Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1.
Friday, late June – 1994.
"Alright, let’s begin... First, you rest your hands in mine, eyes closed to focus. And remember, resistance would only allow the pain to come in. Are you ready?"
"Yes, Miss Atkins…"
In a fogged, green-washed haze, a small figure stood frozen—as if under a spell.
Scrawny and slouched, he looked even smaller than he was, shoulders caving inward as if to vanish.
The boy—was Michael Phillip Jenkins.
He didn’t move. Only stood there, while muffled shouting scraped at his ears like static.
Then, as the mist thinned, the scene sharpened—reforming into a modest living room.
Home.
The shouting was clear now. A fierce back-and-forth—Gretta and Bobby again.
His mum and dad.
Michael’s hands clamped over his ears. He hated when bedtime turned into battlegrounds.
Even when the voices stopped, the echo stayed behind. His ears buzzed like split wires.
All the nights Gretta and Bobby exploded, their fury ricocheting across walls—throwing words, threats, anything they could reach.
One midnight—
Michael stood between them.
His small frame locked in place. Muscles stiff, joints brittle.
He screamed inside. But no sound left his throat.
Just a mute, throbbing panic.
No one noticed.
No one heard.
And then—
Everything crashed.
Furniture collided. Plates shattered across the room.
Gretta and Bobby howled over one another, pleading, accusing, begging for it to stop—until it did.
It stopped.
A soft sob echoed from the corner.
They turned. And saw their boy.
Curled up in the corner of the room, shaking in his too-small pyjamas. His limbs trembling, face pale.
“I’ll make it stop. I’ll make it stop. Just don’t scream.”
He muttered it again and again, like a broken spell.
Gretta and Bobby stared at him, stunned.
It was his doing.
The chaos. The crash. The sudden silence.
His first act of magic.
Unleashed at eight years old.
Right in front of two utterly unprepared, entirely non-magical parents.
It burst out of him—not from power, but pressure.
Years of screaming, of swallowed fear.
Containment, breaking.
Unfortunately, instead of mending the rift between Gretta and Bobby, Michael’s accidental magic only drove them further apart.
To Gretta, he was a devil’s child—an omen.
To Bobby, he was just special. Harmless. A boy who needed understanding, not punishment.
Bobby never wanted to argue. But Gretta—unyielding and sharp in her convictions—blamed everything on him. She thought him too soft, too permissive, too blind to the truth she believed in.
Their son was unnatural. And Bobby, by defending him, was part of the problem.
The scene dissolved—
Replaced by the harsh patter of water pelting ceramic tiles.
Michael stood hunched under the showerhead.
Cold.
The water prickled sharply down his spine, his arms, his neck—where fresh bruises layered atop old ones.
There was no warm water.
No proper meals.
Not enough nourishment, lest it fuel his magic.
That’s what Gretta believed.
He scrubbed his skin quickly, wincing, careful not to draw attention.
But she was there—always there.
At the edge of the cramped bathroom, Gretta sat stiffly on a stool, her posture tense, eyes locked on him with an expression caught somewhere between disdain and fear.
She said it was for safety.
To keep him in check.
She watched him like a warden. Not a mother.
Never allowing him a second unobserved.
In her mind, missing even a blink could mean disaster.
The devil’s child might act again.
SMACK!
Michael flinched, biting down a cry as Gretta slapped his hands. Another bruise would bloom later—right across the knuckles.
All because he’d pumped too much shampoo.
More than she allowed.
More than their household budget could "endure."
“Do you think I’ll let you waste another Knut in this house, you filth?!” she spat.
The boy clenched his jaw, swallowing his sobs. If he cried louder, she might strike again.
The freezing shower dulled the sting on his skin, numbing the burn that spread across his stiff hands.
“Is it not enough curse you’ve already brought into this house?!” Gretta’s voice boomed again, echoing off the tiled walls like a spell meant to hex him into silence.
She’s the devil…
Makes you cry to sleep—every night.
Then you wake up, eyes too swollen to blink.
Oh, but you have to hide that too, don’t you?
The voice in Michael’s head came soft, raspy, like sandpaper soaked in honey.
Soothing. Protective. Smug, sometimes. But always right.
