Chapter 1
In the grand tapestry of inconveniences that was Severus Snape’s life, a particularly irritating curveball had been thrown his way: gratitude. It wasn’t his own, but that of the magical community. This gratitude was impossible to ignore when its very embodiment was the all-too-familiar, bushy-haired, know-it-all: Hermione Granger. A woman who had doggedly refused to let him die at the Shrieking Shack. He’d seethed silently at her for it, yet was subjected to the ingratiating admiration of his peers and their never-ending effusive praise for her heroism.
Being indebted to the ceaseless moral compass that was Hermione Granger felt like the cosmic punchline to a joke he never wanted to hear. And Severus Snape did not appreciate being the subject of any joke –cosmic or otherwise. She had the audacity not just to save him, but also to make him question what he was supposed to do with this unnervingly extended life of his. Snape had long made peace with his treacherous role in the war, expecting it to be the culmination of his swan song and had zero plans for this mockery of an “afterlife”. But of course, after his exoneration and very public trials, Minerva McGonagall had come knocking upon his door, disturbing what little left he had in life with a job offer he couldn’t entirely refuse. And oh how he had wanted to refuse.
The last thing he wanted was to return and face the ghosts of Hogwarts. But with the promise of a temporary position (and the unspeakable allure of a certain know-it-all), he found himself agreeing with little thought. Despite the irritation he found with Miss Granger’s unintentional dictation of his life, he could not scrub away the parasitic infatuation he begrudgingly felt. He could close his eyes now and vividly picture her pinched face leaning over him, stiff from concentration and determination in that decrepit little shack. He could see every eyelash, every speck of dirt, the way her hair had started to fall from its placement atop her head. It was maddening, yet it kept him company during the months of isolation he kept himself in during his trials. Severus Snape was a fool to ruminate on a girl half his age. Yet, there he was, trapped amongst thoughts of her, ensnared in a classroom he never thought he’d have to suffer again – all for a woman who would likely never look at him the way he so desperately wanted. He was a fool, indeed.
Deep in his wallowing, the abrupt roar of his fireplace yanked him back to the present. Through the emerald blaze, a stern yet fair face gazed back. “Severus, the train is arriving shortly, you must be in place to welcome the first years. Hagrid is already down at the boathouse.” Her lips pressed into a firm line, tone brooking no argument. Snape resisted the natural urge to scowl at the headmistress.
His glass found its place on the mahogany table just as Minerva said, “By the by, your suggestion about Miss Granger’s apprenticeship has been the talk of the faculty. Who knew Severus Snape could be such a progressive thinker?”
Snape’s eyebrows raised, wholly caught off-guard by the direction of conversation. His face dropped into a scowl, he retorted in a voice dripping with absolute sarcasm. “Ah yes. Miss Granger, gallivanting about the castle, soaking up every bit of knowledge like a particularly relentless sponge. A mere jest, Minerva. I hardly expected you to take it to heart.”
Minerva chuckled, “Well, jest or not, it’s in motion now. Hermione’s quite excited about it. And it offers her an opportunity to deepen her studies.” Her tightly drawn up face gave Snape the distinct impression of a preening peacock. A disgusting display of pride, a hideously Gryffindor -like trait. This time, he scowled openly.
“Yes well, opportunity always did have a way of bending to her will,” he scoffed. On one hand, the memory of Miss Granger – the insufferable know-it-all who always received special treatment – irked him to no end. Yet, juxtaposed against that annoyance was an undeniable respect for her tenacity, her uncanny ability to reshape challenges into stepping stones.
It was this internal conflict that had him momentarily lost, the duality of his feelings for her playing out in his mind. Distractedly, he summoned his wand which obediently arced gracefully into his outstretched hand, the weight comforting and familiar. Nearly simultaneously, his charcoal wool cloak made its silent approach from the shadows of his bedchambers, billowing like a specter before settling the full weight around his shoulders.
“Many a mickle makes a muckle,” Minerva remarked, oblivious to his internal battle. She let out a short, amused chuckle at her own joke. “And Severus, try to smile once in a while. It would be a shame for your face to freeze into a perpetual scowl.” Minerva lightly admonished. Snape shot her a withering glare, but before he could formulate a suitably sharp retort, Minerva had already begun to fade from the flames.
