Snape's lips twitched—barely perceptible, but Orli caught what might have been the ghost of a smile. Then he spoke:
"That failure occurred because we extracted the Shrivelfig essence too slowly—we later discovered it must be completed within sixty seconds of adding the belladonna..."
A sound like rushing blood thundered through Orli's ears. Without hesitation, without thought, she flew down the stone steps. The next heartbeat, her arms were around him.
Stars, moon, cricket song, wind—all of it dissolved.
Nothing existed except her arms locked around his waist, nothing but the steady drum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. Something warm and salt traced down her cheek, seeping slowly into the black wool of his robes. A sound escaped her throat—small, broken, like a lost kitten's cry. After a month of numbness, tears had finally returned to her.
"Waters. Release me."
His voice rumbled low above her head, the vibration traveling through his chest to her cheek.
Orli jerked back, mortification flooding her as the spell of the moment shattered. Where had she found such audacity? How had she dared—
"...Professor, did you see the Dementor just now?"
The words tumbled out in her panic, desperate for any distraction.
"Indeed."
*Snape's* reply was characteristically terse. He moved toward the manor, his long fingers examining and enhancing the protective charms Orli had woven around the grounds with casual expertise.
For one wild moment, Orli nearly asked why he hadn't driven the creature away if he'd seen it. But a far more pressing realization struck her:
"Azkaban's defenses have been compromised, haven't they?"
"Precisely."
*Snape* considered this, his dark eyes reflecting starlight.
"His ranks are depleted. He requires reinforcements urgently. Therefore..."
"A mass breakout." The pieces fell into place with chilling clarity. "He means to free the Death Eaters."
"What should we—"
"We do nothing," *Snape* cut her off, his tone edged with familiar disdain. "This falls to others—those who've grown fat and complacent during fifteen years of peace. Perhaps facing actual Dark wizards will prevent their wands from sprouting fungus through disuse."
He turned then, something almost vulnerable flickering across his angular features before the mask reasserted itself.
"Tomorrow is the first of August."
The words hit Orli like a Bludger to the chest. Joy blazed through her—fierce, sudden, intoxicating. Her pulse hammered against her temples.
"France?"
Somehow her voice emerged steady, betraying nothing of the wild hope unfurling in her chest.
"Yes."
They'd reached the manor's entrance, moonlight casting their shadows long across the weathered stone steps. *Snape* paused, his hand resting on the iron door handle.
"Tomorrow morning I shall—"
"Professor!"
The word burst from her lips before courage could desert her. Her voice came rapid, breathless:
"The guest room upstairs—it's ready, just as it was last summer. Dobby maintains it daily, and you could—"
Silence crashed down between them.
What are you doing? The voice in her head was shrill with panic. Did you just invite Severus Snape to spend the night?
Time stretched impossibly. Five seconds or five minutes—she couldn't tell. Then *Snape* moved.
Without a word, without meeting her eyes, he pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the familiar warmth of the sitting room.
"We depart at dawn. Three weeks in France, returning before term begins." His voice carried from the shadows near the staircase. "Pack accordingly."
His footsteps echoed on the wooden stairs, growing fainter until they disappeared entirely.
A soft pop made Orli jump. *Dobby* materialized beside the kitchen cupboard, his tennis ball-sized eyes wide with bewilderment.
"Professor sir has returned for Miss Orli? Is Professor sir taking Miss Orli away?"
"Yes," Orli whispered, wonder and disbelief warring in her voice. A smile tugged at her lips—the first genuine one in weeks.
"Professor sir is taking me away."
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