Chapter 1
"Snape is driving me insane! Urgh, another detention—again!"
Hermione Granger—supposedly every teacher’s favorite student. But not for her Potions professor, Severus Snape. This was her third time landing detention with him, and his reasons were getting more ridiculous by the day. The first time? Her skirt was “rolled too high.” The second? Makeup. And the third—tonight’s offense—her handwriting.
"No other professor has ever criticized my handwriting! Let alone given me a detention because of it!" Hermione fumed, practically vibrating with frustration.
Harry, seated beside her, barely flinched. He had endured enough of Hermione’s rants this week to be unfazed. "What did he say this time?" he asked, voice calm, sipping his pumpkin juice.
Hermione inhaled sharply before launching into a near-perfect imitation of their professor’s deep, menacing tone. "Miss Granger, since you have poor handwriting, I suggest you improve it before taking your O.W.L.s. Otherwise, no examiner will be able to decipher your scribbles. Detention. Eight sharp."
Across the table, Ron let out a low whistle, barely lifting his head from where he lay sprawled on the wooden surface. "Damn, Hermione. That’s your third detention this semester, yeah?"
"All three from Snape!" she practically shrieked, her irritation mounting. Worse, she knew detentions were recorded, and she had no intention of having a blemished record. "Ugh, I have to go. Someone’s waiting for me." She threw in a sarcastic smile before storming off toward her impending doom.
"Come in."
Hermione pushed the heavy wooden door open, her fingers trembling slightly—but she masked her nerves with an air of defiance.
"Sir."
Snape smirked, a slow, knowing curve of his lips.
"Ah, Miss Granger. I assume you know why you're here." His voice was dangerously low as he stepped from the shadows, his black robes sweeping ominously behind him.
"I'm here to serve my detention," she murmured, eyes cast downward.
"Yes, indeed. Because of your terrible handwriting—"
Hermione’s mouth opened in protest.
"And don't even think about defending those ridiculous, squiggly lines you call script." His sharp tone cut her off before she could get a word in. "Sit down and get to work."
Rolling her eyes—discreetly—Hermione took her seat, only to be greeted by a parchment bearing the title:
"How Can Handwriting Affect Health and Safety in Potions?"
Written, of course, in Snape’s own indecipherable scrawl.
A flush of fury crept up Hermione’s neck. Was this some kind of sick joke? Her fists clenched, but when she met Snape’s cold, penetrating gaze, she forced herself to bite back a retort and picked up her quill.
Snape loomed nearby, his presence like an oppressive storm cloud. His sharp footsteps echoed as he strode to her desk, peering over her shoulder.
"Handwriting can affect health and safety in Potions as people may misinterpret instructions, leading to potential disasters," he read aloud, a deep, mocking lilt in his voice. Then, with a slow smirk, he added, "Precisely, Miss Granger. Now you understand what your professor endures while grading your homework."
Hermione stiffened. Snape was too close—so close that his breath brushed her ear, sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. She turned her head sharply, her eyes blazing as they locked onto his.
"Sir, I hate to say it, but your handwriting isn’t much better."
A single brow arched.
Hermione smirked. "It took me over three minutes to decipher the title alone."
A dangerous silence stretched between them.
"Miss Granger," Snape finally murmured, voice smooth yet laced with an underlying threat. "You are playing a very risky game."
His long fingers suddenly caught her chin, tilting her face up toward him.
Hermione’s breath hitched.
"And let me warn you—" Snape continued, his grip firm but not bruising, his dark eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "You will regret this."
Her pulse pounded. This was dangerous territory.
Heart hammering, she pushed at his chest, but he didn’t budge.
"Let. Go. Of. Me."
But as she attempted to step back, her foot caught the edge of the table. A sharp gasp escaped her lips as she stumbled forward—straight into Snape’s chest.
Everything happened in a flash. The force sent them both tumbling backward. Snape hit the ground with an unceremonious thud, and Hermione landed—horrifyingly—on top of him.
Heat rushed to her face, turning her as red as a ripe tomato. For a split second, the world stood still.
Snape’s dark eyes locked onto hers, unreadable. Then, with a sharp inhale, he firmly grasped her shoulders and lifted her off him, setting her aside as he rose to his feet with practiced ease.
He dusted off his robes, his expression eerily unreadable. "Detention is over."
Hermione blinked. "What?"
Snape turned on his heel, his cloak billowing dramatically behind him as he strode toward the door. "You heard me, Miss Granger." His voice was as cold as ever, but there was something strange lingering in it—something almost unreadable.
Before Hermione could find the words to respond, Snape had already disappeared into the shadows, leaving her standing there—heart pounding, utterly stunned.