For just a moment, the ghost of a smirk teased the corner of his lips. “Perpetual scowl indeed,” he huffed under his breath, shaking his head as if to rid himself of the very idea. However, old habits die hard. With practiced ease, he set his features into the classic, stern facade he’s only ever known, and with a forceful flourish, he swept out of the room.
🐍
Snape’s usual detachment from welcoming duties was overturned by the Headmistress’s decree. It was high time, she had said, for him to step out of the shadows and, perhaps, to thaw his frosty demeanor with some interaction with Gryffindor’s new head—a task she deemed essential. Hagrid’s towering presence beside him was a stark contrast as he engaged the first years with an effortless joviality that Snape found almost alien.
Behind him, the first years’ murmurs swirled with curiosity and fear. “Is that really him?” one asked in a hushed tone. Snape’s lip curled, anticipation of scorn or worse, reverence, coiling in his stomach.
“He’s not as scary as he seems,” a voice piped up, “a real hero.” Snape’s disdain was palpable. Another voice interjected, “Hero or not, I heard he docked fifty points from Gryffindor over a sneeze.” That brought a wry smirk to Snape’s face; the absurdity of the act was something he might indeed have relished in another life.
Yet the children’s mixture of respect and anxiety was almost suffocating. It was a juxtaposition Snape found disconcerting, one that he could not easily digest.
Oblivious to Snape’s internal turmoil, Hagrid babbled on about Hogwarts, leaping from topic to topic. His reverence for the school rekindled images of earnest brown eyes that Snape preferred buried. A sudden laugh from Hagrid snapped him back to the present. “There’s a Thestral nest over there,” Hagrid boomed, pointing to a distant thicket on the other side of the Black Lake. His elbow jabbed Snape, a playful gesture from the half-giant but a jolt to Snape. “Brings back memories, eh? The great Thestral chase of our third year!”
Snape offered Hagrid a scathing look, sidestepping another ‘affectionate’ shove. “Indeed,” he retorted, his voice laden with sarcasm, all while pressing down the memories clawing for attention. It was barely past seven o’ clock, and already Snape longed for the solitude of his chambers. But, try as he might, he would have to attend the long-suffering feast, enduring pleasantries with colleagues who had fairly turned their backs on him in a time of immense discomfort. With any luck, he mused, he could make a discreet exit after the sorting, and perhaps have one of the prefects escort the new first years down to the dungeons.
Navigating to the courtyard had been a Herculean task of its own, guiding the bright-eyed first years up from the boathouse, their incessant chattering chafing his senses. However, with the Great Hall’s doors looming before them, the end of this particular ordeal was tantalizingly close. All he had to do was arrange the newcomers, perhaps instill a modicum of fear, then herd them through the sorting. He could do this. He was Severus Snape, after all.
Snape surveyed the first years, their murmurs dying down as he straightened to his full height, an imposing figure against the torch-lit walls of Hogwarts. “Your journey through these hallowed halls will not be without trial,” he intoned, his voice a low thrum in the sudden quiet. He swept his cloak around himself, a dramatic pause as he eyed the crowd. “Here, in the embrace of Hogwarts, your mettle will be tested, your resolve questioned, and your very essence laid bare.” The silence was punctuated by the gravity of his warning, even as distant laughter and approaching footsteps encroached upon the solemnity.
“In time,” he continued, each word deliberate, “you will come to understand that magic is as serious as it is wondrous. It is the pulse within our walls, the breath of the past, and the guardian of secrets that can uplift or undo you.” The first years stood before him, digesting his foreboding counsel.
As he prepared to continue, Snape’s attention was inadvertently drawn to the procession of his colleagues. There, framed by the laughter of her newfound peers, stood the object of his ruinous affections, Hermione Granger. Earnest pupil no longer, he mused, but a vision marked by her tribulations and triumphs. Her laughter, bright and unrestrained, seemed foreign in these stone corridors that had known too much silence.