A secret companion standing up for him when no one else did.
“Dad?”
Michael—eleven now, still too small for his growing limbs—looked up.
Eyes red, cheeks blotched, old tears sticky against new ones.
Bobby crouched in front of him in the hallway, one hand on his son’s narrow shoulder. His gaze trembled—guilt and heartbreak locked in his irises.
He didn’t want this.
Never wanted this for his boy.
“Why can’t I come with you?” Michael’s voice cracked. A raw, broken whisper.
Bobby exhaled. Long, heavy.
A sigh that said everything he couldn’t explain to a child.
In the dim living room behind them, Gretta sat stone-still.
A paper lay limply on the table beside her.
Its top headline blurred by the low light: Divorce Settlement.
Below it, two signatures.
Custody of Child: Gretta Marie Jenkins.
The stormed haze lifted, peeling back like fog at dawn—replaced by the muted stillness of a forest-green room.
The usual quiet that signalled the end of a Legilimens session.
Two grey eyes opened.
Heavy, yet bright—suspended in a pale face; belonged to a woman now returning to herself, seated quietly in her own office.
Blinking a few times, she looked down and found herself holding another’s hands. The skin was warmer than she expected. She glanced up slowly, following the trail of those hands to their owner seated across from her—a teenage boy, his brown ruffled hair hanging low, covering most of his face as he slouched toward the floor.
“Michael, dear…” the woman called gently, giving his hands a soft, grounding squeeze.
Michael was awake. His green eyes, heavy with exhaustion, remained fixed on the hands he was holding. They weren’t his. Thinner, paler, trembling faintly beneath his touch. They felt familiar—but just out of reach. He couldn’t quite remember who it belonged to.
“Michael, this is your counsellor… Karla Atkins . Are you with me?”
Seconds passed in silence.
Michael didn’t speak—he simply waited. Braced himself as he instinctively expected for shouting or beating on his frail body.
But none of them happened.
Instead, a strong aroma drifted to his nose – lemongrass, warm and oddly clean. The scent anchored him, pulled him back. His gaze remained fixed on the two hands clasped around his own, as if in prayer they wouldn’t let go.
“Michael, dear… Are you with me?”
Karla’s voice rang again—softer this time.
So soft, he thought the person talking might not want to harm anything, even an insect. It wove through him like a thread, steadying the air in his lungs.
That was when he gasped—And sobbed.
It came out harsh and sudden—then again, and again, until he collapsed forward into her arms.
She caught him without hesitation, her embrace firm yet practised. One arm held him steady, the other stroking his back in a calm, measured rhythm—almost like she had done this many times before.
“You’re safe, my dear. You’re safe here.” Karla cooed.
All the while, she tried collecting her own self behind fixed eyes. Michael’s painful cries shook her; she found it unbearable.
It was the first time Karla met this Gryffindor student, and yet within minutes, she already knew: this boy had lived through things no child should.
She said nothing more. Words didn’t belong in this moment. Her hand kept moving along his back, slow and patient, giving him all the time he needed.
Michael clung to her until his breath began to steady, the sobs thinning to quiet tremors. Careful not to disrupt him, Karla turned slightly toward the end table.
A tea set sat waiting.
With a wordless magic, it stirred to life .
The soft clink of ceramic and stainless steel filled the room as steam rose from the pot.
A warm, minty scent drifted toward them, curling in the air like a balm.
Michael’s senses caught it—the calm, the contrast. And slowly, he lifted his head.
Not long after, the woman gently pulled away, guiding Michael back to his seat. It was then that he truly saw her. A pale, small face framed by dark, frizzy hair. Her appearance didn’t radiate like the heroes or goddesses he had imagined might come to save him. Instead, her eyes glistened—solemn, steady, full of empathy.
Michael said nothing as Karla settled into her seat across from him. The teapot had arrived quietly on the small coffee table between them, two empty cups beside it.
Without a word, she reached forward and poured him a cup—no wand, no spell, just her hands.
“Here, drink this… It’ll help you feel better,” Karla offered.
Michael didn’t respond. He took the cup into his lap and simply stared down at the clear orange liquid, watching the steam curl.
