Eileen Prince chose the small sitting room near the eastern windows, where the light was gentle and the wards hummed softly—comfort wards, not defensive ones, woven into the very structure of the room to ease troubled minds and calm frayed nerves. Aurora sat opposite her in a high-backed chair upholstered in faded green velvet, posture straight as a wand, hands folded neatly in her lap, alert in the way only someone used to laboratories and danger could be. Her eyes tracked the subtle movements of Eileen's hands, the tightness around her mouth, cataloging signs of distress with the same precision she applied to brewing.
For a moment, neither spoke. The silence stretched between them, broken only by the faint clink of porcelain as Eileen set her teacup back in its saucer.
Then Eileen sighed, fingers tightening around her teacup until her knuckles whitened slightly. "Aurora… I wanted to speak to you alone."
Aurora nodded once, her expression giving nothing away. "Of course, Mrs. Prince."
Eileen hesitated, searching Aurora's face—not for guilt, not for romance, but for honesty. For some sign that the young woman before her understood the precarious position they all occupied. "You know Severus is… exceptional. Brilliant. And because of that, he is becoming visible in ways that frighten me."
Aurora's expression softened, a crack appearing in her professional demeanor. "I know. I've seen the pressure building around him."
"It will get worse," Eileen said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of maternal certainty. "When the lycanthropy cure becomes public, it won't just be admiration. It will be fear. Greed. Violence. People will want to control him, to own his discoveries."
Aurora inhaled slowly, her jaw setting with determination. "I would never put him in danger."
"I know," Eileen said quickly, leaning forward slightly. "This isn't an accusation. It's… a reality we must all face." She paused, choosing her words carefully, as though each one might tip a delicate balance. "When powerful families look at Severus, they don't just see a young man. They see leverage. Alliances. Protection through blood and name."
Aurora frowned, a small crease forming between her brows. "I don't understand what you're asking of me."
Eileen looked down at her cup, watching the tea leaves settle at the bottom. "You being beside him—constantly—might complicate matters when Arcturus and I try to secure that protection."
Aurora stared at her, genuinely baffled, her head tilting slightly to one side. "Complicate how?"
Eileen looked up again, her voice gentle but heavy with unspoken meaning. "Because people assume things, Aurora. They assume attachments. Commitments. When they see you two together so often, working so closely…"
The implication finally landed.
Aurora's eyes widened—not in offense, but confusion, as though someone had just suggested an entirely implausible potion formula. "Mrs. Prince… Severus and I aren't—"
Eileen raised a hand, cutting her off gently. "I'm not asking you to explain. I only wanted you to understand the… pressures forming around him. The assumptions others are making."
Aurora nodded slowly, though her thoughts were clearly racing, her gaze unfocused as she processed this new variable. "I understand the danger," she said carefully, measuring each word. "But I don't understand why my presence would be seen as a problem. We're research partners. Colleagues."
Eileen opened her mouth to respond, to explain the way pureblood society viewed such things—
—and the door opened.
Arcturus and Severus entered together.
Severus looked… unsettled. Not angry. Not defensive. Just sharply alert, as though he'd stepped into a situation that had already gone wrong and was still unfolding around him.
His gaze flicked from Aurora to his mother, then back to Arcturus, taking in their positions, their expressions, the tension thick in the air. "I'd like to clarify something. Immediately."
Aurora stood as well, her chair scraping softly against the floor. "I think I would too."
Eileen's breath caught, her hands twisting together in her lap.
Arcturus cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable now that everyone was in the same room, the weight of his assumptions suddenly tangible. "Perhaps we should—"
"No," Severus said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. "We shouldn't."
He turned to Arcturus, eyebrows drawn together in a mixture of confusion and dawning realization. "You asked me what Aurora is to me. You then decided you already knew the answer. I would like to know what conclusion you reached."
Arcturus hesitated, his jaw working as if searching for the right words. That was answer enough.
Severus let out a short, incredulous breath, the kind that came when something suddenly made terrible sense. "You think Aurora and I are romantically involved."
Aurora blinked. Then stared at Arcturus. Then at Eileen, her expression cycling through surprise, understanding, and finally, mortification.
"Oh," she said faintly, one hand rising to her temple. "Oh. Merlin."
Severus rubbed a hand over his face, half exasperated, half stunned by the sheer absurdity of it. "That explains a great deal."
Arcturus straightened, recovering some of his composure. "You did nothing to correct the assumption."
"Because I didn't realize it existed," Severus snapped, his voice sharp with frustration. Then, more controlled, visibly reining himself in, "Aurora is my best friend. My collaborator. If anything, she's closer to a sibling than—" He stopped himself, glancing at Aurora with something almost apologetic in his eyes. "—than anything else."