The sight of her laughing so freely caused an unexpected sensation to clutch at Snape’s chest. The memory of her, once so defined by the gravity of war, now seemed a distant echo. It was a reminder of time's relentless march, of change, and of a life persisting beyond the shadows of duty and loss. He swallowed, his throat tight, the next words of his speech escaping him.
As Hagrid’s voice boomed cheerfully – likely to fill in the void left behind – Snape felt a rare moment of disconnection. His usual composure had disintegrated, and he had to grapple with the dichotomy of the Hermione he remembered and the woman who was now passing him by. He closed his eyes for a brief moment to gather the tatters of his composure, and resolved to ponder his shifting attitudes later. For now, he was back to playing a role, maintaining an image he no longer needed. But as the Great Hall doors opened behind him, and he turned to lead the little lambs to the sorting, he found his thoughts uncharacteristically adrift, touched by a spreading warmth that he had not allowed himself to feel in quite a long time.
The Sorting Hat sang its annual song, filled with tales of unity and strength, and the students listened with rapt attention, any earlier trepidation giving way to total excitement. One by one, the names were called, and students were united with their destinies. The usual mixture of cheers and anticipatory whispers still remained, clear proof of the resilience of those who had faced uncertain death. With practiced indifference, Snape watched while his mind remained elsewhere. He was aware, now more than ever, of the changes wrought by time – in Hogwarts, and now in Miss Granger.
When the last name was called, the hall burst into roaring applause. It was at this moment that the Headmistress chose to rise. A natural hush started to blanket the room as young eyes were drawn to the central figure who had risen to her feet. Minerva McGonagall’s presence commanded the room, swathed in immaculate verdian robes, with a posture as straight as the turrets of the castle itself.
“Welcome,” she began, her voice resonating with the authority and warmth that had always characterized her leadership, “to another year at Hogwarts.” Her gaze swept across the sea of students, lingering momentarily on the flushed faces of the first years. The corners of her lips pulled upwards slightly in a reassuring smile, despite her stern countenance. “As we gather here tonight for the Sorting Ceremony, we remember the challenges of our past. The war that touched each and every one of our lives has left indelible marks upon this world and upon our school.”
Snape felt a tightness in his chest, a familiar echo of discomfort. He let his hair fall forward, a curtain to obscure his expression. Though he had anticipated the mention of the war, the raw ache it evoked remained as poignant as ever.
“But let us also recognize our path forward,” she continued, her tone lifting with a determination and breaking his reverie. “The bravery and sacrifices of those we lost have paved the way for a future filled with promise and unity. We honor them not just through our remembrance, but in our everyday actions, in lessons learned, friendships forged, and the courage to press on.”
Snape’s gaze drifted, almost against his will, to Hermione. Only Minerva’s chair between them, she sat watching with rapt attention, her face alight with that familiar intensity that once illuminated the darkest corners of his classroom. What did that look mean? Was it simply respect, or something more – a shared understanding of sacrifice and loss?
“We also welcome new faces to our ranks. Joining us as the Muggle Studies professor is Elara Trickett, a scholar of Muggle-wizard relations, whose insights will bridge two worlds together.”
He barely spared a glance at Trickett, his mind still tangled with the enigma of Hermione. Her eyes, reflecting the candlelight, seemed to burn with an intensity he remembered all too well. He suspected the subtle shifts in her demeanor spoke of a mind at work. Was there a shadow there, a trace of the same darkness that lingered in his very own soul?
“Our Defence Against the Dark Arts position will be filled by Professor Luka Vasiliev, a gifted duelist and strategist. His expertise as a former professor of Durmstrang will be invaluable in these times of rebuilding and learning.”
The coveted position – Snape felt a familiar twinge of ambition, quickly quashed by resignation. It was a position he greatly desired, now ceded to a stranger from Durmstrang. The necessity of returning to his Potions dungeon, as bitter as some concoctions he brewed, was a sacrifice made for the greater good, for stability, for Minerva.
“This year also marks the introduction of assistant professors, a role designed to bridge the gap between student and teacher, and to bring fresh perspectives to our curriculum. Please welcome Hermione Granger, Neville Longbottom, and Draco Malfoy.”
