancient House of Black, alive… in a complicated sense. For legal reasons, I am dead.”

Evangeline regarded him without flinching, tilting her head slightly, as if she had misheard but didn’t feel like asking. Regulus adjusted his robes with a gesture of precise fingers and continued, speaking as if he were lecturing an invisible audience, or reciting a script he’d rehearsed a thousand times.

“You see, little Evangeline, my family is… complex. Deeds, blood, and betrayals intertwine like the roots of an old tree. I have an older brother, Sirius — perhaps you've heard his name.”

As she spoke it, something in Evangeline's spine shuddered. It wasn't exactly the mention of the name — because she had definitively not heard it before; it was not a common name — but the way her body responded to it. As if the name were inscribed, somehow, in her bones.

Regulus noticed her slight reaction. He gave a more genuine smile, as if playing with pieces she hadn't known she had.

“My dear brother was also removed from the family. Burned from the tapestry, like a withered branch. Yet our mother—a woman feared even in her grave—made one of her rare gestures of redemption. Before she died, she had him restored to the family tapestry. So, officially, he became a Black again.”

He paused. He turned to Snape for a moment, as if asking permission to continue. The man, stoic, said nothing.

“And since Sirius never had children… and my cousins ​​are married into other Houses… and my other cousin is… problematic, shall we say… you, Evangeline Potter, are the only formal heir to our line. Sirius, your godfather, named you his heir when you were born. My brother's last will and testament, should he die childless. Technically, that decision had to be ratified by the family council, but since there were no politically influential members left within the direct line… it stood.”

Evangeline blinked. Not often. Once, maybe twice. But inside her, the information began to spin like a top. Heir. To a House. To a family steeped in tapestries and betrayals and snakes. She didn't know whether to laugh, scream, or run away. She did nothing. She just thought.

The word godfather echoed in her mind, too. Like broken bells. She'd never had a godfather. No one had claimed her until now. She didn't even know what a godfather was supposed to be beyond the vague definition of a ceremonial protector at baptisms.

“And what does that mean?” she asked finally, her voice low. Not timid. Just practical.

Regulus looked at her with a mixture of satisfaction and a certain solemnity.

“It means, my dear child, that you are part of something much older than yourself. That there is magic running through your blood, not just through the Potter line, but through the Blacks as well. That history, accurate history, is waiting for you.”

Evangeline pressed her lips together. It felt as if a door she hadn't known was closed had just opened. As if an entire second story had been built over her head without her noticing.

In the corner of her mind, Marvolo woke. His voice didn't emerge immediately. It wasn't a whisper or a command. It was a presence. A silence with a form. As if he, too, were listening.

And in the reflection of the window, the glass vibrated slightly, barely distorting the image of Regulus's face.

Snape, still silent, looked at her out of the corner of his eye. As if he expected the child to overreact. But Evangeline didn't scream, didn't cry, didn't ask things like, "Why me?" She absorbed. She stored. She filed away.

“And what am I supposed to do with that?” she finally asked, in a voice that wasn't childish, but not adult-like either.

Regulus leaned slightly toward her, as if sharing a secret. “Live. Learn. Survive. Not necessarily in that order. It also means that you're the sole formal heir to the Black lineage, though you probably have no idea what that entails.”

“No,” she admitted. And then, with the brutal frankness that sometimes crept into her voice when she didn't understand why something should matter, she added, “I don't know why you're telling me this.”

He seemed delighted with the answer, though there was a nostalgic glimmer in his eyes that made her slightly doubt her lack of action. “Because lineage matters, Evangeline. Even if no one wants to admit it. Inheritances, houses, names… they're more than memories. They're structures. Ancient magic. Bonds that shape the magical world.”

“And why can't the name stay with your brother?” she asked, her eyes boring into his as if cutting the sentence with a knife. “He's older.”

The man lowered his gaze for a moment. His smile didn't fade, but it grew sadder, more distant.

“Because he didn't want to keep anything,” he said. “And because the family didn't want him back. Not even when they needed it.”

The words hung. The air thickened in the room. Snape didn't intervene. He watched silently, his arms crossed, his face unreadable.

Regulus sighed. “Look, I’m not asking you to do anything. I just wanted to… explain. Give you the pieces of the puzzle before others try to give them to you broke or incomplete. The Black name is already yours. So is the magic.”

