Christmas Eve
Just as the snow started to fall softly outside the grand windows of Malfoy Manor, Mr. and Mrs. Malfoy bundled up the two little troublemakers and sent them off to Spinner's End, right on schedule. The carriage ride had been quiet, with Draco pointing out the twinkling lights from distant wizarding homes along the way, trying to keep Estelle's spirits up. She clutched her small bag close, her silver hair catching the faint glow from the lanterns swinging outside the carriage door.
They knew Severus Snape had a real dislike for anything furry—cats especially, from the stories Draco had heard—so Mammon stayed back at the manor. Narcissa had promised to keep the misty-blue cat company with extra saucers of cream and a warm spot by the fire. Estelle had given Mammon a big hug before they left, whispering promises to be back soon, and the cat had just flicked its tail as if to say it would manage fine on its own.
Draco, ever the thoughtful one, hadn't forgotten to pack his own Christmas gift for his godfather. Tucked carefully in his coat pocket was a fancy bottle of shampoo, the kind with a special grease-removing potion mixed in to tame even the wildest hair. He'd picked the jasmine scent himself, thinking it might soften things up a bit. But when Snape unwrapped it later that evening, his long fingers pausing over the label, his dark eyes narrowed into slits. The man's face went from its usual pale to a shade of red that made Draco swallow hard.
Severus Snape looked like he might just grab the boy by the collar and toss him straight back into the snow. If it weren't for the way Draco's grey eyes shone with such honest, wide-eyed hope—completely free of any mischief—Snape might have sworn it was some cruel joke from Lucius Malfoy. That man, with his head full of wild ideas like brewing Fluxweed dreams, pulling strings through his son just to get a rise out of him. Snape set the bottle down with a deliberate clink on the side table, his lips pressed into a thin line, and muttered something under his breath about "frivolous nonsense."
In the end, though, under the careful arrangements Lucius and Narcissa had laid out in their letters—full of polite requests and subtle reminders of family ties—Snape gave in with a long-suffering sigh. He stepped aside from the creaky front door, letting the two small figures shuffle inside, their boots leaving wet prints on the worn rug. The air hit them first: a mix of damp stone and something sharper, like crushed herbs left too long in a jar.
The low-ceilinged room felt more like a forgotten corner of the world than a proper home. Heavy curtains hung limp over the windows, trapping the weak winter light and letting only thin beams slip through, casting patchy shadows across the floorboards that groaned underfoot. Dust motes danced lazily in those slivers of grey, and the walls seemed to lean in a little too close, whispering of years spent alone. It wasn't cozy; it was practical, every inch turned into a potions workspace. Glass bottles lined the sagging shelves, filled with swirling liquids in shades of emerald and rust, while ceramic jars sat stacked beside ancient stone vessels etched with faded runes that Estelle stared at wide-eyed, wondering if they told secret stories.
Even the living room had been claimed by the work. A massive table of polished black wood dominated the space, its surface scarred from years of spills and stirs. In the center, a cauldron simmered low over a controlled flame, sending up curls of steam that carried the fresh, green bite of herbs—mint and something earthier, like fresh-turned soil after rain. Bubbles popped softly now and then, releasing little puffs that made the air hum with quiet magic.
"This is your room," Severus Snape said in that flat, even tone of his, like he was reading from a textbook he didn't much care for. He pushed open a door on the second floor with a nudge of his shoulder, the hinges giving a low whine. The stairs had been narrow and steep, each step echoing in the hush, and Estelle had held tight to the rickety banister, her free hand in Draco's.
Draco squeezed Estelle's hand gently and leaned close to her ear, his breath warm against the chill. "When I stayed here before with Godfather, it was in this same room," he whispered, his voice dropping like they were sharing a secret. "It's not so bad once you get used to the smells."
"Yes," Estelle murmured back, her eyes taking in the space. It was simple—a single window with threadbare curtains, a dresser scarred from use, and that double bed pushed against the far wall.
Before she could say more, Snape turned and looked down at them both, his black eyes sharp under those curtains of greasy hair. His voice came out cold, like frost on a windowpane. "To make the delicate Miss Bellin more comfortable, Malfoy even threw out the old bed in this room."
Draco risked a quick glance around, his gaze landing on the bed. Sure enough, it wasn't the lumpy one he remembered from his last visit; this was bigger, with a thick mattress that looked soft under the deep green duvet, and the sheets were crisp, edged in fine cotton that screamed Malfoy luxury. Pillows fluffed just right, like someone had fussed over them. It had to be his father's work—Lucius always did things like that, turning a simple gesture into a statement.
Snape caught the boy's look and let out a snort, sharp and dismissive, crossing his arms over his black robes. "I assume Mr. Malfoy does not know whose residence this actually is," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "So he very 'gentlemanly' threw away that bed."
Estelle could hear the way he bit off the word "gentlemanly," like it tasted sour on his tongue, ground out through clenched teeth. She bit her lip to keep from smiling—poor Mr. Malfoy probably had no idea anyone would mind getting a brand-new bed out of the deal. It seemed almost funny, the way grown-ups fussed over such things.
"Now then," Snape went on, his dark gaze sweeping over the one head of gold and one of silver below him, like he was sizing up a pair of unruly ingredients. "From now on, this is where you two little monsters will be active."
"Draco."
The boy jumped a little, straightening up so fast his shoulders squared like a soldier. "Godfather," he replied, voice steady but with that edge of nerves.
