“I would like a word, Miss Granger.”
Professor Snape’s voice was low, rough like gravel, sending an involuntary shiver down Hermione’s spine. She had been in the middle of packing the last of her textbooks into her bag, savoring the quiet moment after the final Potions class of the year—of her Hogwarts life, actually. Seven years of relentless studying, countless sleepless nights, and endless exams had finally culminated in this moment. With her N.E.W.T.s completed, she was ready to move on, to step into the next phase of her life. The Ministry of Magic awaited her, the beginning of a long-anticipated career. “Yes, Professor?” she asked, her voice catching slightly as she realized he was suddenly much closer than expected.
“I hear you intend to join the Ministry,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her with an unreadable expression. “Such a pity.” Hermione blinked, taken aback. A pity? Had she misheard him? “Pity, Professor?” she repeated, turning to fully face him, her books momentarily forgotten on the desk. She had excelled in all her subjects; joining the Ministry was a logical step, a path she had carefully carved for herself. With Ron out of the picture, there was nothing holding her back. She was free to achieve true greatness.
Snape’s lip curled slightly, though whether in amusement or disdain, she couldn’t quite tell. “To think, all that potential…” He let the words hang in the air, his dark eyes fixed on hers, as if weighing something unsaid. She felt her irritation spike. “Why would joining the Ministry be a pity?” she challenged, her tone firmer now. Snape studied her for a moment, his gaze sharp, assessing. Then, with a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, he shook his head. “Hmm.” And just like that, he turned on his heel, his robes billowing as he strode towards his office at the back of the classroom. Hermione remained rooted to the spot, her mind racing.
What on earth had that been about?
Not one to be deterred by such a cryptic interaction, Hermione was determined to get to the bottom of things. Before hesitation—or common sense—could take hold, she marched straight to the back of the classroom, pushing open the door to Snape’s office without so much as a knock. The room was dim, the flickering glow of scattered candles barely illuminating the rows of shelves lined with jars of strange ingredients. The air smelled of aged parchment and dried herbs, mingling with the faint, ever-present scent of potion fumes. Behind his desk, Snape sat hunched over a roll of parchment, his quill moving in sharp, precise strokes. He didn’t look up as she entered.
“Is there something I can help you with, Miss Granger?” His voice was flat, disinterested, his eyes never leaving his work. “Yes, actually.” Her response was a little sharper than she had intended, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t about to let this go. She stepped further into the office, her pulse quickening. “I want to know what you meant by ‘a pity.’” Snape finally ceased writing, his quill pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, he leaned back, pushing away from his desk as he rose to his full height. His dark eyes met hers, unreadable and piercing.
“Yes,” he mused, his tone cool. “A pity.” His expression betrayed nothing—no irritation, no amusement, just an impenetrable wall of detachment. “If that’s all, Miss Granger,” he continued, already lowering himself back into his chair, “I have far more pressing matters to attend to.” But before he could settle, Hermione stepped closer, her chin lifting defiantly.
“No, that is not all.” Her voice had risen slightly, an edge of frustration creeping in. She wasn’t sure why his words unsettled her so much, why they gnawed at her like an unfinished puzzle. “What do you mean by ‘pity’?” she demanded, her stance firm, her gaze locked onto his. For a brief moment, something flickered in Snape’s expression—gone before she could place it. Then, with an exasperated sigh, he folded his hands atop his desk and finally, truly, looked at her.
“Miss Granger,” Snape began, his voice a fraction softer than before—though barely noticeable. “Please, call me Hermione,” she interrupted quickly. “I’m not your student anymore.” Snape exhaled, a slow, measured sigh, as though the very idea of addressing her informally was an effort. “Miss Gr—” He hesitated, then relented. “Hermione.” She didn’t know why that small concession sent a ripple of something strange through her, but she ignored it.
“I merely meant,” he continued, his expression unreadable, “that there were far greater paths I had expected you to pursue.” Hermione frowned. Greater paths? What the hell did that mean? Feeling suddenly unsteady, she took a step back and sank onto the worn leather couch tucked against the wall of his office. The cushions creaked beneath her as she tried to make sense of his words.
“What are you saying?” she asked, tilting her head. “That you don’t think I’d make a good Minister for Magic?” The question felt heavier than she intended. She had always been so certain of her ambitions, so sure of what she wanted. But Snape’s words—his disapproval, implied or not—sent an unwelcome flicker of doubt through her. His opinion shouldn’t matter. And yet, it did. She hated that about herself. Always the overachiever, the teacher’s pet. It had been ingrained in her since childhood—to seek knowledge, to seek approval. And now, here she was, seeking it from the last person she ever expected to care about.
To Hermione’s utter shock, Snape moved toward the couch. Slowly, deliberately—almost as if he were approaching a skittish fawn, wary of startling her. The worn leather groaned slightly under his weight as he sat beside her, his posture stiff, uncertain. He turned just enough to face her, and in the shift, their knees brushed. The touch was fleeting, but it sent a jolt of awareness through her. “Hermione,” he said at last, his voice quieter now, yet no less intense. She looked up at him, caught off guard by the way he said her name—like he was testing the weight of it on his tongue.