Evangeline narrowed her eyes. Not out of anger. Out of study. She was trying to see if he was lying, if there was something hidden between the words. But she couldn’t find anything clear. Regulus was good at talking.

“Even though you’re under Severus’s care, of course I’ll be present as well. I’m like… an uncle,” he suggested, barely disinterestedly. “I have no doubt my cousin Narcissa will also come as soon as she feels the magical pull of the blood, if she hasn’t already.”

An uncle. She'd had an uncle. An uncle who used to beat her to a pulp, who enjoyed seeing the bruises and shoving her into the cupboard amid screams and tears, who ignored how his son, Evangeline's cousin, forced her hand against the frame and then slammed the door, breaking her bones.

She clenched her jaw, staring at him, but Regulus didn't hesitate to return the insult, even raising an eyebrow. Not challenging her to fight, but challenging her to the truth, to lure her into that trap presented as riches.

“Yes,” hissed Marvolo, suddenly. She wasn't surprised, so she just continued staring at him. It was all she said, repeating it in the back of her head.

Evangeline poked the tip of her tongue between her lips, pressing it together, and the man in front of her smiled, as if he'd guessed her answer just by looking at that gesture. “Sirius would have been fascinated by you.”

Mr Snape grunted in disgust and turned away, hiding from them both like a repulsive cat. Regulus straightened again with a smile, turning toward the door.

“I'll leave you alone for today,” he said, very calmly. “But I’ll be back in a few days so you can begin your apprenticeship. I’m sure Cissy will be more than happy to hear there’s a girl in the family. Good evening, Evangeline. See you later, Severus.”

With that, she disappeared in a transparent cloud. Mr Snape stood still, staring out the window as Evangeline had minutes before.

He didn’t move, but neither did she, still like deer with flashlights pointed directly in their eyes. And in her mind, vivid, harsh, Marvolo was laughing. Low. Deep.

Night had descended like a damp blanket over the house, and in its silence, only the usual sounds of old structures could be heard: the creaking of cooling floorboards, the occasional sigh of the stone walls, as if they too were breathing after too long a day. Evangeline had learned to read those voices in the wood, plaster, and metal; she knew how to distinguish a living house from a dead one.

This one, oddly enough, was somewhere between the two. It had crusts of neglect in the corners, but it still vibrated with the footsteps of the man who lived there. It wasn't a friendly place, but it wasn't hostile either. Like its owner.

Mr Snape hadn't said much after Regulus's departure. He had closed the door with a slight flick of his wrist, without any theatrical gestures, and then disappeared into the kitchen like a shadow, returning to his usual corner. Evangeline had followed him silently. Not because she expected him to call her, or because she wished to share the space, but because she didn't know what else to do. Regulus had left her mind burning, like a candle that hadn't been extinguished yet, still smouldering in the dark.

In the kitchen, Mr Snape had prepared a meager dinner, without comment. Hand-cut bread, dull, a kind of thick stew with indefinite ingredients, lukewarm rather than hot, accompanied by a piece of bread that crunched more than expected.

She had learned, years ago, that food isn't judged. It's appreciated or endured. At the orphanage, some nights, they gave her stale bread with watered-down milk. Other times, the food didn't arrive at all. She had spent entire days living off scraps, or stealing small things with discreet hands and a still gaze. No one missed a piece of fruit, a spoonful of oatmeal. So that stew, however bland it was, with the mild sting of the undercooked onion and the lumpy texture, was a feast.

He hadn't sat down to eat with her, but had stood nearby, stirring his own portion while watching her out of the corner of his eye with ill-judged dissimulation.

Snape didn't speak during dinner, and she didn't try to start a conversation either. After all, the important thing was that there was dinner. Dinner and a roof over her head.

When she was finished, she picked up her plate and washed it without being asked. Not out of politeness, but on impulse. She couldn't leave anything dirty without feeling like the world was going to turn on her. Snape didn't comment, neither to stop her nor to approve. He simply turned away, as if his attention had been absorbed by another part of the house, another thought, another memory.

Then they went upstairs. The man first, then she, treading softly, as if the floor might scream. The room greeted her with its usual indifference: the walls still grey, though warmer thanks to a Silencing Charm cast by Mr Snape before he left. He didn't touch her — he never did — but the movement of his wand approached her forehead with the precision of a promise: a single gesture, a small glow, and the temperature became tolerable. As if his magic also knew how to keep silent.