In the stillness, Karla allowed herself to study him more closely.
He had grown into a lean teenager—average height, narrow shoulders. His brown hair now reached the edges of a square jaw, brushing against faint hollows beneath his cheekbones. His nose had grown forward into a slight hook—his mother’s shape, if Karla remembered the records right.
With all those features combined, he might have been considered one of the school’s darlings. A very cool lad, by typical standards. But it wasn’t that image that Karla saw. What caught her attention was the pallor of his skin, the way his eyes carried shadows that didn’t belong to a fourteen-year-old. He looked as though the wrong word might shatter him. She had heard him described as the quietest boy in his batch.
Now, seeing him, she understood exactly why.
“M—miss Atkins?”
The boy’s voice broke the silence, low and hesitant. His gaze remained fixed on the tea in his lap. Karla hummed gently in response, eyes still on him.
“Why do you—sound like Professor Lupin?”
She blinked. “Pardon?”
“One time—he stayed behind… after class… to check on me—Gave me chocolate,” Michael said slowly. “S—said it’d help me feel better.”
Karla tilted her head slightly, eyebrows lifting. “Ah—"
She paused, gaze dipping down. Thinking.
“I suppose... it’s a coincidence?” She gave a small shrug—honest, without pretending to know more than she did.
“What happened then?” she added, letting the question unfold softly.
Michael exhaled. A small breath, but it loosened something in him.
“Same reason I’m… here today,” he muttered, his foot began to tap against the floor, “Got caught daydreaming through the whole lesson.”
Karla nodded once, gently. “But it wasn’t him who sent you here.”
“No,” Michael admitted. “He just said I could come if I wanted. Said… we’re the same. And that I’m not alone.”
“Do you wish to talk about that, dear?” Karla asked gently, careful not to push too soon.
He shook his head, “You saw it—You’ve seen everything there is.”
“And how do you see them?”
Michael’s jaw tightened. The question was… unfamiliar.
“I don’t know,” He muttered, his brow curled. “I don’t want to go home to her every summer. I hate being related to her—Why does it have to be—her? Not dad—”
His voice cracked on the last sentence. The frown on his face contorted into something harsher—grief, anger, shame all blending in. Karla’s shoulders dropped. She felt the ache bloom in her chest, hearing him say it so plainly.
“I know what you’re thinking—I’m awful!” he added, agitated.
Karla sighed—long, quiet, worn. For a moment, Michael thought he was right.
But then she said, “I just thought… no one should ever be in that position.”
Michael’s head lifted sharply. He looked at her—confused, caught off guard.
She stared down at the floor. Pondering.
Just… to sit with the weight of it.
“You were just a boy,” Karla said softly, brushing her nose with her knuckles, then lifted her eyes to him again.
“Do you think you deserved that?”
Michael stilled. He didn’t answer. No one had ever asked him that before. No one had ever said those words.
For years, he had kept everything on his own.
Even now, it felt unnatural to speak.
Remus Lupin—someone Michael only later learned had carried his own kind of scars—had shown him a kind of quiet care once. Offered him chocolate. Offered him space. Another was Professor McGonagall. She hadn’t said much when she noticed him drifting in her lessons. But she saw enough. And she acted. Sent him here.
Karla.
She hadn’t offered comfort. But she’d given direction.
And somehow, that alone had stirred something.
Something he'd forgotten.
“I just…”
Michael’s voice broke, barely above a whisper.
His gaze stayed fixed on the untouched cup of tea resting in his lap. Steam no longer rose from it. His thoughts drifted—lost, reaching.
Still searching for the rest of that sentence.
***
The sun had fully set by the time Michael’s session ended. While he made his way toward the Great Hall for dinner, Karla stayed behind. Her work for the day wasn’t over yet. One more student was schedule for counselling—Harry Potter, due within the hour.
Karla drew a long breath when reading his name on her counselling schedule. Another Gryffindor. Based on her observation over the past two years working at Hogwarts, they wore bravery like a uniform, but beneath it… they were just as fragile as the rest.
Sometimes even more so.
Harry had postponed several sessions already, citing Quidditch practice, study groups, or simply disappearing altogether. It wasn’t unusual. Most students didn’t ask for counselling. They were sent—usually by their heads of house. Michael had been reluctant too, at first.