“What I mean to say,” he continued, “is that someone like you—so brilliant, so capable—shouldn’t waste her talents drowning in the bureaucracy of the Ministry.” His tone was sure, his conviction evident, but there was an edge to it—something that almost bordered on harsh. Hermione felt the words cut through her, unraveling something inside her she hadn’t expected. Her entire life, she had been certain of her path. Of her ambitions. She had worked tirelessly, had planned meticulously. And yet, here she was, sitting in the dim light of Snape’s office, questioning everything because of one man’s opinion. She swallowed hard as a lump formed in her throat, her vision blurring slightly. Damn it. Lowering her head, she let her hair fall forward, a shield to hide the tears that now threatened to spill.
“Then what do you suggest, Professor?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling despite herself. “Severus,” he corrected gently. She blinked, momentarily thrown. “What?” “I think we are well past formalities now, Hermione,” he said, his dark eyes steady on hers. “As you so pointedly reminded me—you are no longer my student. As such, I am no longer your professor. You may call me Severus.” Her breath hitched slightly, the weight of his words settling between them. The shift between them was undeniable now—something unspoken, but impossibly heavy.
Hermione shifted slightly, turning fully toward Snape. The movement brought her legs flush against his, the warmth of the contact sending an unexpected shiver through her. “If not the Ministry, then where, Severus?” she asked, her voice trembling as she fought to keep her emotions at bay. She hated how raw she felt, how his disapproval—his rejection—had shaken her so completely. Snape inhaled sharply. She was so close now. Close enough that he could see the way her breath hitched, the frantic flutter of her pulse just beneath her skin. He could see the faint tremor in her curls as she struggled to compose herself. And Merlin help him, he could smell her—wildflowers and fresh spring air, something utterly her.
He had always known Hermione Granger was destined for greatness. Her mind was unmatched brilliance, her passion second to none. But now, sitting this close, seeing her like this, he realized something else. She was breathtaking. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to remain still even as his fingers twitched at his sides, aching to reach out, to touch—to see if her hair was as soft as it looked.
“I didn’t mean to upset you,” he murmured, voice low, edged with something almost regretful. “Only that I believe you could have achieved greatness in anything you pursued.” Without thinking, he reached out, his fingers ghosting over her cheek as he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. She stilled under his touch, her skin warm beneath his fingertips. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he let his thumb brush just under her eye, wiping away the single tear that had managed to escape. She was looking at him now. Really looking. And for the first time, he wondered if she saw him—not just the cold, distant professor, but him.
“What do you recommend, then, Severus?” she whispered, her voice softer now, laced with something almost fragile. She leaned into his touch—just slightly—but it was enough. Enough to make his breath catch, enough to make something inside him tighten. A slow, almost imperceptible smile ghosted across his lips. “I think,” he said, his voice a shade lighter than before, “you would have made an excellent Potions Mistress.”
Hermione stared at him in shock. A Potions Mistress? She let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. “You can’t be serious,” she said, searching his face for any sign that he was joking. “I didn’t think you even believed I was any good at Potions. Too ‘fixated on following instructions’ with ‘zero actual creativity’—isn’t that what you wrote on one of my reports?” Her words were sharp, but there was an underlying vulnerability in them. A hesitation, as if she still carried the weight of his past critiques.
Snape stiffened. Of course, she remembered that. He had written those words years ago, back when she was just another student in his classroom. But he had been harsh on her—harsher than necessary. Not because he believed she lacked talent, but because he had seen something in her. Something extraordinary. And he had wanted to push her, to challenge her, to force her to go beyond mere memorization and precision.
He had wanted her to think. To create. And, if he was being honest with himself, he had been terrified of how effortlessly she might surpass even him.
Guilt settled in his chest like a stone. He had spent years keeping himself detached, building the persona of the cold, unfeeling professor. But now, sitting here with her, watching the doubt flicker in her eyes, he knew it was time to let that façade fall. To let her see what he had always known—that she was brilliant. That she was capable of so much more than she even realized. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out, tilting her chin up so that their eyes met—so that she could see the sincerity in his.
“Hermione Granger,” he murmured, his voice lower now, thick with something that made her breath catch. Admiration, reverence… and something else. Something darker. “You are, without a doubt, the most brilliant witch I have ever met,” he continued, his thumb lightly grazing along the edge of her jaw. “You were destined for greatness. And it pains me to see you waste all that raw, unfiltered talent.”
His voice was barely above a whisper now. The air between them grew heavy, charged. His face was so close to hers, his breath warm against her skin. Their lips—just inches apart. Hermione could feel her heart pounding wildly in her chest, but she didn’t pull away.
For the first time, she truly saw him—not as a professor, not as an acquaintance, not even as someone she had once been wary of. But as a supporter. As someone who believed in her, who challenged her, who saw her not just for who she was, but for who she could be. And just like that, hesitation vanished. Without another thought, without a single moment of doubt, she closed the distance between them—pressing her lips to his.