"There are several introductory potions books on the bedroom table," Snape said, nodding toward the small wooden stand by the bed, where three thick volumes sat stacked like silent guards. "I hope that in the next few days, you can make full use of that thing on your neck and at least read through the theories in the books three times."
"Three times?!" Draco's eyes went wide as saucers, staring at the tomes that were each as thick as five of his fingers put together. The covers were worn leather, titles embossed in faded gold: "Basic Brews and Their Bonds," "Elixirs for the Everyday," "The Foundations of Flux." He swallowed, imagining the endless pages of tiny print and diagrams.
"At least I didn't ask you to memorize them all," Snape replied, his brow furrowing just a touch. "It's just a thorough reading." He didn't seem to give a second thought to whether a boy Draco's age could handle that much without his eyes crossing. Of course, deep down, Snape wasn't really expecting full understanding—not yet. He just needed the child occupied, out of the way while he worked on his own brews downstairs, stirring in peace without tiny hands knocking over vials.
"Estelle!"
The name snapped her attention up, and she blinked at Snape with a blank, trusting look. Her round cheeks had a soft pink flush from the cold outside, and her big eyes, shiny like dew on leaves, locked right onto his face without a hint of fear.
Snape—the man they called the cellar snake king in whispers—froze for a beat. The sharp words he'd had ready, something about keeping quiet and staying put, lodged in his throat like a stubborn cork. He blinked once, then shifted his gaze away from those innocent eyes, clearing his throat with a dry rasp. "You come with me first," he said, the words coming out rougher than he meant.
Estelle nodded right away, all sweet obedience. "Okay~" Her voice was light, like a bell in the stuffy air.
Draco shot her a quick, worried glance, full of sympathy, his eyes saying clear as day: Good luck, watch out for the venom. The platinum-haired boy ducked his head back into the room just as Estelle, without a care, reached out and wrapped her small fingers around one of Snape's pinky fingers. Draco's heart skipped—Merlin, she was bold. He hoped his godfather wouldn't snap, and sent up a silent prayer: Please forgive her, she's just a little kid who doesn't know better.
Snape felt the tiny warmth at his fingertip the second it happened, like a spark he couldn't ignore. His whole body went rigid, robes hanging stiff as he stared down at the girl who seemed far too fearless for her own good. His face stayed unreadable, a mask of shadows and lines, but inside something twisted—a mix of annoyance and something softer he wouldn't name.
"Hehe." Estelle looked up when she felt his stare, tilting her head with a bright smile that showed off eight neat little white teeth, straight and perfect like tiny pearls.
Snape's dark pupils flickered, just for a split second, like a candle flame caught in a draft. He opened his mouth to say something—maybe a warning, maybe a dismissal—but then the little monster's lips moved, and out came a single word, clear and hopeful.
"Hug."
She lifted both arms up high, palms open, doing the exact same reaching motion she'd done that first day with Lucius Malfoy, back when everything was new and scary. For some reason she couldn't explain, Estelle just really liked this tall man in front of her. He had that same herbal smell clinging to his robes—bitter greens and earthy roots, like the strange plants Mammon and Pegasus always foraged for her in the forest. It felt familiar, like family, warm in a quiet way that made her chest feel full.
Her arms started to ache a little from holding them up so long. She tilted her head again, puzzled, watching Snape's face. His brows were knit tight, frown deep as a crease in old parchment, like he was searching her expression for any sign of trickery—reluctance, fear, or that fake sweetness kids sometimes used to get their way.
But he found none. This Miss Bellin... she really seemed to like him. Wanted a hug from him, of all people, with no agenda behind it.
The thought hit Snape like a misfired spell, startling him enough that he coughed once, sharp and awkward. His eyes darted to the side, away from those misty-blue ones brimming with pure want. He couldn't look at them, not without feeling that pull.
"Miss Bellin," he said at last, finding his voice again—cold and clipped, like always. "I do not like contact with others." The words rushed out fast, almost too quick, as if he was shoving something down deep. "And I assume that a five-year-old Miss Bellin already possesses the ability to walk independently."
Estelle caught the no in his tone right away, like a door clicking shut. Her arms dropped slow and heavy, shoulders slumping just a bit, and she let out a tiny sigh. But then she reached back for his right hand, curling her fingers around that same pinky finger, holding on like it was the most natural thing.
Snape stood there frozen for a long moment, the warmth seeping into his skin again. He could have pulled away—should have, maybe—but in the end, he said nothing. No sharp words, no brush-off. He just let her lead him like that, her small steps tugging him along as they headed back down the creaky stairs to the ground floor hall. The wood groaned under their feet, and the air grew thicker with that potion steam, wrapping around them like a quiet fog.
Up in the room, Draco couldn't help himself—he cracked the door just a sliver and peeked out, heart pounding like he'd been caught stealing sweets. He'd been ready to rush in if his godfather started in with the venom, to throw himself between them and take the blame like a proper big brother. But what he saw made him pause, hand scratching the back of his head in total confusion.
Merlin's pants... Godfather, walking hand-in-pinkie with Estelle, no yelling, no glares? It was almost... nice. Like something out of a weird dream where potions brewed themselves and the world made sense.
Draco shook his head, a grin tugging at his lips despite the worry. Sure enough, no one could resist Estelle's charm. Not Lucius, not Narcissa, and now not even the grumpiest potions master in all of Britain. No one at all.