Perhaps because they had arrived somewhat early, there were no conference sessions scheduled for the first day.
Orli quickly tidied herself up and returned to the living room.
If Snape also comes to the living room, then we could spend more time together... she thought to herself, casually picking up a book and settling onto the sofa to browse through it. Just then, Snape emerged from his room on the other side.
His gaze lingered for a moment on the space behind Orli before he too went to the bookshelf, selected a book, and sat on the other end of the sofa.
Gentle sunlight filtering through tall windows, the quiet room broken only by distant ocean waves, the occasional whisper of turning pages. They spent the entire day in that fan-shaped living room—eating meals that appeared with house-elf efficiency, reading in comfortable silence, occasionally exchanging quiet observations about their books or the view beyond the glass.
It wasn't until nightfall descended and moonlight spilled silver across the Persian rugs that Orli realized it was already eleven o'clock. The little fairy in the ornate wall clock had just finished singing her serenade for the third time, her tiny voice echoing sweetly through the chamber.
"You should go to sleep," Snape said, his voice carrying an unfamiliar gentleness.
The low, soft tone was so unlike his usual sharp precision that Orli felt genuinely startled by it.
"Tomorrow at nine we need to go down for the conference—remember to get up early and come out for breakfast first."
Snape closed his book with deliberate care and rose from the sofa, his movements fluid and unhurried.
Before leaving, he actually paused at the threshold and bid her goodnight.
Orli's heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird. If she didn't know Snape's particular habits so intimately—the way he always marked his place with a silk ribbon, how he unconsciously smoothed his hair when thinking—she might have suspected this Snape was someone else entirely, transformed by Polyjuice Potion.
An unsettling anxiety crept through her chest. From last night until now, in such a brief span of time, too many small moments had set her pulse racing. His unexpected consideration, these gentle words, the way he'd actually relaxed in her presence—it felt almost too good to be true. She felt like she was living on borrowed happiness, overdrawn on joy the way one might abuse a credit card, but she had no idea what the eventual cost would be.
Early the next morning, Snape escorted her punctually to the castle's great hall. The fortress that had been tomb-quiet yesterday now buzzed with over a hundred witches and wizards—men and women, young and old, their conversations creating a tapestry of languages and accents that echoed off the ancient stone walls.
Their attire was wonderfully eclectic. Even in the Mediterranean summer heat, some delegates wore heavy woolen traveling cloaks. Traditional wizarding robes in every conceivable style mingled with the occasional Muggle suit or dress, creating a fascinating study in magical fashion across cultures.
The majority were middle-aged or elderly, however. Even someone like Snape in his thirties was notably young for such a gathering, making Orli's presence as a witch barely out of her teens almost unprecedented. The few minors she spotted were clearly accompanying family elders—wide-eyed children clutching grandparents' hands or teenagers staying close to their parents, here to observe rather than participate.
Standing among such distinguished company, Orli and Snape naturally drew curious glances. Some were merely inquisitive, others carried subtle disapproval, and a few held the calculating interest of those wondering about political alliances.
Fortunately, relief came quickly when an elderly couple approached to greet Snape. The wizard's hair and beard were snow-white, but his bearing remained vigorous and commanding. Beneath his midnight-blue robes, he wore a shirt so perfectly pressed it could have cut glass.
The witch on his arm presented a striking contrast—layers of jewel-toned robes flowed around her like liquid sunset, while thick silver-gray hair cascaded freely over her shoulders. A beaded headband adorned with exotic feathers crowned her brow, but most remarkable were the intricate geometric tattoos that decorated her cheekbones in precise, ritual patterns.
"Severus, it's been ten years," the elderly wizard spoke first, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being heard.
"The last time I saw you, you were still young but perpetually scowling. You look considerably better this year."
"Tioddosa," Snape acknowledged with a slight nod. "It's been a long time."
Orli studied the distinguished wizard with barely concealed fascination, trying to maintain proper decorum. If her memory served correctly, his name graced one of the more prestigious Chocolate Frog cards—a master of theoretical magical research whose work had shaped modern spellcrafting.
The weight of being in such company settled over her like a heavy cloak. These weren't just any witches and wizards—they were the architects of magical knowledge, the minds that shaped their world's understanding of power itself.
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