Merlina Magpie

Professor Merlina Magpie had always been particularly good at ignoring advice.

This was not because she failed to hear it—quite the opposite. She listened very carefully, asked thoughtful questions, and even, on occasion, appeared to agree. It was simply that, once she had considered all the sensible warnings placed before her, she had an unfortunate habit of doing exactly what she pleased anyway.

It was this habit, more than anything else, that had led her to the Astronomy Tower at nearly midnight on a night far too clear to be comfortable.

The sky, she thought, was entirely too sharp.

Stars glittered above Hogwarts with an unnatural precision, each one bright and cold, as though someone had taken pains to polish them. Merlina stood at the parapet, her arms folded, her dark hair whipping lightly in the wind, and frowned up at them.

“Something’s off,” she murmured.

The wind did not respond, though it did make a reasonable attempt at sounding suspicious.

Behind her, the castle was quiet. Not silent—Hogwarts was never silent—but subdued. A distant door creaked somewhere below, and faintly, from many floors down, came the muffled sound of laughter quickly hushed. Ordinary noises.

Reassuring noises.

Merlina took a breath, reached into the pocket of her robes, and drew out the ring.

It looked disappointingly ordinary.

A dull band set with a dark, cracked stone, it gave no hint of the long and rather alarming history attached to it. If anything, it appeared slightly neglected, as though it had been sitting in a drawer for years waiting to be rediscovered by someone with poor judgment.

Merlina turned it over in her fingers.

“Well,” she said quietly, “this is a terrible idea.”

She slipped it onto her finger anyway.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Merlina exhaled.

“Good,” she said.

Then, after a pause that was perhaps a fraction too thoughtful, she turned the stone once.

The change was immediate—though not dramatic.

The air felt thicker.

That was the only way to describe it. As though something invisible had been added to it. Breathing was still possible, but required slightly more attention than usual, and Merlina found herself becoming uncomfortably aware of the space around her.

She stood very still.

“Right,” she said. “That’s enough.”

She did not remove the ring.

Instead, she turned the stone again.

This time, the lantern at her side flickered violently, then steadied itself, though the flame burned lower than before. The shadows along the tower walls stretched, lengthening into shapes that did not quite match the objects that cast them.

Merlina’s fingers tightened slightly.

“This,” she said firmly, “is where a sensible person would stop.”

She hesitated.

Then turned the stone a third time.

The world narrowed.

Sound seemed to draw inward, collapsing into a silence so complete it rang in her ears. The wind vanished. The distant noises of the castle disappeared. Even her own breathing felt strangely removed, as though it belonged to someone else.

Merlina did not move.

She had the very strong impression that movement would be unwise.

At first, there was nothing.

Then—

A shape.

It formed slowly, as though the air itself were remembering how to hold it. Edges sharpened. Shadows gathered. A figure emerged, not stepping forward, but arriving.

Tall.

Still.

Dressed entirely in black.

Merlina’s heart gave a sharp, traitorous leap.

Severus Snape opened his eyes.

“…This is not death,” he said.

His voice was exactly as she remembered it—low, controlled, carrying the faintest edge of impatience, as though even this situation had managed to inconvenience him.

Merlina swallowed.

“No,” she said.

Snape’s gaze swept the tower with swift precision, taking in the stone walls, the lantern, the open sky. Then his eyes fell on her.

They sharpened immediately.

“You are not dead.”

“No.”

There was a pause.

Snape took a step forward—or seemed to. It was difficult to tell whether his feet actually touched the ground.

“…Hogwarts,” he said, more quietly.

“Yes.”

Another pause.

This one longer.

“…Explain,” he said.

Merlina had, rather foolishly, not prepared for this part.

“I—well—” she began, then stopped, because it seemed important to get this right. “I found the stone.”

Snape’s gaze flicked to her hand.

“The Resurrection Stone,” he said flatly.

“Yes.”

“You used it.”

“Yes.”

His expression did not change.

But something in the air did.

“…Why?” he asked.

Merlina hesitated.

There were, she realized, several possible answers.

None of them sounded particularly sensible.

“Because,” she said at last, “I wanted to ask you something.”

Snape’s eyes narrowed.

“That,” he said slowly, “is an exceptionally poor reason to interfere with death.”

Merlina felt a flicker of irritation.

“I didn’t say it was a good reason.”

For a brief, almost imperceptible moment, Snape looked as though he might say something sharper.

Instead, he studied her.

Really studied her.

“You are not a student,” he said.

“No.”

“A professor.”

“Yes.”

“…Ravenclaw.”

She blinked. “How did you—”

“You ask questions you already know the answer to,” he said. “It is a habit of that House.”

Merlina folded her arms.

“That wasn’t an answer.”

Snape ignored this.

“…What is your name?” he asked.

“Merlina Magpie.”

The name seemed to interest him, though he gave no sign of why.

“And what,” he said, “does Professor Magpie intend to ask a dead man that could not have been answered by a book?”

Merlina met his gaze.

Steady.

Unflinching.

“The truth,” she said.

Silence followed.

Not the empty silence from before, but something heavier.

Deliberate.

“…About what?” Snape asked.

“About you.”

The words hung between them.

For the first time—

Snape looked almost… still.

“You presume,” he said carefully, “that the truth is something you would recognize if you found it.”

Merlina tilted her head slightly.

“That’s what I’m here to find out.”

Another pause.

Long enough that she wondered if he might simply vanish.

Instead—

very faintly—

Snape’s expression shifted.

“You have made,” he said,

“a remarkable mistake.”

Merlina’s grip on the ring tightened.

“I thought you might say that.”

His eyes flicked again to the stone.

Then back to her.

“…You do understand,” he said quietly,

“that this is not resurrection.”

“Yes.”

“…Then what,” he asked,

“do you believe it is?”

Merlina considered this.

Then said:

“A beginning.”

Something in Snape’s gaze changed.

Not softened.

Not yet.

But sharpened in a different way.

As though, against his better judgment—

he was interested.

Far below the tower, deep within the ancient stone of Hogwarts, something shifted.

A door that had not opened in years creaked faintly.

Magic stirred where it had long been still.

Because death—

once questioned—

has a way of answering back.