Orli felt herself stumble, and in the split second before she would have fallen, she desperately grasped the back of the seat in front of her. Outside the porthole, chaos reigned—fractured streams of water churned with cascading bubbles, obscuring everything from view. She struggled toward her own seat, fighting against the vessel's violent lurching that sent her swaying back and forth...
Then...
Then a hand appeared before her.
"Come here, Waters."
Snape's voice cut through the turbulence. His hand extended beside hers, palm upturned, fingers stretched flat... Orli's head buzzed—whether from the crushing underwater pressure or something else entirely—and she needed a moment to process what was happening. Snape—was he actually offering her his hand?
Her thoughts spiraled frantically. If she'd misread this moment—it would be mortifyingly awkward—and they still had three entire weeks together in France—
But her instincts moved faster than rational thought. Before she could second-guess herself, her fingers had already found his. A gentle force guided her smoothly into the remaining empty chair.
Snape released her naturally, settling back against his seat with eyes half-closed, apparently preparing to rest. Only Orli remained acutely aware of everything—her heart hammering against her ribs like a caged bird.
Her right hand lay slightly open against her knee, palm damp with perspiration. She prayed the sweat had only just appeared, not when she'd been holding Snape's hand... She discreetly wiped her palm against her knee, then immediately regretted it, as if she'd erased the last lingering trace of his touch—
What are you thinking, Orli Waters? She mentally chastised herself. Use your brain for something worthwhile—this isn't the first time he's held your hand. He did the same when you danced, didn't he? Stop overthinking. Think about Horcruxes, think about Voldemort...
But rationality fled her mind like smoke. Here they were, sailing across open waters, leagues away from Britain, from Voldemort, from Dumbledore—from everything. She could forget it all, just for now, and savor these stolen moments alone with Snape. Three whole weeks in France stretched before them, free from lies, pretenses, sacrifices, and secrets... These weeks were achingly brief yet infinitely precious. All those gray, suffocating shadows had been left behind on the far shore. They were bound for another world entirely.
Perhaps Snape felt it too.
Orli rested her head against the chair back, subtly adjusting her position—now she could steal glimpses of his profile.
Since boarding, Snape had transformed somehow, though she couldn't name exactly what had shifted. If pressed to describe it, Orli would say he seemed... less coiled. Less ready to strike.
As if invisible chains had bound him all these years, shaping him into that cold, unyielding Hogwarts professor—Severus Snape. Now some of those restraints had loosened. Fragments of warmth, of humanity, of something achingly ordinary had begun to slip through the cracks in his armor.
His head tilted against the chair's headrest, eyes half-lidded in peaceful drowsiness. Even the harsh line carved between his brows had softened.
Orli traced his profile with her gaze, gradually surrendering to sleep in the gentle quiet.
What she couldn't know was that the instant her eyes fluttered closed, his had opened. For the remaining hour of their journey, Snape watched her sleeping face with quiet, unwavering attention—until the ship finally began to slow.
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