The shouting started before the sun was fully down.
Elias heard it through thin, damp-stained walls, Tobias Snape's voice slurring into snarled curses that rattled crockery and sent rats skittering under the floorboards. Spinner's End was always loud in the evenings, but there was a particular pitch Tobias reached when he'd had just enough cheap whiskey to feel brave and just little enough sense to take it out on whoever was closest.
Tonight, that was Severus.
Elias sat cross-legged on the sagging mattress he shared with his twin, a book open but unread in his lap. The words blurred and rearranged themselves into shapes that had nothing to do with potions ingredients. He could feel it—like a pressure in the air, a weight in his chest that wasn't his.
Severus was afraid.
"Don't go out there," his mother had told him an hour ago, when Tobias came home already smelling of the pub. "Whatever you do, Eli, you stay out of his way."
He had nodded then, because Eileen had looked more exhausted than he'd ever seen her. Because her eyes were bloodshot and her hands had shaken when she'd lit the stove with a whispered charm. Because he hated being another thing for her to worry about.
But Tobias was shouting Severus's name now, and there was a cracking sound—wood against wall or table against floor—and a yelp that was unmistakably his brother's.
The book slid from Elias's hands.
He was on his feet and at the door before he realized he'd moved. His bare toes curled against the cold floorboards, breath already coming faster. His heart beat too hard—not with fear, but with something sharper, cleaner. A hot, focused anger that made the room feel too small.
He hesitated only long enough to hear his brother choke out, "I'm sorry, Dad, I didn't—"
"Sorry?" Tobias spat. "Sorry doesn't put food on the table, you little—"
Elias opened the door.
The sitting room was a ruin of shadows and overturned furniture, lamplight smoking in the corner where the glass globe had cracked. Tobias loomed in the middle of it all, drunken bulk towering over Severus, who had stumbled back against the peeling wallpaper. One of Severus's sleeves was torn. There was a bright bead of red sliding down from his lip to his chin.
Eileen stood between them and the doorway to the kitchen, frozen, wand clenched in a white-knuckled hand she clearly didn't dare raise.
Elias didn't remember crossing the room. One moment he was at the bedroom door; the next he was standing in front of Severus, his shoulder brushing his brother's, his body a small, pale barrier between Severus and their father.
Tobias's bloodshot eyes swung toward him. "You," he growled. "Didn't I say stay out of the way?"
"You're hurting him," Elias said. His voice came out calmer than he felt, low and even in the echoing room.
Tobias snorted. "I'll do worse if you don't—"
He took a step forward, raising the hand that still clutched the broken belt. The air thickened. Elias heard Severus's breath hitch behind him, quick and ragged. He could feel the tremble in his twin's small frame, could almost feel the whelling panic like a second heartbeat.
Stop, Elias thought.
It wasn't a wish so much as a command, aimed at the whole miserable scene. At Tobias's rage, at Severus's shaking, at his mother's helpless guilt. At the belt. At the smell of stale alcohol and fear that seemed to seep into the wallpaper.
Stop.
Something in him twisted, sharp and hot and blinding. The world narrowed until it was nothing but his father's arm swinging down and the word stop echoing through Elias's head like a spell.
The air shuddered.
Tobias froze.
Not figuratively—actually, physically froze, his arm still lifted, his hand clutching the belt mid-swing. His eyes went wide, not with fury now but with something like confusion, then a flicker of fear. His jaw worked soundlessly, but no sound came out. His whole bulk seemed caught in invisible glass.
The belt didn't finish its arc.
For a moment, the only sound was the ticking of the crooked clock on the wall.
Elias stood very still. The room felt hushed in an unnatural way, as if even the house were holding its breath.
He had…done something. He could feel it, like a humming behind his eyes, like his skull was full of bees.
Severus slowly peered around him. "What—" His voice broke. "What did you do?"
Elias swallowed. His mouth tasted like metal. "I…don't know."
Eileen's wand clattered to the floor.
She stared at Elias with an expression he couldn't name—pride, fear, recognition, all bound up in old, tired eyes. She stepped forward slowly, as if afraid she'd break whatever spell he'd cast.
"Elias," she whispered. "Let him go."
Elias realized then that he was still thinking it. Stop. Stay. Don't move. That he could feel his father's sluggish, muddled mind like a heavy, ugly thing pressing against his own.
The awareness made him recoil.
He flinched back, and with that flinch the invisible pressure snapped. Tobias stumbled forward, nearly falling, the belt slipping from his fingers. He jerked his head around, eyes wild.
"What—what did you—"
He didn't finish the sentence. The look he gave Elias was different now. Not just angry. Warier. Like he was seeing his son clearly for the first time and didn't much like what he saw.
Eileen moved fast.
"That's enough," she snapped, voice thin and shaking but edged with a steel Elias rarely heard. "You're drunk and frightening the boys. Go sleep it off, Tobias."
It was dangerous, talking to him like that. Elias knew it; Severus knew it; even Tobias seemed to know it, for his gaze flicked from Eileen's pale face to Elias's steady one and then back again.