If possible, Snape’s mood soured further, lips twisting into a wry sneer beneath the veil of his hair. Assistant professors – a title that had started as a flippant remark of his, a throwaway line in a faculty meeting, had now been woven into the fabric of his never-ending tapestry. Longbottom, the hapless apparent botanical savant, and Draco, the former scion of Slytherin, now relegated to an auxiliary role, were now adopting the title with what appeared to be genuine pride. How the mighty have fallen, Snape mused, the taste of the sentiment as biting as a mouthful of Bitterroot.
But then there was Miss Granger. Hermione. She, too, bore the new title he had unwittingly spawned, and yet, Snape felt the resistance coiling in his gut to slot her into the neat pigeonholes reserved for Longbottom and Malfoy. A peculiar reluctance that was altogether foreign to his acerbic countenance. The notion of course had been a jest, but here it was – manifested into sobering reality, with the know-it-all embodying an unadulterated pride that mocked him.
“So let us begin this academic year with hearts full of determination and minds open to the wonders of magic. To our returning students, welcome back. And to our new students, may you find Hogwarts a home away from home.”
With a final encouraging nod, Minerva gestured magnanimously, the signal for the feast to commence. As she reclaimed her seat, her movement momentarily obstructed Snape’s view of Hermione, snapping his attention back to the flurry of activity before him.
The Great Hall transformed with a flourish that seemed to ripple from the enchanted ceiling to the flagstone floor. Tables that were once bare were now groaning under the weight of a magnificent feast. Golden platters of roasted meats and bowls of vegetables of every hue were nestled amongst baskets of freshly baked bread, glistening under the soft light of countless floating candles. At each table sat a towering sculpture of ice, charmed to sparkle without melting, depicting the four respective house mascots. Around it, fruits as bright as jewels spilled across silver trays, and sweets of every conceivable shape – chocolates dusted with shimmering sugar, dancing tarts with golden, flaky crusts, and towers of cream-filled pastries – beckoned invitingly.
At the High Table, the spread for the staff rivaled the students' in both opulence and enchantment. Before Snape, a crystal goblet, as if summoned by an unseen hand, filled with wine the color of a deep, velvety red. It promised the warmth of sun-soaked vineyards and the complexity of ancient cellars, yet it remained untouched, the surface of the liquid still as glass. Beside it, delicate silverware, wrought by magical artifice, lay precisely arranged next to plates of the purest white porcelain, their rims subtly adorned with a filigree that caught the candlelight.
As the Great Hall filled with the cacophony of a feast's commencement—the merry peals of laughter, the symphony of spirited conversations, and the clinking of cutlery against plates—Snape sat motionless, his fingers steepled, his dark eyes surveying the hall with an unreadable expression. The light from the floating candles flickered across his features, casting him in a chiaroscuro that mirrored his internal conflict, illuminating the stark contrast between the warm glow around him and the cold introspection within.
He was the perennial observer, an island of solemnity in a sea of jubilation. The camaraderie and revelry of the hall seemed to unfold in a realm entirely apart from the one he inhabited, a distance not measured in mere feet but in the chasms of experience and guarded emotion. In this moment, he was as much a part of the hall's tapestry as the stone gargoyles that watched from above—present, yet separate; seen, yet not quite part of the scene that painted the night with joyous strokes. Even if he wanted to participate, he didn’t know how. The closest he had to a friend had been Minerva, and things weren’t the same in the wake of Albus’ death.
“–don’t you think, Severus?” Suddenly he was aware that Minerva had asked him a question, and beyond her, bright, shining eyes waited for his response. Ah, Minerva was including him in their polite conversation, expecting him to weigh in. Snape racked his brain for the fragments of heard conversation before deciding to answer.
“The idea that every student who fought in the war is in need of counseling undermines their resilience,” he stated coolly. “They are survivors, not victims awaiting our pity.”
Hermione’s expression flooded with a mixture of frustration and disbelief. Snape had to fight the involuntary urge to sneer at her in response. “Survivors,” she agreed, her voice steady but forceful, “who might still benefit from support. Resilience doesn’t preclude the need for–”
But Snape had already cut her off, his tone a touch louder to make his point. “Support, yes, but not coddling. We risk creating a culture of dependency when what they truly require is the strength to stand on their own.”