Sighing, Karla moved to the paperwork stacked and ready on the side of the desk—counselling logs, class assessments, reports due on McGonagall’s desk before morning. She had to manage the spare time to finish them.
With a flick of her wrist—the steel exhaust fan above the window whirred to life.
She slid her reading spectacles down to the bridge of her nose, then pulled a cigarette from the box—pinched it between her lips.
No lighter. Just a slow inhale.
And the soft snap of fire bloomed at the tip.
Magic.
The room sank into her rhythm for the next fifteen minutes.
The scratch of her quill across parchment.
The steady whir of the exhaust overhead.
A faint folk tune crackling from the old radio—
all of it anchoring her.
Then—
a grumble.
Low. Petulant.
Her stomach.
Annoying.
Karla scowled inwardly at her own body’s betrayal.
But, as if on cue—
a soft pop of apparition—cracked through the air before the desk.
The scent hit first—meaty soup, pepper, and strong black coffee. Her senses suddenly awake with hunger.
“Smells nice, Zolley,” Karla said with a faint smile, her ink-tainted fingers still moving the quill on the paper.
The small elf beamed. With her pointy ears and slanted, glimmering eyes, she placed the dinner tray carefully on the corner of Karla’s workbench.
“Straight from the pot and kettle, Miss Atkins! Still warm!” Zolley chirped, her steps a kind of dance across the floor.
Karla sat up straighter, setting down her pen at last and reached for the coffee first.
Zolley’s bright expression faltered. She shook her head with a worried look.
“If the elder professors knows of this—they will punish Zolley,” she whispered, wringing her hands.
Karla removed her spectacles and massaged her forehead, smiling despite the meaning behind the elf’s words. Zolley’s concern was misplaced—but oddly sweet. A far better presence than most of the “elder professors” she referred to.
Why does it become everyone’s business whether I eat or not?
She raised an eyebrow over her steaming soup.
“When you say if they know, do they have any business being in my nose—unless I invite them up there?” Karla raised an eyebrow, sipping her soup.
Zolley froze mid-step, her expression clearly saying, “Why didn’t I think of that?”
Karla smirked and lit another cigarette. She resumed her meal and paperwork, managing all three tasks with ease. Zolley, still flustered, busied herself by circling the desk, straightening anything remotely out of place.
“But everyone—except Professor McGonagall—doesn’t seem to understand,” the elf murmured, ears drooping slightly. Karla let out a dry laugh, lips curling with triumph.
“That’s because she’s the one expecting all this on her desk by morning, Zolley. It’d be obnoxious if she didn’t understand my absence.” She told, taking a slow sip of coffee.
“And if the other professors do take issue,” she added, “they can take it up with Minerva. I’m sure she’d love that.”
Karla’s brow twitched, smug at her own remark. She knew Minerva would shield her from any protest—or prejudice—that came her way.
Zolley paused, concern returned in her shimmering eyes. A solemn one this time.
“Why do you always work this hard, Miss Atkins?”
Karla didn’t answer. She simply continued marking a line across one of the pages.
But her breathing—was suddenly noticeable.
It wasn’t the first time the question had come up—though rarely was it asked aloud.
Some of the professors believed she skipped supper out of laziness or aloofness, questioning her value in informal gatherings. Others whispered that she lacked basic self-care. In truth, Karla simply didn’t have the chance to rest the way they expected. She rested in her own way, on her own terms. And as a part-timer, she was entitled to arrange her time around what helped her fulfil her role best.
The reports in front of her weren’t just another tick on a list—they were her priority. As the head of academic—with no team, no assistants—Karla bore the entire responsibility herself. It was her duty to present a refined curriculum to the Ministry for verification. All her counselling records, class visits, intensive observations—tackling the roles of a counsellor, academic advisor, and curriculum support—everything she compiled would determine whether her work passed.
And if it did, she’d earn a full-time position. She needed that.
As well as being granted funds to hire a team.