Snape didn’t hesitate. The moment her lips met his, something in him broke—the years of restraint, the carefully crafted indifference, the self-imposed distance he had always maintained. His fingers tangled in her wild curls, pulling her closer as he deepened the kiss, devouring her with a hunger he hadn’t allowed himself to feel until now. His tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she parted them instinctively, letting him in. A low, satisfied growl rumbled in his throat as he tasted her—warm, intoxicating, utterly Hermione. Her hands slid beneath his robes, fingers splaying across his back, pressing into him, tracing sharp, desperate lines over the thin fabric of his shirt. Each touch sent fire racing beneath his skin, setting him ablaze in a way he had never known. With a firm grip, he let his other hand trail down, fingers ghosting over the curve of her waist before grabbing hold of her hip. In one swift, fluid motion, he pulled her fully onto his lap, her thighs straddling him. Hermione gasped against his lips, her breath ragged as she felt the undeniable hardness of him beneath her, pressing insistently against her through the layers of their clothing. A delicious shiver coursed through her as she shifted slightly, the friction making her pulse quicken, making her ache with something deep and primal. Snape’s grip tightened on her hips, his breath hot against her jaw as he leaned in, pressing his lips to the sensitive skin beneath her ear.
“You have no idea,” he murmured darkly, his voice thick with need, “what you do to me.”
The room around them faded into nothingness, the shadows deepening as if to shield them from the outside world. Snape’s fingers, ever precise, ever deliberate, found the buttons of her blouse, undoing them one by one with a slowness that belied the urgency in his touch. Hermione’s breath hitched as the fabric parted, revealing the soft curve of her shoulders, the faint flush rising across her chest. His gaze lingered there, his eyes burning with a hunger that made her shiver. She felt the cool air brush against her skin before his hands followed, tracing the contour of her waist, the swell of her breasts. His touch was reverent, yet possessive, as though he were claiming something he had long denied himself. Hermione’s head tilted back, her hands clutching at his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric of his robes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck.
“Severus,” she whispered, the sound barely audible over the pounding of her heart. It was a name she had never dared speak before, not like this, not with such intimacy. But now, it felt natural, inevitable. His response was a low, guttural sound, a growl that vibrated against her as he pulled her closer, his mouth claiming hers once more. This time, there was no hesitation, no restraint. It was a kiss that spoke of years of suppressed desire, of longing held tightly in check, now unleashed with ferocious intensity. Hermione felt herself being lifted, her legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he rose from the chair, his strength effortless. The world tilted as he moved, the room spinning around them as he pressed her against the wall, the cool stone a stark contrast to the heat of their bodies.
Her blouse fell away completely, landing silently on the floor, and Snape’s hands were there, tracing the lace edge of her bra before deftly unclasping it. The fabric slid down her arms, and for a moment, he simply stared, his breath catching in his throat. Hermione felt a flush rise to her cheeks, but there was no shame in his gaze—only awe, only reverence. “You are… perfection,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, his fingers brushing against her nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. She arched into his touch, her hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer as his mouth descended, claiming her once more. The world narrowed to the space between them, the only sound the ragged rhythm of their breathing, the soft whispers of skin against skin. Snape’s robes were gone now, discarded with the same urgency as her own clothing, and she felt the full length of him against her, hard and unyielding, a testament to the desire that had consumed them both.
He lifted her again, carrying her back to the sofa with a grace that belied his strength. The leather was cool beneath her as he laid her down, his body hovering over hers, his eyes locked on hers. For a moment, they just stared, the tension between them thick, heavy with unspoken words. Then, with a movement that was both tender and possessive, he entered her, his body merging with hers in a union that felt as inevitable as the sunrise. Hermione gasped, her hands clutching at his arms, her nails digging into his skin as he filled her completely. For a moment, they were still, the only sound the sharp intake of their breath. And then he moved, his thrusts slow at first, deliberate, as though savoring the feel of her around him. But with each passing moment, the control began to slip, the rhythm growing faster, more frantic. Hermione met him with equal fervor, her hips rising to meet his, her body burning with a fire she had never known before.
The room was filled with the sounds of their pleasure, the soft moans, the sharp gasps, the rhythmic slap of skin against skin. It was raw, primal, and utterly consuming. They were no longer Snape and Hermione, no longer teacher and student—they were two bodies, two souls, lost in the storm of their desire. And when the climax came, it was explosive, a blinding wave of pleasure that left them both breathless, their bodies trembling, their hearts pounding in unison. Snape buried his face in her neck, his arms wrapping tightly around her as they rode out the aftershocks, the world around them slowly coming back into focus. For a long moment, they lay there, the only sound the ragged rhythm of their breathing. Then, slowly, Snape lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. There was something in his gaze, something soft, something vulnerable, that Hermione had never seen before.
And in that moment, she knew that nothing would ever be the same again.