A moment of silence followed, the words hanging heavily in the air as no party spoke. He could see Hermione’s lips parted, that righteous compass needle spinning wildly behind her eyes, but she hesitated, her eyes darting to Minerva then back to himself. She was restraining herself, that much was obvious. Perhaps she was choosing her battles, unwilling to fight in front of her new employer.
Minerva smoothly intervened from between them, “Strength comes in many forms, including the ability to seek help,” she said not unkindly, directing a meaningful look at Snape before turning back to Hermione. Snape snorted, he would never cow to that woman, headmistress or otherwise. “ Perhaps ,” she continued, fixating him with a stern glare, “we should consider a variety of support systems, tailored to individual needs.”
Despite Minerva’s peacekeeping, the tension did not dissipate. However, thankfully, the topic moved on and Snape was free to retreat back into himself and enjoy his pyrrhic victory. He had succeeded in silencing her retort, but the absence of her potential argument left him feeling hollow. Normally he’d be satisfied with her quietude, but this time, no sickening joy came to him.
Irritation began to simmer beneath the surface, not at Hermione, but at himself. His staunch opposition –was it truly conviction, or a barbed facade? A shield against his own insecurities, perhaps? Her unspoken defiance continued to eat at him. Snape found himself wrestling with the disquieting possibility that his rigid stance was an armor wrought from years of building high walls –walls meant to keep others out and silence his doubts.
The feast dwindled, and Minerva gracefully stood, her departure causing the luxurious fabric of her robes to billow softly as she moved away. Her exit brushed past Hermione, who seemed absorbed in a meticulous inspection of her nails. The space Minerva vacated felt overwhelmingly vast, a void that seemed to amplify the silence between them. He considered the suffocating stillness that had befallen their section of the table. Should he attempt to bridge the gap with conversation, or was silence his ally? His gaze drifted over Hermione, who seemed to be steadfastly ignoring his presence. Feeling uncomfortable, he turned away, opting to instead take a sip from his glass of wine.
“I suppose you believe you’ve made your point, Professor Snape,” she spoke without looking up. Ah, so she wasn’t going to ignore his presence. “But silencing debate does not equate to victory.”
Her comment struck a nasty chord within him, and he felt himself flush with defense. “ Miss Granger ,” he replied, his voice betraying his irritation, “I merely stated an opinion. One that I believe holds merit.”
Hermione raised her eyes to meet his, her face steady and unyielding. “An opinion that overlooks the needs of those you’re meant to protect and educate,” she countered, and he flinched. A sourness churned deep within him, a bubbling shame for the role he played in the war – “You may not value the counsel of others, but do not dismiss the value it may hold for them.” After a pause, she broke eye contact and returned to her plate with an air of finality.
A weariness settled over him, the weight of years spent in isolation pressed down on him. He scrubbed roughly at his face, hearing her words echo in his ears. The very idea that he had been clinging to a doctrine out of fear –fear of change, fear of facing the vulnerabilities that lay beneath his skin –was vexing to him. Sitting amidst the echoes of the feast, he could not shake the feeling that his insistence of resilience might be a reflection of his steadfast ways. Each student of war and loss reminded him of his own past –the shadows of a boy who had to harden himself to survive. Now, as a man who had outlived his perceived purpose, he found himself asking whether survival was enough.
Abruptly he stood, his feet acting before thought. His chair scraped loudly against the flagstones. “I have preparations to make for tomorrow’s classes,” he announced quickly, though the excuse sounded feeble even to his own ears. He didn’t wait for her response, nor did he look back as he swept out of the Great Hall in search of solitude.
In the quiet of his office, surrounded by the dark, Snape allowed himself to consider the possibility of change. Terrifying in thought, but he knew how to face fears, didn’t he? As he poured himself a drink, he thought about Hermione’s fierce expression. Perhaps she was right. Perhaps what he viewed as coddling was, in fact, an act of courage – the courage to extend a hand, to offer solace, or to admit that strength was not always found in solitude. To seek something more, some form of understanding or companionship was not a crutch.