Therefore, although she had to work for the sake of security, only then would her curriculum be recognised beyond Hogwarts’ walls. While Dumbledore had granted her the freedom to pilot her methods, true legitimacy would come through formal endorsement from the Education Oversight Committee at the Ministry. Without it, her role remained unofficial—her project exposed to scrutiny, especially from sceptical parents.
But with endorsement, her work could grow: she could lead a proper department, hire shadow teachers, expand counselling, and bring structure to what many still considered an indulgent add-on—particularly since she incorporated Muggle theories and democratic approaches like Montessori.
Recognition wasn’t just a title. It was a shield. A gate. A step forward.
Internally, Karla knew Zolley asked out of sincere concern, unlike the others before her. It wouldn’t hurt to explain—maybe even offer a bit of truth.
Her lips parted, about to speak—
—but the door burst open.
Someone stumbled inside.
Karla and the elf jolted.
“Merlin’s beard!” Zolley squeaked, clutching her tiny chest.
The sharp interruption snapped Karla out of it.
Her focus sharpened, posture stiffened—composure locking into place.
“Neville!” she gasped, already rising to her feet.
Neville Longbottom stood panting in the doorway, hands braced on his knees like he’d sprinted across the castle.
Karla had never seen him like this—immediately, she was on edge.
“Miss K!” he gasped.
“What is it, dear?” she asked, moving toward him.
“It’s Harry… and Draco!”
Neville took off running again, Karla following close behind as he breathlessly explained the situation. His words were a tangled blur—something about werewolves, Draco’s father, and Harry claiming it was all connected to Snape. From what she could gather, the two boys had gotten into a fight.
They rounded a corner just in time to hear Hermione Granger’s strained voice pleading with Harry to ignore Draco’s latest provocation. But Harry’s stubbornness— legendary at this point—was a fuse already burning.
They had arrived.
“Oh no…” Neville gasped.
Professor Severus Snape stood tall at the centre of the commotion, dark robes cutting a sharp silhouette against the stone corridor. His eyes burned with contempt as he bore witness to the mindless situation the two boys had caused.
Students crowded the edges, frozen and wide-eyed. Karla’s stomach sank.
“Everyone is dismissed!” Severus’s voice cracked like a whip.
“Except for you… Potter .”
Karla stifled a groan.
That tone.
That targeting.
The exclusive fury directed at one boy.
It was a pattern she knew too well—one that Severus refused to unlearn, and one the school had normalised for far too long.
“Gusti, males wis iki.—Gosh, this isn’t going to be good,” Karla muttered under her breath, her accent slipping through as frustration welled up, stepping forward. Severus never played fair, and this moment reeked of one-sided judgment.
Meanwhile, Draco Malfoy sauntered past Harry with a smug tilt of his chin, his voice oily with satisfaction.
“Tough luck, Potter. Looks like Daddy’s not here to save you now.”
He strode off, passing Snape without a glance, ignoring Harry’s silent fume.
Just then, Karla moved through the dispersing students from the other end—like parting smoke.
“Professor, I’ll take over from here. I’ll handle Mr. Potter,” she said, her tone sharp with measured authority.
Severus whipped his gaze toward her, dark eyes narrowing to her grey ones. The tension between them sparked like static.
Karla swallowed back a sigh at that, knowing this kind of interference was unwelcome. Still, she wasn’t about to let him corner a student—especially Harry—into another of his biting lectures.
“He’s meant to be in a counselling session with me, anyway,” she said quickly. “Come now, Harry.”
She reached for the boy’s shoulder, gently steering him away—only for him to jolt from her touch, tense and furious. The sudden recoil startled her.
She flinched.
And students—halted their steps. Curious.
Behind them, Severus’ smirk twitched into place—mocking and cold.
“Well, well … Out from your den tonight, counsellor ?” He taunted, using her unofficial title with deliberate venom.
Karla bit back a retort. Provoking him would only make things worse.
Yet—unfortunately…
Harry took the bait. His voice was bitter, eyes glinting with fury.
“At least she’s proven how many times your brilliant mind has been wrong, Snivelus —”
Gasps erupted from the students—those who knew the weight of the nickname.
Hermione covered her mouth in shock; Ron stared at Harry, stunned.
He should not have said that.
Severus Snape froze.
The insult landed hard—and everyone saw it.