The bed was made. Not neatly, but made. Two extra blankets were piled on top, and a soft pillow waited without pride or charm. Evangeline changed in the bedroom without closing the door completely, because she still didn't know if that was allowed, but hiding behind the wood.

She put on that white nightgown that had once belonged to a novice, perhaps: rough, long, made of old, badly patched fabric. The collar scraped her collarbones, and the sleeves hung as if they had grown by mistake. If her skin had been softer, more cared for, the friction might have hurt her. But her skin was like leather: marked, dry, tough. The nightgown had no power over her.

Evangeline was about to get under the covers — she'd tested them with her hand; they were warm, and that seemed almost a luxury — when she noticed, with her peripheral vision, that the light downstairs was still on. It was a faint, golden glow that crept up the stairs like a sigh refusing to sleep.

She didn't think about it too much, simply let her body guide her, the habit of shared spaces, that strange impulse that sometimes made her seek someone's company without knowing why. She went down a little, quietly, and sat on the stairs, her legs tucked under her. She rested her head between the bars, her cheek brushing the wood, and watched.

Downstairs, in the threadbare armchair, was Mr Snape. He sat with a thick book in his hands, his brow furrowed slightly, as if the contents were causing him a mild, but constant, annoyance. The pages turned with measured slowness, and his body seemed perfectly fitted into the gloom of that corner, like a figure painted forever in a dark oil painting.

For a while, neither of them spoke. The silence wasn't awkward, but it was dense. Evangeline wondered if he had noticed her presence, or if her shadow had simply been swallowed by the woodwork of the house. But then, without looking up, his voice lower than usual, Snape asked:

“Why aren't you sleeping yet?”

She didn't answer immediately. She huddled a little closer, burying her face between her knees, her arms wrapped around them. Then she murmured, barely audible, “I can't go to sleep if I haven't done my duties.”

Snape turned a page. The gesture was dry, but precise. The rustle of the paper was louder than his breathing.

“You have no duties,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

But Evangeline didn't move. She stood there, still, as if the words hadn't been addressed to her. As if she were still waiting for a task, a list, a specific order. A meaning.

Snape exhaled, long, and placed a thin strip of black leather —the bookmark— on the page he had been reading. Then he closed the volume slowly, without a click, and placed it to one side. He didn't rise immediately. Nor did he look at her. He just let the silence envelop them both, like a second skin.

“There're no duties tonight,” he repeated, his voice closer now, more tangible.

After a few seconds, he stood up. He walked to the bottom of the stairs, without taking a single step, and stood there, watching her from below. She raised her gaze slightly, barely enough to meet his eyes.

“It can’t be that there isn’t any,” she murmured. “I have nothing to pay you with. The roof, the food. I have to… do something.”

Snape inhaled through his nose, with that patience that didn’t seem entirely natural to him. His voice was harder when he answered, but not out of anger. Out of conviction.

“You mustn’t pay me anything. That’s not your role. It’s mine. I’m an adult. To secure the roof. You’re a child. And children don’t pay for living under a roof.”

Evangeline lowered her eyes. She didn’t know what to make of that statement. She’d never been told that before. Never been told it as if it were enough. She pressed her bandaged fingers into the rough fabric of her nightgown.

“Ten-year-old girls like you,” he continued, with a calm that wasn’t gentle, but firm, “should be asleep. Because even if there’s no duty, there are rules. And there are few rules here, but that’s one of them: sleep before midnight.”

She looked up again, very slowly. “And the other rules?”

Snape studied her for a few seconds. He didn’t smile, but his expression lost a bit of its rigidity, and he crossed his arms before he spoke. “Drink. Eat. Sleep. And do whatever you wish as long as you don’t break, burn, or blow anything up.”

Evangeline blinked. She could understand that one. It was concrete. Flexible but firm. Like a well-cast spell.

He took a step back, returning to his chair.

“Go back to sleep.”

She hesitated a moment longer, then nodded with a small nod. She rose from the step, gliding silently down the stairs like a well-behaved shadow with her fingers gripping the banister.

And just before entering the room, she stopped. Her voice came out small, almost inaudible, as if she were speaking more to herself than to him:

“Thank you… for taking me out of the orphanage.”

Snape didn't reply.

But he didn't need to.