Ogden’s Finest burned his throat as he inhaled his drink deeply. With a snap of his fingers, he lit his fireplace and bathed himself in the reflecting light as Minerva had done earlier that evening. Perhaps this was the only warmth he allowed himself to feel. At that, he snorted. But these walls that he erected from a need for survival and security were starting to feel like a prison. He felt unfulfilled, and the next logical step for him seemed to be shedding the mantle of loneliness.
And with that thought, he floo-called Minerva, initiating the evening with a gentle clinking of glass, a sound that resonated with the familiarity of shared history. Snape and Minerva sat across from one another, not as colleagues, but as once-friends. They reminisced over the subtleties of a fine whiskey, harsh barking laughter resonating off stone walls, a reminder of an easier time before the war. And as the whiskey wove its warming path, the conversation drifted from trivial to treasured memories, when things were uncomplicated by the machinations of two masterminds.
Another glass. Another pour. The alcohol loosened tongues, dissolving the barriers of propriety. Snape listened, genuinely listened, as Minerva expressed her regrets about decisions made during the war –choices that weighed heavily on her conscience. In turn, Snape found himself voicing apologies for his own actions for breaking trust in those he, in his own guarded way, had considered friends. They lamented lost opportunities, toasted to those who were gone, and laughed – a true, heartfelt laugh – at the absurdity of life and the roles they played.
Perhaps it was the unexpected kinship he felt with Minerva in that moment that loosened his lips, but he found himself uttering “I desire companionship.”
The words hung between them.
“Companionship,” she repeated, her voice thoughtful. She took another neat sip of her whiskey, savoring it before continuing. “It’s a brave thing for you to admit, Severus. Especially after all these years of self-imposed solitude.”
“Self-imposed solitude,” he echoed. “One might argue that the circumstances left me with little choice in the matter. Companionship was a luxury, I loathe to admit, that could have cost more than just my own life.”
Minerva regarded him then, her eyes sharp yet not without warmth. “Indeed, the risks were great,” she conceded, “but the war is over, Severus. The solitude you maintained in the aftermath…is that not of your own making?”
He shifted uncomfortably, acknowledging the heavy truth to her words. He knew he had indeed isolated himself physically and emotionally. Through nearly his entire life, the connections he made were tenuous and fleeting. One moment they were there, and the next, gone.
But now, with the end of the war, Snape felt unsettling deep in his bones. Left without a defining purpose, without a clear role as a double agent, he was forced to confront who he had become –a man who had suppressed his desires and wants for so long they had become foreign to him.
“Perhaps I’ve denied myself of these connections for far too long. I confess I’m not quite sure how to…” His voice trailed off, and he took a deep breath. “How to pursue, or even begin to understand the art of… companionship. Romance, if you will.” He didn’t meet her eyes, steadfastly gazing into the fire.
“You’re not alone in this, Severus. It’s never too late to try,” her words slurred slightly by the whiskey. “You’re brave,” she nodded with conviction.
Snape cracked a smile, “It might be time to get you off to bed.”
“Wise choice,” Minerva said, rising unsteadily to her feet. She stumbled slightly, catching herself on the edge of the table, her laughter bouncing around the room. “To companionship,” she toasted, raising an imaginary glass. Snape raised his glass to her with a smirk. “And don’t worry, Severus, your secret is safe with me!” She assured, dipping low to vanish into the flames.
In the silence that followed Minerva's departure, Snape sat alone with his thoughts, the remnants of their conversation digesting. He allowed himself a rare moment of optimism, a fragile but real feeling of hope growing within him. And as the last drops of whiskey warmed his throat, Severus Snape envisioned a future where the walls he had built around himself were dismantled, brick by brick, opening him up to new connections, to feeling, to truly living. In that future, he saw himself not alone, but with a woman who had captivating bouncy curls and deep, brown eyes.
The next morning, however, brought a different reality. Whispers echoed through the staff rooms, a mix of speculation and amusement at Snape’s newfound quest for companionship. Minerva, it seemed, had been less discreet than she had promised.