For once, he backed down.
He muttered something about "freaks" and "unnatural" under his breath and lurched toward the door, snatching his coat from the peg. The front door banged closed behind him with a shudder that ran up through the floorboards to Elias's bare feet.
Silence settled, thick and heavy.
Severus sagged against the wall, breathing hard. There were bruises blooming on his forearms where Tobias had grabbed him. Elias's hand curled into a fist at his side.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, turning fully to his brother.
Severus blinked at him, eyes too wide in his pinched face. "I–I'm fine," he said automatically, then winced as he moved his arm. "Mostly."
Elias reached up and wiped the blood from his twin's lip with his thumb. It smeared red across his skin.
Something in his chest twisted.
It should have been me, he thought, with a sudden, fierce certainty. It should always be me.
Eileen stooped to pick up her wand, fingers trembling. For a heartbeat, Elias thought she might come to them, might check Severus's bruises, might hug them both like she used to when they were small and Tobias worked longer shifts at the mill.
Instead she sank into the nearest chair.
Her eyes were on Elias.
"What you did," she said slowly, "you must never do that where anyone can see, do you understand? Not here. Not in front of the neighbours. Not at school. Not at Hogwarts. Nowhere."
Elias straightened. "I helped," he said, uncertain. "He was going to hurt Severus."
"I know." Her voice cracked. She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead for a moment before dropping it again. "And I'm grateful, Eli, I am. But there are some kinds of magic that make people more afraid than others. The kind you have…"
She trailed off, searching for words. He watched her, the way her gaze slid off his and then back, the way her shoulders seemed to curl inward.
"It's old magic," she said finally. "Old as fear and war and grief. Mind magic. You understand?"
Elias hesitated, remembers the feel of Tobias's thoughts—muddy and red-streaked and ugly—as if he could have pushed them, twisted them, crushed them entirely if he'd wanted.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I think I do."
"Then you keep it locked up tight." Eileen's eyes sharpened. "In here." She tapped her temple with a knuckle. "You show them enough to call you clever, not enough to call you dangerous. Wizards fear what they cannot control."
Elias held her gaze. "What if they try to hurt him?" He jerked his chin toward Severus.
"Then you use your wand," she said. "And your wits. Not your eyes. Not that." Her voice softened. "Promise me."
He didn't answer immediately.
Severus stared between them, confusion warring with lingering fear. "What's going on?" he muttered. "Mum, what is it?"
Eileen looked like she wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. "Nothing you need to worry about, love," she said, forcing a tired smile. "Come on. Let me see that lip."
Severus moved toward her reluctantly. Elias stepped back, letting him pass, watching the way his brother's shoulders slumped as the immediate danger faded. The bruises would darken by morning. The belt mark that hadn't landed would still hurt.
Anger hummed under his skin like a coal.
He knew his mother was right. He knew magic that could freeze a man in place with a thought was the sort that got whispered about. Investigated. Feared. But when he thought of Tobias's hand on Severus's arm, he couldn't bring himself to regret it.
He would do it again. Without hesitation.
He turned away, suddenly needing air that didn't taste like stale smoke and old arguments.
The evening was cool and damp as he stepped out into the narrow alley behind the row of terraced houses. The brick walls sweated moisture; the stray cat that sometimes picked through their bin paused to give him a considering look before slipping away into the shadows.
Elias leaned against the rough wall and closed his eyes, letting the chill settle on his skin, soothing as salve. His heart was still beating too fast.
He focused on his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. He imagined the strange magic curling back into him, folding itself neatly away behind walls like the ones his mother had always told him to build in his mind.
Occlumency, she'd called it once, before Tobias had shouted from the next room and she'd snapped her mouth shut like she'd said something forbidden.
He was eight, but he understood this much: his thoughts weren't safe, not if someone else could get into them. Not if someone like Tobias could see what he felt. Not if a man like Dumbledore might someday look at him the way his father had just done—as if he were a weapon left carelessly on the table.
Footsteps crunched in the narrow lane.
Elias's eyes snapped open.
For a moment his body tensed, expecting Tobias's stagger, but the steps were lighter. Quicker. Curious, not angry.
A little girl came into view around the corner, red hair catching the meagre streetlight like sparks.
She was wearing a too-big coat that might have been an older sister's or cousin's, buttoned crooked over a faded dress. Her shoes were scuffed and muddy. Her eyes—bright green, clear as glass—went wide when she saw him.
"Oh," she said, stopping short. "Hello."
Elias blinked.
He knew her. Everyone in the row did, in a vague, distant way. Evans. From the nicer side of the river. The girl who made flowers grow in her hands and put smiles on the faces of the old women at the market. She'd been talking to Severus at the playground lately, sharing sweets and laughing at jokes Elias had been too far away to hear.
"Hello," he said cautiously.
"You're Severus's brother," she said, without a trace of doubt. "The other one. He said you don't come out much."
He fought the urge to glance back at the house. "I'm busy," he said, which seemed truer than saying he wasn't allowed. "Studying."
She took this in with an earnest nod. "He said you're clever," she added. "Cleverer than him, even, but he gets cross when you say so."
