When the Circle Burns

The torchlight flickered in the narrow stone corridor, casting elongated shadows on the floor like creeping ink. It was well past curfew, the kind of hour when even ghosts grew quiet and the castle exhaled in silence.

Severus Snape moved with deliberate pace through the third-floor hallway, robes whispering around his ankles.

He hadn't planned on the late patrol.

It had been a suggestion—a rare, quiet one—from Minerva that he assist the new DADA professor with hers. Something about scheduling shifts, house balance, fairness. He hadn't really listened.

But he hadn't said no.

And so here he was.

She was already there when he arrived.

Standing with her back to him, Elara Thorne was inspecting one of the older portraits lining the corridor—a faded depiction of a dour-looking warlock mid-duel.

Her silver hair gleamed faintly in the torchlight, the glamour charm shimmering just enough to remind him it was there.

"I trust you didn't get lost," she said, without turning.

"I don't lose my way," he replied evenly.

"Neither do I," she said, and finally faced him.

Their eyes met. Deep blue and endless black.

They stood in silence for a moment, not speaking, not moving.

Snape cleared his throat and gestured stiffly forward. "Shall we?"

She gave a slight incline of her head.

They walked side by side, their footsteps falling in eerie synchrony.

The silence stretched between them—thick, heavy, not quite companionable, not quite hostile. Just... full.

Snape didn't speak. Not this time.

He remembered Lucius' words.

Let her corner you.

Let her choose the moment.

And so he waited.

The castle creaked and settled around them, groaning as though aware of the unspoken tension winding tighter with every turn.

They passed the Charms classroom.

They turned left near the tapestry of the drunk banshee.

And then—

"Why did you ask Lucius about me?"

The question came suddenly, cutting through the quiet like a blade.

Snape didn't look at her, but his stride faltered. Just slightly.

"I was curious."

"Curiosity isn't usually your vice."

"No," he agreed. "It isn't."

They stopped at the end of the corridor. She turned to him, arms crossed loosely.

"I won't ask what he told you."

"Good," he said. "Because it wasn't much."

"Then you know enough."

"I know almost nothing."

Another pause.

She watched him for a moment, her eyes unreadable, head tilted as if examining something far away.

"You think I'm hiding something."

"I know you are."

"Does it unsettle you?"