Aurora nodded immediately, emphatically. "Completely platonic. Entirely. I would have said something if I'd known this was… happening." She gestured vaguely at the room, encompassing the whole uncomfortable scene.
Eileen sank back into her chair, mortified, her face pale. "Severus, I—"
Severus softened slightly, his expression gentling as he looked at her. "Mother, I understand why you're worried. But this?" He gestured between himself and Aurora. "This was never what you thought."
Arcturus closed his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose. "Eileen spoke to me. I assumed—"
"You assumed incorrectly," Severus said flatly, though without the earlier heat.
Aurora crossed her arms, a little color returning to her cheeks as some of the tension eased. "For the record, if Severus and I were involved, the entire manor would already know. He's terrible at lying."
Severus shot her a look, one dark eyebrow arching. "I resent that."
"You once tried to tell me you weren't injured while bleeding on my notes."
"That was irrelevant."
"It was arterial."
Despite everything, a flicker of tension broke, the absurdity of the exchange cutting through the heavy atmosphere like a knife.
The four of them stood in uneasy silence, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Aurora kept her gaze fixed on the floor, her arms wrapped protectively around herself. Eileen worried at the hem of her sleeve, clearly struggling with what to say. Finally, she broke the oppressive quiet.
"Aurora, I'm sorry. I never meant to place you in an awkward position." Her voice was soft, genuinely remorseful.
Aurora shook her head, though she still wouldn't quite meet Eileen's eyes. "I understand why you'd worry. Truly. Given everything you've both been through, I can see why you'd be cautious about who's around Severus. I just wish you'd asked me directly instead of making assumptions."
"So do I," Severus said quietly, his dark eyes finding his mother's. There was no anger in his tone, only a weary disappointment that seemed to age him beyond his years.
Arcturus sighed heavily, the sound carrying the weight of decades. He shifted his stance, leaning slightly on his cane. "This misunderstanding does not change the problem we face. Only the premise upon which we approached it."
Severus turned to him, his expression sharpening with renewed focus, jaw set with determination. "Then explain the problem. Fully. No half-measures, no carefully worded evasions. If we're to move forward, I need to understand exactly what we're dealing with."
Arcturus didn't evade this time.
"There have already been threats," he said, his tone matter-of-fact but weighted. "Indirect ones. Movements in the shadows. Crimson Solace disrupted power structures far more than the public understands—entire networks of influence collapsed when those names became known. When The Two Doses of the Moon becomes known, when your second work enters the world, the response will be… violent."
Severus listened, his face carefully unreadable, though his fingers had stilled against the armrest.
"You will need protection that cannot be withdrawn on a whim," Arcturus continued, leaning forward slightly. "Not contracts that can be voided. Not hired guards who can be bought off or threatened. Family. Blood and marriage—ties that cannot be severed without consequence."
Aurora stiffened slightly in her seat but remained silent, her expression neutral.
"A betrothal," Arcturus said plainly, laying the word between them like a card on the table. "An alliance strong enough, visible enough, that attacking you would mean declaring war on two Ancient Houses."
Severus exhaled slowly, a sound that might have been resignation or simply the release of held breath. "And you were prepared to break my heart to achieve this."
"We believed there was a heart to break," Eileen said softly, her voice carrying an edge of regret.
Severus shook his head, not in denial but in something closer to disappointment. "You were prepared to decide my life without consulting me."
That landed harder than any accusation of manipulation might have.
"I appreciate your concern," Severus continued, his voice steady but firm, each word chosen with precision. "Truly, I do. But I will not have decisions made about me without me. Not my work. Not my safety. Not my future. That ends here."
Arcturus held his gaze for a long moment, and something shifted in his expression—not quite approval, but perhaps a recognition of worthiness. "Then hear me now, as clearly as I can speak it. I intend to approach the Zabinis regarding a betrothal between you and Isadora."
Aurora's eyes flicked to Severus—quick, searching, assessing his reaction—but she said nothing.
"This would convert a commercial alliance into a familial one," Arcturus continued, his hands folding together on the desk before him. "And I would negotiate terms that protect your autonomy, your work, your right to refuse certain obligations that traditional betrothals might impose. You would not be a prisoner of this arrangement."
Severus considered this carefully, turning it over in his mind like a potion formula being examined for flaws. Then he asked, voice quiet but clear, "And if I already loved someone?"
Arcturus met his eyes without flinching. "Then I would want to know now. Before negotiations begin. Before contracts are drawn."
Silence followed—thick, expectant, charged with possibility.
Severus finally said, "I need time."
"You have until tomorrow morning," Arcturus replied without hesitation. "Breakfast. We'll discuss it then."
Severus nodded once, a single decisive motion. "Then that's when I'll give you my answer."
The matter was not resolved.
But for the first time, it was finally being discussed—openly, honestly, and with Severus fully awake to the cost and consequence of what he was becoming.
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