His jaw tightened, his expression slipping from disbelief to fury.
“You insolent little—”
He lunged, seizing Harry by the collar.
“Professor?!” Karla gasped, eyes widening at the sight. Instinct took over—she rushed to pull them apart.
But Severus shoved her off, drawing another wave of gasps from the stunned students.
“Nip it, Atkins! This vagrant needs a proper lesson!” he snarled, his fury turning on her.
Panic bloomed in her chest. His reaction made no sense—not entirely.
As Severus began dragging Harry away, Karla followed, desperate to stop the scene from spiralling further.
The students stood frozen, fear rising not just for Harry—but for Karla, confronting the wrath of the brooding Potions Master.
“Professor, please—let Mister Potter go!” she pleaded, her voice trembling despite her effort to sound composed.
She was calculating fast— what wouldn’t push him further? How to stop this without making it worse?
Meanwhile, Harry’s eyes darted in confusion between the two professors, still twisting against Severus’s grip. Severus ignored Karla—until Harry caught her expression. Her face had hardened, her grey eyes flashing.
There, she growled, her voice rising like thunder:
“Severus—that is enough!? ”
And silence.
Gone was the gentle head academic or counsellor—the warm smile in the hallways, the cheerful tone during outings. Even the students froze.
They thought that there was no one— no one —who had ever spoken to him in that manner. It was a twist for them—especially after nearly two years of her quiet patience.
And even Severus—he hadn't expected this.
He turned, locking eyes with her—that familiar smouldering grey stare.
There, he knew—he had crossed a line.
His expression faltered, pride still clawing for ground.
After a long beat, he released Harry.
He didn’t say a word, but his glare said everything:
Karla’s interference would not be forgiven.
An awkward silence followed.
The witch took a breath, trying to compose herself as she turned to the remaining students.
She pressed her palms to her forehead, head bowed—not from exhaustion, but the shame of her own outburst coming to her awareness.
“Carry on, please,” she said with a sigh, voice steady—but dull, like she’d left part of herself in that clash.
The students slowly dispersed.
But Harry lingered.
He watched Karla glance at Severus—curious what she might say now, or if she would say anything at all.
And, he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d seen it too—the thing that haunted him.
The burning suspicion:
He was convinced Snape had outed Professor Lupin’s condition to the wrong people—parents like Lucius Malfoy. Not out of duty, but spite—knowing full well how the wizarding world treated werewolves. Lupin had been the first adult who truly seemed to understand him. And now, he was gone. Because of Snape .
Maybe— just maybe— If she knew, she'd call it out too.
“Bloody hell… that was brilliant !” Neville whispered, dazed. Watching the person he feared most get put in his place was unheard of.
Hermione tugged his sleeve, already moving. She clearly didn’t want to linger.
“Come on, Neville!”
Not long after, Karla’s eyes flicked to Harry. Her burning gaze startled him—he never expected her to be this frightening, even more than Snape, whose presence he had grown used to defying.
He froze in place.
“Run along, Harry,” she said quietly, a trace of anger still lacing her voice. She would have to deal with the boy later; a counselling session was not preferable by then since she was in an emotional disrupt.
Severus, on the other hand, did not relish how she had pulled the boy from the situation without a word of reprimand. Harry eventually left while catching Snape’s glowering look for him. His gaze followed the boy, leaving the menacing disturbance at the hands of his head of academic support.
The students were gone, and the air stilled in silence.
Karla looked down, brushed her nose briefly, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. As if to ground herself.
Then, she finally released the breath she’d been holding.
Meanwhile, Severus offered no comment, no argument—he refused to waste another second enduring her self-righteous scolding, which he’d grown tired of long ago.
Their eyes met, each holding tightly to their own grudges.
"I expect you in my office tomorrow, Severus!" Her tone was unequivocal, "First thing in the morning!"
Karla said nothing more and spun on her heels, leaving with a clipped, determined pace.
As she walked away, she struggled to swallow the lump in her throat quietly so that Severus wouldn’t hear her. She knew scolding him in front of students had made him look vulnerable—
She could feel it in the way his restrained anger burned behind her.
Darting from his eyes to her back.
***