A tiny flicker of warmth cut through Elias's tension. "He's clever," he said. "Smarter than anyone here. He'll be a great wizard."
Her face lit up at the word, the way it always did when Severus talked about magic within Elias's earshot. "You're wizards," she said, a little breathlessly, as if she liked how the word tasted. "Both of you."
He inclined his head the barest amount. "We will be."
She stepped a little closer, tilting her head as she studied him. Elias felt it then—that strange, familiar shift in the air, the subtle tug he'd begun to notice in the last year. The way people sometimes stared at him longer than they meant to. The way their thoughts seemed to snag on him.
It brushed against her, and she…rescinded it.
There was no other word for it. He felt the aura slip, felt it reach for her, and felt her simply…decide not to be caught. She blinked, curiosity narrowing into focus, as if she'd sensed something and filed it away instead of falling under it like the other children did.
Interesting.
"I'm Lily," she said. "Lily Evans."
"I know," Elias replied before he could stop himself.
She raised a freckled brow. "Do you?"
He hesitated, then nodded once. "Severus talks about you."
"Oh." She smiled then, sudden and bright, like the sun finding a gap in the constant Spinner's End clouds. "He talks about you too. You worry him."
Elias frowned at that. "Why?"
She shrugged. "I don't know. He says you think too much. And that you don't laugh. And that you look at people like you're waiting for them to break."
He hadn't realized Severus had noticed that.
"I'm cautious," he said. "That's different."
"Is it?"
There was no mockery in her tone, just genuine curiosity. She studied him for another moment, green gaze uncomfortably perceptive.
"Are you all right?" she asked quietly. "Only, when I was coming up the lane I heard shouting."
Elias felt his jaw tighten. "It's nothing," he said. "It's…over."
Her eyes flicked to the bruise darkening on his wrist where Tobias had grabbed him two hours earlier when he'd complained about the cold. Elias slipped his hand behind his back, annoyed with himself for the tell.
She saw anyway.
Her mouth pressed into a thin line. She didn't say I'm sorry, which he appreciated. Pity made something in him want to lash out.
Instead she said, "Good. I don't like shouting." Her fingers flexed at her sides. "Sometimes when my sister and I shout, the lights go pop."
"Magic," Elias said automatically.
"Maybe," she allowed. Then, more softly, "Maybe it's just…too much. Of everything."
He looked at her properly then. Really looked, through the surface of the red hair and bright smile, past the way she lit up like a spell when she talked about Hogwarts in Severus's stories.
Too much of everything, he understood all too well.
"The lights won't pop here," he said. "They're already broken."
She laughed at that, a surprised, delighted sound that made his chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear or anger.
An unfamiliar warmth tried to uncurl in him. He pushed it down. This was Severus's friend. That was all.
"You look like him," she said after a moment. "But you're…different."
"Older," he said. "By seven minutes."
She grinned. "Is that very important?"
"Very," he said gravely. "It means I get to be the responsible one."
"And he gets to be the reckless one?" she asked.
"Something like that."
Her gaze softened. "He's lucky," she said. "To have you."
Elias glanced back toward the house, where his mother was no doubt tending Severus's split lip with shaking hands. Where the walls still hummed with the echo of Tobias's rage.
"No," he said quietly. "I'm lucky to have him."
The words surprised him. They were true anyway.
He turned back to Lily and squared his shoulders, allowing himself the smallest, tightest of smiles.
"I should go back in," he said. "He'll be wondering where I am."
"All right." She stepped back, then hesitated. "Will you—will you come to the river next time? When Sev and I go?"
He almost said no outright. It was safer. For him. For Severus. For her. People attached themselves to things that couldn't protect them, and Elias refused to be another disappointment anyone leaned on.
But then he thought of the way Severus's eyes lit when he talked about her. Of how Severus had looked just now, blood on his lip and fear in his face. Of how much easier it had been to stand between him and their father than to try to patch him back together afterwards.
If Lily Evans made Severus smile, then Elias had a responsibility.
"I'll think about it," he said.
She rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of satisfaction there, as if she'd expected that answer and counted it as a victory anyway.
"Tell him I said hi," she said, already turning. "And that he still owes me a story about dragons."
"I will."
He watched her go until the shadows swallowed the bright flash of her hair.
Only then did he let his shoulders drop.
Spinner's End pressed in on him again, all damp brick and cold and the ghosts of shouts. But under it, beneath the sour taste of the evening, something else twined—quiet and stubborn and impossible to dismiss.
A thread of determination.
He turned back toward the house.
Severus was inside, bruised and tired and still his. There would be more nights like this. More shouting. More fear. More people who wanted to use them or break them or pretend they didn't exist.
Elias couldn't stop all of it. Not yet.
But he could stand between Severus and the worst of it.
He stepped through the doorway, feeling the house's familiar bitterness settle over him like a second skin.
In the dim light of the hall, he made himself a promise—wordless, but binding as any vow.
Whatever came, whoever tried, however much it cost him—
No one would touch his brother without going through him first.